Fiction
She was
always tied with chains of customs, rules and regulations of home. Whenever she
travelled outside; she travelled behind a masculine figure -father or brother-a
guardian to guard her movement in public space. Thus no matter how much she
moved, chains pulled her back and despite feet in motion, she as a being was a
stagnant creature. Then one day she got maroon colored steel body with two
wheels, two pedals, two handles, one seat which to her was an ‘incongruous
freedom’ instrument- A cycle. Every time she pedaled a chain broke that tied
her to old rules of her life. Her body stirred from head till toe. Hands that till
now moved only in kitchen-to make tea, do dishes, rested now on handles –she
was controlling her journey. Feet that were restricted within four boundaries
of the home, were jauntily cycling down the streets. Head that was always bowed
down in obedience, now while sitting on the black colored seat was held
high-first in freedom, then in defiance. Thus it was not just her anatomy that
was brought in motion by the cycle but her mind and soul stirred too. She was shaken;
a big stone was thrown in her stagnant life and it hit her at the right
place-ripples were created in her life. It was time for her to start her life
as she aspired to live. She started thinking. She started feeling, Sense of
identity. As her feet came in contact with pedals of the cycle, her feet felt
the sensation like never before, she moved away from archaic lessons given to her.
Go straight, Come straight, no longer made sense. Cycle helped latent seeds of
rebel inside her sprout and grow into a giant tree. She took different turns;
different roads that were hitherto unknown to her. She loitered. She did things
that were forbidden. Standing on road and watching the world beyond four walls.
She realized for the first time, Outside
world belonged to her as well. It was not smooth run though .Puddles came; she fell,
bruised her knees and ankles .She cried but grew up. She knew life would be
like this. She needed to learn how to keep herself together. Rains drenched her.
Wind moved her. Sun tanned her. Gradually she grew thick skin, but heart was still
tender. Her entire body stimulated for the first time, unknowingly liberating feet,
liberated her hands and her mind too. Mind that was fed with regular chores and
conventional womanly talks started thinking something else. She discovered she
has mind of her own. Mind that thinks. Mind that dreams, Heart that loves,
Heart that sings. She tried loving all the things that she was not permitted
too. Like watching movies, making friends, making male friends. She started
noticing the early oestrogen flow-she started noticing signs of youth on her
body an in her mind. She Knew, she can love too, she met her lover secretly
where the city ended. She decided to make her own choice. Dignity of making own
decisions, no matter it fails, but pride would be there that it was her
decision. She would not relate herself to big things, but little decisions she
took for herself, little things she brought for herself. Little things she did
for herself.
As she
gained expertise in cycling, she started daring. Some days she set her hands
free off the handles and rode cycle, when the cycle lost balance, she would
grip the handles tight. She could notice the heart beats fastening and her body
panting.
In later
years of her life she would replicate this act-she would take risks, would set
her life free but after the willy-nilly affairs she would get control over her
life.
Fear
This
fiction would not have come to my mind, had it not been for the fear and self
doubt which I am faced with .I feel nothing, I do nothing, I read nothing and I
write certain things which are equivalent to nothing. I have become cold,
nothing seems to touch me, such is this State of nothingness .Thick carpet of
ice has camouflaged my heart, my eyes and ears. I feel nothing, see nothing,
and hear nothing. I don’t know whether it accounts for madness or something
else. People around me keep talking and I hear nothing-it seems the brown
colored wax in my ear has blocked every sensor. My nervous system seems to have
collapsed. A lot is happening in politics and campus but it isn’t affecting me
.Right wing-fascist forces are becoming strong, I don’t feel the rage. I am emotionless.
Pen has become cold too, ink has frozen; no matter how much hard I try it
doesn’t spill. Everything seems to have frozen. Certain thoughts come to brain,
they generate some fire but a few minutes after, fire becomes cold and I lie or
sit or stand disenchanted. In between
all this I watched Ravish’s cycle story that generated a tears in very meager
quantity. I wanted to pick my pen and scribble down a memoir, my own journey
and my cycle story. The nostalgia crept in, but then fear came to mind, fear
that is presently my worst nightmare- that one day I will die as a mere memoir
writer who was so obsessed with her life and she could see nothing beyond. The criticism
of feminist writing came and haunted me-that women use too much of experience
and less of imagination when they write .This is the reason why I want to tear
every page of diary that I write these days. This frustration and this state are
eating a life out of me. Any way keeping the fear aside I am writing a memoir
yet again.
And a Memoir
It came
to my mind, When Manisha’s post scrolled on my timeline. It was Ravish Kumar’s cycle‘s
story, one of the most beautiful stories from ‘Ye jo mera Bihar hai’-Ravish’s
reportage during Bihar Assembly elections 2015. The story travelled from eyes
and ears to heart, heart which is located between left and the right lung and
is tilted slightly towards the left lung. This story melted the ice shafts from
the heart, time at which I felt nothing, reading and writing nothing. Complete
disorientation from the world I live in.
Seeing
this story like Manisha, even my eyes brimmed up with tears. I trekked down the
memory lane –when I cycled in my hometown .My cycle was the first instrument to
take on roads that were quite masculine. Of course my feet were the foremost.
My cycle, my freedom. Though I never owned a fancy cycle- with a basket and
light weight fibred body -lady bird like .In early 2000s there was craze for
these cycles amongst girls. I had blue colored hero steel body which I took
from my neighbor who no longer rode it. A Secondhand cycle, but a firsthand freedom,
I made sojourns through it untill I came out of school. In graduation Papa got
me black maestro which accelerated my freedom and my presence on roads.
Being a
solitary kid, I travelled lonely on roads. I hated when someone would want to
accompany me while I cycled. This was space of my own, when I talked to myself.
I didn’t like talking to people and dealing with people gave me mini heart attacks.
I would take different roads and explore. In two tier cities in those times, a
woman on road was not a good sign. I took small steps. I instantly did not
become rebel and a wanderer. It all happened at its pace. Bringing the items
from the list my mother gave. Being eldest child, you play a great role in the family.
Those were the times when ideological war with my parents used to be at its
peak, I fought with them and when I could do nothing, I took my cycle and
travelled on the quite roads and cried my heart out.
At times
I would make my younger brother sit on carrier and cycled on the Aliganj
roads-Sitapur road-Kursi roads. We ate ice cream, talked and played and made
fun of people we did not like.
I cannot
describe the feeling that I had when I went to school on cycle for the first
time. No rickshaw walla to pick you and drop you home, you decided where to go,
how and when to return home.
Cycle
also gave wings to new young lovers. In adolescent years when people fall in so
called love better it is to call ‘infatuation’ .They took cycle on holidays or
after school got over to talk. A few of my friends went cycling, talking, giggling,
shying and hiding away. Everything done is concealment, yes we were told good
people do not have affairs or roam on roads. Some went to kukrail – a picnic
spot and some to places I could not recall. Though they all might have been
duped by that casual affair but it gave them lessons for life. When that casual
affair broke their heart, they cried on their cycles, on their way to school
and home. They all, (including me) glorified love in lives. Thanks to bollywood
for this over glorification.
Cycle as
Manisha says might be an insignificant in big cities-as they don’t have space and
heart for cycles –that’s so old school. People here love cars and bikes, but
for small towns cycle was and still their toast of freedom. For some shedding
bras and sticking pads, slut marches are acts of rebellion but in a small town cycle
gives women first lesson in feminism as they take on roads for the first time
without a masculine figure as guard. They fall and are chased by road side Romeos,
but they travel. It gives them confidence to be alone and not be frightened.
When I
visited Chhattisgarh this June, I saw young women, girls and even older women
driving cycles. Roads were occupied by women and their cycles. Yes it is very
cost effective plus keeps your body fit and your mind and soul upright. It is
eco friendly to count some clichéd and outdated as some might say ‘benefits of
riding bicycle.’
In
Bihar, Nitish Kumar’s government gave priority to this scheme. Government gave
cycles to young girls under the Mukyamatri Balika Cycle Yojana to promote girl
education. .http://nitishspeaks.blogspot.in/2010/04/mukhyamantri-balika-cycle-yojna.html.Not
only education but, cycle helps in overall mobility too.
Priyanka,
a paper vendor from samastipur, Bihar inspired Ravish to go and do the cycle story.
This is really progressive-this sight would have been treat for Ravish. I have
seen kids, young men and older men selling newspapers but not a girl as yet. I remember
one boy in my colony started selling newspaper because his father passed away and
his sister started teaching to eke out their living. Recently when I went back
home my mother told me about a young kid who comes to inquire about me ‘ aaki
beti aa gayi’? I asked the reason .She told me ‘ever since you left home
newspapers and magazines subscriptions have reduced. So he comes to ask whether
you have arrived, so that he can give bunch of newspapers-you bought’. Cycle is
the tender, cost effective mode of transport. In India cycle is not a sport. It
is again associated with class .Cycle is for only who cannot afford petrol and
those can afford petrol they would never ride on bicyle.In my country everything
comes with class prejudice.
Comments
Post a Comment