How to go everywhere?
How indeed? Because I’m yet to meet a woman who didn’t come born with a map. One whose rough edges indicate where she’s allowed, how far she can go and what the borders of her well-being are.
Plotted with age, marital status, financial independence, and self-preservation in mind these maps are made mostly by men and a few cautious women. And to cross lines is to personally request abduction followed by a nice and toasty trial by fire.
Here are a few of those maps:
Balcony Borders:
S from Jaunpur is allowed an unlimited survey of the courtyard window, the kitchen, the dining room, the toilet, the bedrooms (all three) and the store room. But to cross a particular jhaali door and enter the balcony is to ‘ask for’ the attention of all of Jaunpur’s romeos. No, these balconies are for the bold and the olds like S’s nani who finally got access at 57, not to dry laundry but to enjoy her evening tea.
Lusty Potatoes:
3 out of 5 women in India need permission to go to the grocery store.
The perfectly agreeable POW:
I knew a girl in hostel whose map had been fed to her by rote. Each weekend when we’d ask her to join us outside, she’d parrot, “I’m not allowed.” “No one will find out,” we’d chime back. But the only thing stronger than fear is submissiveness. We never stopped asking but she never stepped out.
The map that comes with a plus-one free:
My grandma’s map was a curious thing, she never went anywhere alone- not once in her entire life.
The map of just being careful:
My map allows me access to everywhere. Everywhere that’s not too dark, too sparsely populated, too crowded, too far away, too shady, too “too.”
The daylight wanderer:
Jincy’s map is cute enough for a poem.
Jincy tip-toes in patches of light, chasing the rays of the sun, until the last drop of all that’s gold and bright turn into dusk and eventual night, upon which a phone trembles in her pant pocket, where her mother’s tight voice demands why she isn’t home.
The weight-loss map of Saroj aunty:
Saroj aunty intends to lose 5 kilos (for her heart and her hips), and to do so she must walk. But the thing is she hates small talk. And so she must walk past the gossips of her small town, past the do-gooders, the overfriendlies, and the onlookers until she reaches the quieter outskirts. But when she comes back home everyone wants to know, “is everything ok at home Saroj didi? Why would you want to be alone?”
The map of secrets:
Clandestine dates by the sea, movies watched in dark theatres, a bottle of vodka shared by 4 college girls in Rourkee, a map of “drop me till that spot and I’ll walk from there on,” a dupatta/hijab cloaked free-pass to wander map, a three college years before an arranged marriage map, a map of fiercely guarded getaways full of momentary respite.
The map of you’re on your own now:
This is a map of the girl who tries but it’s also a map of a girl who gambles. A daring little map of risks and chances. A map that says ‘I’m not asking for it, just because I’m here.’ A map that encourages tut-tuts and threatens alienation. A solitary map of charting one’s own course. A map in progress.
