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.

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. 

No Escape Until You Are Winning...

If you are a person who is constantly facing failures then you know how it feels like to make the people who matter to you disappointed. It will always bother you thinking that the people who cherish your littlest achievements will definitely be disheartened at your huge failures. Sometime, the failures are uncalled for, unforeseen and you don't even know what went wrong. In my experience, some failures occur at the situations that needed to be on your favour. The failure that occurred to be a disappointment could change your life if it wasn't a failure after all. 

I always ponder over how disappointed my close-ones are because I repeatedly let them down yet they put up with me. They smile and show confidence in me and that kills me from inside daily. Every time I know I need to take a decision or prove myself, I fear I wouldn't be able to. The disappointment is not personal. The funniest part is that it is always of the people I care for. I wonder sometimes, if I had no one to care for, no one to care for me, life would have been far easier. I would take risks, shun everything I am compelled to do and live freely. There would be no eyes looking up to me with expectations, no face frowning at my downfall and most importantly no heartache for the ones who expected something out of me.

This whole expectation game is so so bitter that you can't even quit fighting. You can't yell and say ENOUGH! You can't say I QUIT! You can't say I AM LOSING! Because come on girl, you are strong and you have responsibilities. You were meant to be a fighter. And you know what? This fighter never wanted to fight, never wanted to put herself in this battle. 

The easiest thing one could do in my situation was to give up on life. All black, all gone, lost into the mysterious blackness of afterlife. But you know what compelled me to refrain from it? The same disappointed faces of the people who care and I care for. There is no escape from disappointment. No running away from it unless you are winning. 

Some things over coffee...

"She was looking pretty in a maroon Kurti. She had a file in her right hand. I saw her cross the road. She went in to the book shop. I followed her. I stood in front of the book shop as she was flipping through the pages of the book. She had grown her nails. She was growing up, of course. Ready to go to college. She is no more a school girl. I wish I could see her once closer. But I didn't dare to come in front of her. So I left before she could see me.", he said letting out a long sigh. 

I was looking at him. His face was lit up and the happiness of seeing her after a month clearly reflected.
I said, "She still loves you and you love her still. Go and sort out things and be like before." 

"No. Let it be. Love from a distance is truer and deep. I will love her always. Far or near.", he said and got up without finishing his coffee.

I checked my phone as it had beeped once while we were talking.

One message received:

"Did you guys meet over coffee?"

She sent. 

I replied, "No."

"Oh. He might have some work. Like always.", she sent.

"Hmm.. No time for a second love story.", I typed and deleted.

"Hmm... Or may be he still loves you.", I typed and deleted again.

"Hmm...", I typed and sent. 

~Jaismita Alexander

Incomplete Diary

I often got bored when alone at home. I did not like the idiot box much so only music could eradicate my boredom. But today I had something else to keep me engaged. Yesterday I had found an old discarded diary on the building terrace. The pages were torn & burnt mercilessly. Distorted condition of it made me more curious & I had assumed it to be a personal diary of someone. I hid it in my cupboard last night and thought of reading when no one is around. Finally I had the chance.

I sat at my study table & opened it. The yellow pages were all torn, except for a few. Among them some had old bus tickets & cards.

After a set of cards; half burnt, came a few written pages. 

The 1st page said,

"The way I met her today was a miracle. She was walking alone in the lane at 3 pm. The whole locality was in a lazy afternoon slumber when I saw her coming. Her bangles jingled & her hair was messy yet pretty as always. I wish I could tell her this. Ahh! I will miss her once I leave the country. Only if just for once she knew what I feel."

I smiled and realised that the owner of this diary was in love with that frizzy hair girl. I was more curious and turned to the second page. This page was in a better condition. 

The writings were:

" I saw her once again. She was standing under the sun, on the terrace. Her hair open and wet. She was drying her hair with a pink towel and her bangles jingled. The sweet jingling sound composed a tune of love in me. The love that bloomed within me for the past seven years, swayed smooth at her glance. I wish she knew all this."

The third page was torn and the rest were blank. I closed it with annoyance while my bangles jingled. Jingled like always.

-Jaismita Alexander