Married at 24, separated at 26, divorced at 30 — how fingers point at women

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The day I got married, people congratulated me with doubts. The day I separated, they consoled me but with silent judgement. The day I filed for divorce, they questioned me unabashedly. Somewhere between celebration, sympathy, and scrutiny, my life stopped being just mine and became something others felt entitled to interpret.

My marriage got fixed when I was 23.

I was a final-year journalism student pursuing my master’s degree and earning. I was running my household and leading a team of ten writers providing content services. But society saw only one part of my life. I was judged for choosing marriage before completing my education. I was judged for marrying a man of my choice from a different religion who was also eight years older. They judged me for choosing Hindu matrimonial rituals, for choosing a humble club over a posh banquet, for wearing city gold over real gold and for various other things I did not know were supposed to be pleasing.

The judgement first came from some of my closest people. Many of them were women my age, older, and much older.

“Please don’t stop studying after marriage,” they nudged.

“Who marries at 24?” they asked.

“What about your ambitions? Well, some women have the ambition to get married,” they said.

On my first day back at college after marriage, I could read disappointment on some professors’ faces. The newlywed bride walked in with sindoor on her forehead, wrists adorned with sankha pola, and a mangalsutra around the neck. What they did not see was that I had joined classes a day after my reception. What they did not see was my effort to attend lectures and all of them. What they ignored was that I stood fifth in my batch while running a side hustle and taking care of the family. 

Marriage, inevitably, brought changes to my life. I lost half a dozen friends because I couldn’t meet them. Not because of the new responsibility alone, but because I now lived in north Kolkata and it was Covid. Most of my friends were in the south. Cancelled plans slowly created distance. There was always a silent disappointment in their voices when I deferred a plan. Somewhere along the way, I had become the “boudi” in a group of south Kolkata girls, always ranting about shongshar er daitto. They frowned at the north Kolkata barir bou version of me that I seemed to represent. What they did not see was a friend sharing real-life issues. 

Yet, some stayed and they believed in me. They celebrated my cooking experiments, laughed at my mindless vlogs, and watched my lockdown podcasts. 

And then came the day I decided to walk out of the marriage.

At 26, when the marriage did not work, we went for a separation. Alongside the grief of a failed marriage came the report card with remarks.

“Married on her own terms, couldn’t even make it work.”

“Married with convenience, left when it was inconvenient.”

“Maa thakle eshob hotey dito na,” said many, bringing up my dead mother and pointing fingers at my dad, who respected my personal choices. 

What they did not see was the series of scuffles, the sleepless nights, a relationship eroding, and an unexpected miscarriage.

The fingers pointed with guts.

Now, with the divorcee tag and a cordial relationship with my would-be ex-husband, I move carefully with the world. While the tag invites curiosity I never asked for, the latter confuses people even more.

“Oh, she’s single and lonely; she must need a shoulder.”

And then the direct question: “Why are you still friends with your ex-husband?”

Men who show interest in dating or marriage often question his presence in my life, as if closure must come with a seal pressed down for good. A man once told me, “Your ex-husband cannot be my best friend.”

I told him, “I don’t think he’s looking for one either.”

People ask, they doubt, they point fingers at good decisions, wrong decisions, and even indecision.

“Why did it take three years for you to file for a divorce? Why are you still texting him, calling him? Why do you still have your wedding photos saved?”

The questions of 'why' follow, coming from a place of assumption disguised as concern. Do I need to answer? No. Do I need to clarify? No.

In the run-up to Women’s Day, when we prepare posts, stories, and reels celebrating womanhood, perhaps ask a woman this one question: how many fingers point at you? How many times are you made to feel guilty for your choices — for choosing yourself, for choosing your dreams?

Ask her how many fingers point at her.

Chances are, she will say many.

Some might even say all of them.

Puddles

It was like jumping into a puddle mistaking it for an ocean. While you thought it was deep but the ground touches your feet just as soon as you jump. The murk stains your shoes and the wetness seeps into your socks to your feet. That's when you know it was a mistake and you start thinking about cleaning it up. It hurts when you were hoping for good and it never occurs to you. You stand in the puddle and keep staring at the murk on your boots. You retrospect and calculate how you got into this.

For some this ocean is the ocean of promises that turns out to be a murky puddle of lies. That's exactly where you fall and stain yourself or even worse, break a leg. Breaking a leg and never trusting anymore to dive into oceans. I don't know if heartbreaks are only for those in love, because it hurts twice as much to know you were a fool. And you know what's the worst part than breaking a leg? You getting used to falling into puddles. The first time you exclaim with a 'What the hell', 'Oh shit!' or 'Oh my God'. The next time you might say, 'Oh! Not again!'. But when you are habituated, you smirk and move on thinking, 'I knew this was coming.' This is when you carry on with a bittersweet relation with puddles. And one day, when falling in puddles aren't new anymore you dig a hole for someone. An ocean or puddle, the choice is yours.

Letter to Plath

Dear Plath,

My younger soul was fascinated by your courage to express and I was intrigued by your story. I could feel the fire in you through your poetry. I have learnt to hate with a passion and to not fear death. For when it doesn't come, I can still crave for it. Now when I am a few years older, I have started thinking about you again. In my lonely hours under the shower I chant in whispers, "Dying; Is an art, like everything else. I do it exceptionally well." I have died several deaths. One time with a broken heart and all other times I have done it myself. But I left no visible scars. No one knew. I stare at glittering waters of the river shining gold during the sunset. My mind feels like diving in. Not because I love water or swimming. But because I can't swim. I imagine how would it be to have a watery grave. But I realize they would take me away and put me elsewhere. People would be scared and unknown people would hold my wet body. Children would be scarred for life. So I only stare.

Plath, I wish to be like you. When heartbreaks don't feel like anything to me and my thoughts fade with my unfocused gaze. When blood becomes a mere colour and a burn, a wound that leaves a mark. When pain and ache are not sensible anymore. When my mind calculates years, months, weeks, days, hours, minutes, seconds and breaths. Till I take my last. Honestly, I do it now. Not all the time but very frequently. Those who hurt me, I look at them and say in my mind, "I'll be gone. I'll be gone soon and you'll not find me to hurt me again." It's thrilling to understand how one day I'll be an empty space in someone's life. Some will remember me with love and some with hate. Those who won't remember with either of the two will still remember me. And there'll be someone like me, who will want to be me like I wanted to be you. Till then it is a long way to walk on pebbles barefeet. A path sometimes laid with thorns. The thorns that came with the roses I once craved for. The thorns that prick and bring blood yet make me more adamant to keep walking. I'll walk till I reach the edge from where I'll fly down to hell if there's no place in paradise for me with you.

Wait for me, Plath. Till then wait.

Street Food in Kolkata

Street Food in Kolkata

Kolkata is a paradise for food lovers when it comes to street food. Decker’s Lane to Territi Bazar, you can visit anywhere to treat your taste buds and that too at unbelievable prices.

Tea at Princep Ghat

Street Food in Kolkata is not only pocket friendly but also is a global menu. From Chinese to Mughal, all kinds of food are available on the small shacks and stalls of Kolkata. One can go about eating breakfast, lunch, snacks and dinner all on the streets of Kolkata.

Breakfast

Want a sumptuous breakfast? Have a plate of Kachori, dal, jalebi and a steaming cup of chai. For a Chinese breakfast go to Territi Bazar for those juicy dumplings and filling Thukpas. 

Famous Dal-Kachori

Lunch

Want good lunch? Take a tour on Decker’s lane and have your lunch with any kind of South Indian dishes like Dosa, Uttapam, idli. Or just stick to indo-chinese.

Dosa and Idli from Rashbehari 

Snacks

For snacks simply go for chats, phuchkas etc. The options are endless. Puffed rice with fritters (Chops, as we call it here). 

Brinjal Fritters (Beguni) 

Dinner

And for dinner, you can try some lovely street side Kolkata biryani or Kathi Rolls or Mughai Parathas.

Kathi Roll from Kusums

No matter which part of the city you go to, street food will always be your saviour. Kolkata doesn’t make anyone starve. Good food at great prices make the concept of Street Food in Kolkata unique. 

All pictures are copyright of the author.

Signature of Candidate-

Cherry bakery and desserts

Reviewing Cherry- bakery and desserts in Behala.

This is like discovering treasure in Behala. This shop has some drool-worthy cakes and pastries at a very reasonable rate.

1- Red velvet cupcake with cream cheese frosting comes at a pocket pinch of Rs. 60 only. The cupcake is smooth and sweet. The cream cheese frosting perfectly compliments the taste of the cake.

2- Red velvet pastry is my favourite. The cream is smooth and light. Tastes great. It almost melts in the mouth. Pocket pinch is just Rs. 60 only. 

3- Chocolate Truffle Pastry has a lovely crunchy texture. There is a generous layer of chocolate. It is only costs Rs. 50.

4- Strawberry Cheese Cake rules all of them. Personally, my taste buds detest the strawberry flavour but this time I would accept the fact that I really liked it. It has a fine texture and the gelatin used doesn't kill the taste of it. Very carefully set and the strawberry jam over it teases your buds with its tanginess. Spending Rs. 80 is just worth it!

Cherry delivers through Swiggy. This hidden treasure is the new zone for satisfying your dessert cravings.

Thank you Cherry for the lovely treats!

-Jaismita Alexander 

An Indian Foodie. 

Instagram- @ardentfoodiefromindia

Whole Chicken Roast Recipe

This is an extremely simple whole chicken roast recipe (not stuffed). You can make this awesome dish by following the recipe. 


Ingredients 

• 1 whole chicken - roughly 1.5 kg
• For the marinade: 2 tbsps fresh unsweetened yogurt
• 2 tbsps lime/ lemon juice
• 2 tsps garlic paste
• 1 tbsp ginger paste
• 1 tbsp Cumin Powder 
• 1 tbsp Coriander powder 
• 1 tbsp Garam masala powder 
• 1/2 tsp red chilli powder
• 1/2 tsp Turmeric Powder 
• 1/2 tsp salt

Procedure

1. Slightly wash the chicken and get rid of the liver, heart etc. 

2. Put the chicken in a large bowl and marinate with salt, turmeric powder, ginger garlic paste, yoghurt, lemon juice, garam masala powder, coriander and jeera powder. Cover the chicken well with  the mixture. 

3. Leave the chicken for 30 minutes. 

Marinated whole chicken 

4. Pre-heat oven to 180°

5. Take a baking tray and grease it well with butter/ghee/oil. 

6. Shift the marinated chicken in the tray and brush oil/butter/ghee on the chicken. 

7. Let it cook for 30 mins before tossing it on the other side. 

8. Cook till the chicken is tender. Keep checking it with a knife. 

9. The cooking process can take more than an hour. After which, you have to slightly fry the chicken in a kadai. It gives the chicken a good texture and makes it crisp. 

10. You can serve this with rice or paratha. 

Durga Pujo of a Christian Household

Trail of childhood memories line up as streets are adorned with fairylights and cacophony of far-fetched music touch my ears. The innocent curiosity of another religion, the madness of festivity and knowing that the word 'Maa' is the ultimate strength. I always asked whose 'Maa' she was? And always been told about her four children. Then I counter questioned then why do everyone call her "Maa", to which I was told, "She is a mother to anyone who call her Maa". 

Durga Puja will always be a part of my childhood nostalgia. Growing in a Christian household, I had access to Durga Puja and it's madness because of my equally enthusiastic Grandmother and Mother. Mahalaya used to mark the beginning of the festive madness. Before the sun could peep in, at the wee hours my mother used to wake up and turn the radio on to Birendra Krishna Bhadra's voice welcoming Maa Durga.

"Jago, Maa tumi jaago..."

A chill ran down my spine as the cool breeze entered from the window. Clinging onto my grandmother's saree, I could visualize a giant green monster being battled by a motherly figure. Someone who wore a saree like my grandmother and had the fury in her eyes like those of my mother. I waited till Bhadra chanted "Yaa Devi Sarva Bhuteshu Vishnu Mayyeti Shabditah

Namas Tasyai Namas Tasyai Namas Tasyai Namo Namah."

By then my mother brought in cups of steaming coffee and a packet of Banana Chips. Munching on the chips and sipping onto the coffee I used to hear both of them speak. They used to talk about their times when everyone used to wake up early in the morning in their compound and gathered around the radio set every Mahalaya. I used to ask innocent questions which were always answered by my Grandmother with her wits. 

 

Grandmother left us in 2010 and my mother in 2016. Mahalaya dawns are lonely but equally thrilling. With my earphones plugged in my ears I visualize scenes in my head. I imagine my grandmother and mother sitting right with me humming the songs one by one. 

Durga Puja marks the festive celebration and sparks nostalgia every year. That's the magic.

There were plans of covering pandals of the area. Plans of wearing this dress on that day and eating this from that shop. Rickshaw-wala or an autowala was to be summoned to take us around. My grandmother always said that hiring a taxi would be better. Then we could go far into North Kolkata and see Lebutala, Sovabajar Rajbari, College Square, Telenga Bagan etc. That was left for my Dad to arrange. 

I never felt it was not our festival. I had every speck of enjoyment my Hindu friends would have. New clothes, new shoes and good food to eat. Durga Puja taught me that no matter who you are, if you accept it Kolkata will embrace you with open arms. Maa Durga is a mother to everyone and Durga Puja, the festival of all.