On Burning & Being Indoctrinated By One's Uterus

“Ohfooh ma, I don’t even want to get married!” The heroine vehemently exclaims, burring her milky, doe eyed face into her hands while the eternally maternal Kirron Kher figure pats her on the back going on about a certain boy who would be appropriate. Indeed, this is the very foundation of most of the Bollywood movies I’ve watched this week. However, even when the heroine craved to see the face of her hero – as when Kajol scampered about in her famous white outfit in the rain during the first song of Dilwale Dulhaniya Le Jayenge – she eventually found him. So I guess someone always wins in these scenarios.

The issue, I find, is when women feel almost reserved about admitting that finding a hero falls into one of their life goals. As if, post-bra-burning, it is something to feel shy about. We whisper it to each other in our accounting lectures and throw hints by posting links to the songs we love from abovementioned cliché movies. Yet, I always feel as if I’m disappointing my gender by admitting to this. I mean, you barely see a male figure blogging about finding a lovely little Bindi-Binki-BCom-Babe to settle down with. So why should females say the same?

Personally, I wonder if it has something to do with the casual ability we have to carry life within our bodies for 9 months. We’ve quite possibly been indoctrinated by our own uterus – feeding us subliminal desires through hormonal changes. Furthermore, this organ will not be ignored, kicking us from within whether in anger form not being used through monthly cramps – or lashing out by a kicking baby when used. We can’t win – can we? But that’s another story. I digress.

Refreshingly, a few days ago, I read a line from The Carrie Diaries by Candace Bushnell, where Carrie asks herself whether there is anything wrong with her wanting to be with a man, and further questions the fact that she knows she would forever want to be with a man. In juxtaposition, we have the perpetual ‘I don’t need someone to rescue me. I have a job, an apartment, my own life. I don’t need any hero.’

I think the flaw there is that, in one frame of mind, Carrie seeks something of a lifelong friendship. She doesn’t necessarily want to be ‘saved’ from her invisible demons, but rather looks to perfect her otherwise adequate existence. However, when we begin to look at a partnership as hero and sidekick, the contention begins and we find ourselves mumbling uncomfortably that we don’t really care about being married because it would threaten our independence and sense of self-constructed confidence.  

In a world feeding off a buffet of love stories of every flavour, portion and appearance, how do we know whether we just want to order off the menu? Naturally, it is impossible to try each and every dish – and most are perfectly content to dine alone. But, this is about the awkward ones approaching the buffet, completely overwhelmed and confused about how to perceive all that lies before her.

The truth is, there is no definitive answer as with most things. I’ve observed that my opinion of the entire scheme of things changes with each pop culture item I am spoonfed and with each glace of Mr. Darcy that makes my heart stop. 

Indeed, the malleable temperament of opinion is what keeps relationships and our perception of reality in flux. 

The passage of time slowly etches away at our wood-hearts; some initials are engraved, some lightly written – and there are some names waiting to be brought to the surface.  

Edit:

In all honesty, I felt completely ashamed to have written this post. No, rather, to have published this post and I would feel far too shy to share it on a more public platform. It is completely soaked in the bittersweet taste of irony that, as mentioned above, I would feel ashamed to shout this from the rooftops. This all in a quest to protect my future felicity, for I know this would readily terrify any and every male who were to read this post. Naturally, you would all assume me to be some positively hormone driven lunatic whose sole purpose in life would be to get you to book out the infamous Kendra Hall.
But, I pray, do not flatter yourself. 

Hope & Fear

She walks in cool, calm, collected. Her dark heels click to the tiles in seemingly rehearsed coordination. Perfectly poised and planned. Her glasses perch at a vogue angle on her nose, eyes wide and alert – quickly scanning the room calculating every possible scenario that she could fathom and a possible reaction. She wears a tweed blazer and a matching skirt, in a regal (albeit far too mature for her age) yellow with dark undertones. Her hair is dark and she is in control. Fear is not withered. Fear is not cowering in the corner, hiding herself.

No, she is not.

Hope glides in on her bare feet, on her tip toes just for fun. She wears a long, white flowing garment and you can’t quite distinguish her body shape beneath it- but you know she is simply lovely. Hope is simple yet frivolous. There is not much to her at face value – her complexities only emerge when you begin to make enquiries; but most people are happy to simple sit and look at the way her hair glistens in the sunshine.

Hope does not rule, she simply is.

I would rather be fear.

The revered Nelson Mandela once said that he hopes our choices do not reflect our fear, but rather our hopes. Yet, what is wrong with making life decisions based on our fears? Making decisions within the bounds of a given situation to mitigate future perils appears rational to me.

I wonder, what is wrong with being a fearful person? A fearful person is not backed into a corner because she has thought about each window in the room and the number of glass panels comprising the windows and how she could kick them out if she needed to. Fear knows every centimetre of the room and makes her decisions such that she isn’t in the corner. She is Baby from Dirty Dancing – and has taken the calculated risk to make that terrible joke knowing someone out there will cringe reading it.

Indeed, the next question would be what fear would do when put into a completely different house let alone a new room. Fear probably knew this might happen because fear has a close friend called Paranoia who likes to play on the tight rope of Fear’s nerves. Consequently, because Fear thought this may happen – fear is not jarred and instead attempts to pre-empt and solve the new house’s issues.

The crisis, it appears, is when fear becomes paralysed. Then, there is neither Hope nor Fear, rather a senseless melancholy from which no inspirational quote can save you and instead you must pray for Hope.

This is because Fear and Hope works hand in hand – because Fear is there to protect the goals that fragrance Hope’s skin and dance on Hope’s lips. Once you have Hope, I suppose, stashed away in a corner of your heart with a desired outcome, you can let yourself be guided by whatever means you find necessary to pursue it.