D for Desire

It’s yellow like the amrutanjan yellow, the smell tiptoeing around your nose when you are asleep. Gone by morning like the memory of a headache.

It’s not neat like the aligned rows of corn that tempts eaters to do two things at once. One, bite off just a kernel at a time, and two – leave a gash open in its middle, showing the loud wound of oval teeth marks. There is ease in eating corn out of a cup but the spoon always gets in between – never enough to feel the fullness of it in the mouth.

Sometimes desire is a glorious unexpected purple, the kind that bursts out of colorless colliding pies in Tom and Jerry. Most other times it’s a coriander green. The kind that traps early morning sunlight and never lets it go. The kind that romances with a blob of water droplet, again -never letting go, again almost going – like lendi. 

It is wanting human intimacy to match with the pleasure of eating mangoes in white petticoats and lying on the floor for hours after, playing with the afternoon sun weaving tangible window patterns made of gold threads.

It’s permanently wondering if things would have been different if you weren’t Dalit, if there would be a ruthless admission of love and desire for you if you weren’t Dalit, if the words fuck you would’ve come to you a lot easier if you weren’t Dalit. It is wondering if Dalit anger is preferred over Dalit desire.

I googled ‘Dalit Desire’ & found a bunch of “research-based” essays, some obviously written by Savarna academics. I giggled. First they hijacked pain, now pleasure. Is it research when skill is put above experience, pain above pleasure, discomfort above desire, and community above individual?

Last year, I put together a syllabus on Resisting Caste & made a conscious decision to leave out all research-based essays, those serious, intellectual, Savarna- academic ones that play Word-Olympics with caste, those that are written in such complicated language, that even caste will begin to feel like it exists only in theory. No wonder people continue to think that caste isn’t alive anymore.

I put in experience, thoughts, dilemmas, insecurities, fear, love & decided that theory will come nowhere near my classroom. But I forgot that at a certain point in their lives, students are made to feel that if they don’t know theory, they are the Jon Snows of English academia. What to do then? How to teach? 

Ambedkar approached a lot of what he wrote on caste with the seriousness & precision of a scientist even though he had lived experience to begin with. But he knew that for his work to be taken seriously, he was going to need something stronger than experience, something that can shut people up. Merit. Scholarship. Poetry. There is a reason why I can read his works like they were love letters. Because he wrote with the passion of a poet.

Nothing is as powerful as a Dalit child reading Ambedkar for the first time. It fills her body with an energy that is both thirsty and insatiable. Like a desire to finally start living.

20200423_073703_001_01

E for Egg

Egg

In the beginning of the Yugoslavian film Ko To Tamo Peva, a man in a bowler hat pokes an egg with a nail – making a tiny hole, & then sucks it all from the other end. There is no way to find out if the other end is poked too. It’s a technique that treats an egg like the secret it actually is. Pa would do this too – his choice of weapon was always the needle – a secret in itself. 

Sometimes secrets need to be cracked open on the sturdy edges of pans or broken open with knives, spoons, & forks. They need to fall with a plop leaving you no time to marvel at that sound because it’s already broken into whispers. Other times, secrets need to be nudged gently into revealing themselves. You knock on them gently at first. Consent, fucker. I know men who handle the egg delicately like it’s the only egg in the world. I know women who stand over hissing pans and throw in onions, tomatoes, coriander, chilies – leaving no room for conversation, much less secrets. 

What is a cod liver capsule if not the yolk turned inside out? 

An old love who was into bodybuilding used to eat 6 eggs every morning. He’d break them open on my head one by one & I’d fall about laughing. He ate the whites, I ate the yellows. It was perfect,  until he began throwing the yolks away because they weren’t healthy. 

Nothing else tastes like the yellow does – leaving its echo behind long after the song is over. 

In school one afternoon, I opened my dabba to find egg bhurji & chapati. I began gulping it down before anyone could find out. A girl I’d always admired for her lack of interest in boys wanted to taste the egg. I gave her some, she ate it & squinted at me. Giving me no hint as to whether the egg & I had passed or failed, she walked away with her head held high. Her friends regarded her with fear after that & stared at her wondrously through the day while I tried to understand why they never looked at me like that – the egg was in my dabba after all.

One morning in Basavanagudi, I saw a Brahmin nose walking around in utter disgust. It was sulking cutely. It didn’t approve of the egg smell in Bgudi. On some days it walked with agarbattis, flowers, & camphor. On most others – just gau mutra. The last time I saw it, it was running after a thread-wearing man who had recently married an egg-eating shudra. It was funny only because the man kept touching his nose, to make sure it wasn’t his own nose chasing him.

I for Inventory. Intimacy.

inv

One morning, I held a hot cup of tea in my hands after cutting 15 green chilies lengthwise. When the heat pulsating inwards began pouring outside, I couldn’t tell what was feeding what.

When someone who doesn’t want to laugh, laughs — I look for the line of anger on their face that suddenly hides. I worry the line will return when they are alone & I won’t be around to humiliate it into hiding again.

A friend once told me that it’s not possible to hold on to self-respect when one is in love. I felt  victorious & betrayed. Why though? It’s not like I am a mountain of self-respect when not in love.

When he drove, I liked looking at the folded sleeves of his red checkered shirt on the forearm. But I desired him most when he reversed the vehicle, and put his left arm around my seat to look back, his Adam’s apple teasing.

I get annoyed when I stand before the mirror at the end of a long day to find by bra strap peeping. Why didn’t my girls or aunties on the road tell me or better yet, put it back gently & tuck my hair behind the ear also? The only time I felt happy in convent schools was when girls would sing ‘Sunday is longer than Monday’ everytime a petticoat played hide & seek.

I don’t want feminism that takes away intimacy between women in bathrooms. Come, weep into my arms sister. I will hold you, you hold me.

When I was 6 & refused milk, Mouma pulled me to her lap & promised to show me one breast if I finished half the glass, and both if I finished the full glass, permanently ruining all possible hetero relationships for me. 

Even hickies are forgotten in hours. The warmth of chilies still hasn’t left.