Portrait of a Girl Before She Escaped Her Hometown

When I was 12 years old, I was obsessed with the possibility of a Future. I had started subscribing to magazines like “Pratiyogita Darpan” and “Competition Success Review”. There was one issue that I read back to back. That was an important year because I met my best friend that year and we did my school project on the ICC Cricket World Cup together. We had a page dedicated to Brendon McCullum that we decorated with sparkle pens. We had coined a new styling technique; we coloured the entirety of the page with crayons. Colours were stacked diagonally on each other. We then rubbed the coloured page with cotton to give it a glossy finish. I was fixated on giving my best to everything and went to ridiculous lengths to do that. I liked many things those days, mathematics- especially trigonometry, biology- especially plant reproduction, physics- especially friction, Sanskrit- especially diction, history- especially medieval, political science- especially fundamental rights, English grammar- especially subject-verb agreement, Hindi literature- especially poetry. 

I had written two essays by myself that year- Samay ka Sadupyog (Optimal Utilisation of Time) and Mere Jeevan ka Uddeshya (Objective of my Life). In the latter, I had expressed that being a good human is the objective of my life. My Hindi teacher had called me to her table and declared to the class of the possibility of me being a big writer one day. Probably that was the first dent on my high-achieving, focussed life. I had also discovered books that summer. I read, sometimes with the intensity of one book per day. Hindi books because they were available on the home shelves. English books because they would improve the English on our pens. Newspaper reading was also desirable because: 1. Would prepare for the impending competitive exams for the future; 2. Would improve articulation of English; and 3. Good practice to be aware of the world. I was generally fond of politics and general knowledge because that separated me from the feminine world of “darkness” and unintelligence.

That issue of Competition Success Review made me a determined person. I took to solving question papers of CSAT produced in the magazine. I read a couple of success stories. But what really caught my attention was the quote I was about to make an immediate talisman: “Winners Never Quit, Quitters Never Win”. My new friend and I quickly wrote it in colours and sparkles and pasted it in the room. My room was an interesting place, one wall was deep purple and others lightest pink. Deep purple carried all the chart papers with colours and sparkles. The window had an iron frame and rugged glass panels (which could be written on by chalk and it doubled up as the blackboard for my friend and me). It opened into the balcony, while the door opened into the dining room. 

My brother had just left for Kota, so there was less companionship, more mythology around him. His new classrooms, teachers, rooms, hours of study, mess food- everything was enigmatic. Brother had escaped the town and I had to soon follow in his footsteps. Otherwise I would be chained to my womanhood- wearing a suit with a dupatta everyday and MARRIAGE. I had made myself textbook-meritorious by sitting in my study chair for long hours. I had also made myself fat. And it was okay then because meritorious girls didn’t need to care for how they look. So, I was short, fat, and spoke English.

Short and fat is worth elaborating. I heard regular remarks on the impact shortness would have on my marriage prospects (solution: study). My parents of course asked me to swing on doorframes to increase my height (might have done something for my arm strength though) and bought me height-increasing slippers with spikes on them. A doctor said he would have grafted a bone in my legs to increase my height if I were younger. I cared but not too much because I compensated for my height in two ways- by being fair-skinned and by scoring great marks. Fatness was first attempted to be cured by Baba Ramdev brand of breathing exercises, then a concoction and a waistband ordered from naaptol.com, then a choorna prescribed by a doctor. I once did a fast where I only ate one banana a day. I was regularly humiliated and asked to go up and down the flight of stairs hundred times a day. I would do it a couple of times and then break into tears out of anger, sadness, and humiliation (solution: study and escape). I intermittently joined gyms and was regularly shamed for what I could wear (which anyway didn’t matter because I was meritorious). And despite everything, I largely liked myself and believed I had the agency to shape my life. I was even eager to contribute to the life of the society and the country. 

I was also sad beyond books. I wanted to escape the helplessness of home. I wanted to get a quick job in a glass office where I would have a big coffee mug. Big mugs weren’t a thing in Gwalior. But there were many pockets of joy, like the cooking I had recently taken interest in. It peaked with the launch of Food Food and the new Tata Sky. In a couple of years, I also became the rightful owner of a scooter, Pleasure: Why Should Boys Have All the Fun. Mainly because my mother wanted me to drive because she couldn’t. I loved my family and was loyal to my friends. I had no romantic aspirations (because they were antithetical to career aspirations). I loved the texture of fiction and told myself stories to sleep. I hoped to be empathetic to all oppressed because of caste, class, gender, religion, and low marks. I was responsible and hopeful. I worked very hard and thought best to my abilities. 

I felt close to my family, even though most of them were okay people. And I felt the pang of disappointment due to the lack of reciprocation way too often, as revealed by my diary from the era. I was moved by both art and literature. But I had chosen to become a lawyer with my friend because I wanted to “do something for the society”. The preparation was quick, the competitive exam had been qualified and I finished school with interviews and photographs in the newspaper. The escape was accomplished.

Last stint with high merits!

Few months before I was off to the other life, I remember sitting down with my diary and contemplating. I’m now surprised by the clarity of my questions and the maturity of my articulation. I was so aware of the unknown. I especially was conscious of the closing of a life, of its apparent loss. With every year, I have walked further. And once I was far enough, I felt such dear longing. I felt for the language, the food, the rituals. I have certainly derailed from any focussed pursuit I was on. And mostly I’m thankful for the learnings distraction afforded me. I read everything except those magazines. The promise of competitive exams did haunt me very regularly. Parents remained after my life to become a senior babu or a judge in the mofussil town. How to really tell anyone that I’m not the same meritorious anymore. I do better in the out of syllabus questions now. Probably winning is an escape. And why should women always escape. So, I quit on my terms more often than I win and that’s okay.

It has been eleven years since I left home. Our separation is still young though definite. Merit (and now its more legitimate elder, marriage) have been my righteous vehicles of migration. In these eleven years, I understood one thing early on. Having to leave home is not a choice, it is displacement. Why should the sky of my city build boundaries to keep me from my tiny aspirations. Many women have kept me company and comfort in this journey, our stories are unique and yet the same. In this weekly series, Women Who Left Home, I want to share all our stories. Stories that I have heard so many times that they cannot be the other and they are not personal. So what are they! These are the stories of our times and we're excited to share them with you!

Thank you for reading. You might want to buy me a book here.