Book Review: Eat The Sky, Drink The Ocean

Pages :  240

Read on : Book

Goodreads Rating : 3.75/5

Review:  The first time I ever heard Annie Zaidi speak dates back to my post grad days when she has a special session with us filled with her page-3-kinda-like-ermygod stories. As expected, massive eye rolling happened. Fast forward 3 years later, I see her again, this time with Mandy Ord at JLF 2015. More eye-rolling and subtle scoffing, until she and Mandy spoke about alternate endings to iconic tales in our culture, such as the love saga of Salim and Anarkali. I was like a dog who picked up a new scent. That one story and the epic cliffhanger was sufficient enough to itch my mind and click 'add to cart' on Amazon.

What delightful book. I felt as if I had just won the English Elocution at school and was beaming in pride to take home my 'Enid Blyton' prize. That feeling resonated. The brilliant concept behind  this book is that it re-imagines so many various situations or classic tales that it's can safely be handed to people of all age groups, starting say 12+ and on. The visuals in some of the stories are raw and no nonsense, while some of them are whimsically clever. 

The beauty lies in the little snippets on how the Indian and Australian contributors collaborated. Some of them never even met, but the sense of sisterhood was strong enough to keep them bound to this project. Matters that plague the two entirely different cultures were glued together by this vision for a female-friendly world and I applaud the start. It is not as hard for women to connect as people assume. In most cases, what we have endured, what we see, feel, do and receive remains the same universally and we are ever ready to aid our fellow sisters.

The mix of short stories, classic folk tales, dystopian fantasies, graphic stories make it such a collector's delight. Brag points for the bookshelf. We know 'Zubaan' is the house of feminist themed publishing, nonetheless, the backdrop of feminism was so subtle that it made me want to jump into the book and live in that world. No cliched words are casually thrown around, the concept goes beyond wishful thinking to make it a seeming reality - a very refreshing change. 

One point. And the only point that troubles me is that most of the stories are established centuries after modern times, as though to imply that this idea that they have set up will materialise only after practically everything on earth has stormed revolution after revolution, mass destruction etc. This could be just me but the feeling of a dystopian society was strong and that did make me think.

Regardless, it did leave me happy which my readers would know is quite rare. The attempt is fantastic.

Do pick it up. It may not be the most literary read, but it sure is enjoyable.

Final Rating : 4/5
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Splatter Days

Paintings by Mehreen Shaikh

Sometimes I just crave a blank canvas to spill out everything that's bottled up in me. Like a gush of paints and ink splatter. In no order or any sense, yet hoping you will read off your screens and nod your head,barely able to understand what I'm trying to say and still be able to say to me telepathically, 'Hey, it's okay, we all have our days'. Splatter days I want to call them.

    

It's like waiting, endlessly for something you have no idea about. Like waiting at a curb looking for cars to pass by or in a hospital corridor at 3 AM with just the breeze of doors being pushed around. You don't see anyone and it gets quiet again. You try to hear something familiar to you or something that holds a faint meaning. But instead, all you see is blank spaces. So blank, they make you feel all eerie inside. You see random people occasionally who've seen and dealt with the situation themselves or could be battling their own inner demons, handing you obscure advice. More splatter. You think you don't need that advice till one day it all begins to resonate. Can you still call it a painting if it isn't complete? Will it ever be complete?

I see mimes with all the upside down smiles, shaking their heads. No. They pat my head, trying to console me. There, There. They don't convey anything more than that. They can't. There is nothing left to be addressed. They know it's my journey and I'm on my own.

I take a few steps ahead in the name of moving on. For the sake of moving on. Let's try to collect more splatter - I can't help look back again and again as I go forth. I move ahead a few steps more till I can actually walk by myself..... steady.......steady.......I look back lesser now.......but I still look. Hoping the deeply missed splatter shade will bloom on my canvas some day.

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These Constellations We Call Scars

“The wound is the place where the Light enters you.” 

― Rumi

Take off my clothes and stand in front of a full sized mirror. I can't even observe my body for a good 5 minutes without complaining.  Stripped down, not even a speck of concealer or mascara, I stare at my face and body, my imperfections glare back at me.
He doesn't miss a chance to call me beautiful, even when I'm scrubbed down of makeup. I have a hard time believing him. He could be saying this to keep my heart, sweetheart that he is.
My teens have marked me. I thought they would stop right there but I kept accumulating them year after year. My back is so stained, there's isn't an inch of plain skin. Backless clothes are off-limits for sure.
On my quiet days he declares back rubs. I cringe a bit. He doesn't say a word like absolutely nothing is wrong and here I am, lying face down, losing my sanity. ' FOR GOD'S SAKE, SAY SOMETHING!!!' my mind shrieks.
Décolletage. So delicate, so feminine. Not for me. I'm stained there too. I wear plunging necklines nonetheless, but I know when someones gaze does drift to my bosom its because they are staring at my marks.
In queues or crowds, people standing around whose eyes couldn't miss scars so prominent, would wince or randomly ask me what happened, followed by advice and dermatologist reccomendations.
Trust me when I say this, there's no fun living with insecurities.
Teenage Mehreen would have tried everything possible to get rid of the scars. Everyone said ' Time will fade them '. Fade them. Not erase them.  It takes a lot to be able to finally accept your imperfections as what defines you. In my younger days, I was surrounded by people who aimed to be flawless and just like sheep in a flock, I thought that was the only way to be.
Self loving came from a unprecedented corner. Months ago, a taller stranger stood behind me and exclaimed quite loudly. 'your scars are beautiful!'. I turn around to source the voice. ' they're absolutely amazing ' *snap* he immediately takes a picture and shows it to me.  I gaze at the camera screen, completely bewildered. ' You shouldn't hide them, you know. Show them off more often '
What a strange piece of advice! Such peculiar compliments.  I stood there stammering and stuttering unable to decide if I should thank him or deem his as moronic.
Days go by, drenched in my heavy schedule with minimum time devoted to beauty rituals. The scars on my body are the last thing on my mind and in the past few months, I didn't do much to them either. If they were the last thing on my mind, then what does that mean? It really isn't that important.
Self acceptance had begun for me even before I realized it and I fully intend to keep it that way.
Our scars and imperfections are our character. It's what makes us different. They design us, define us, enhance us, complete us.
How can you get rid of something if it's such an integral part of you? The fact that we aren't so perfect is what makes us human.

So now if anyone has a problem with my flaws, it's going to be their problem. Not mine.

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Lonely Girl, Going Home.

23rd January, 2 am, a strange city.

    I'm out at a friend's hotel catching up over drinks and eventually realize time has swiftly passed by. I decline all offers to be dropped home knowing that once I step out I will get a rickshaw. My hotel was just 2 kms away. At the least I could walk it. How bad could it be? 

      It couldn't be. Except, it was 2 am, in an unknown city and not a soul in sight. 

Cold crisp winter night, eery silence and a lonely girl. My toes are exposed. No shoes, just flip flops. I pull my jacket closer to me, cover my head with my stole, I suck in the cold air and decide to walk. Ignore everything and keep walking, hoping that a rickshaw will stop by. 

  

   I walk a few meters when I hear tires. I see high beam lights to my left, I know the car will stop beside me. I can hear it slowing down.I pretend not to notice and keep walking. Keep walking till I can't tell if I'm shivering from the cold or fear. 

  

They stop beside me, roll down the window " Do you want us to drop you somewhere?" Two young men in blazers ask me. " No, I'm okay. Thanks" I reply  'please go away' I prayed.

" Look, it's really late and there's no one around who could help you. We will take you wherever it is you're going, no problem"

" Errm, if you really want to help, then help me find a rickshaw."

" Don't think you can get one at this hour. Listen. Come with us. We'll drop you safe and sound"

The severity of the situation looms over me. No rickshaw, need to go home. Either I take a risk by getting in their car or take a risk by walking.  With a silent prayer in my heart, I get in their car. 

" I'm Amit and this is Piyush. Where do you have to go? " they ask.

" Radisson. Oh and I'm Mehreen " 

" Mehreen, don't mind us asking but why were you out all by yourself?" 

" I was meeting a friend, thought I'd get an auto as easily as I did the last time. Didn't happen"

" Are you okay? Did anyone hurt you or harass you? Are you hungry or thirsty? Anything, let us know. Hope nothing bad happened to you while you were out. Be safe Mehreen."

Ironic, you could probably be the trouble you are warning me against.

They kept asking me questions of my well-being. I didn't know what to think of this, are they probing me out of concern or .....

 We reach my hotel. I have never been so delighted to see hotel security guards, valet and bell boys in my life. 

" Okay Mehreen, here you go. Take care and please be safe. Bye "

I nod my head vigorously, take the elevator, unlock my room and light a smoke to calm my nerves. 

You're okay. You're fine. You were lucky as fuck.

I envelope myself in the comfort of my duvet. 

*

I know what you are thinking. This girl needs one tight slap across her face or needs to be grounded. I took a risk. A chance I once claimed I'd never do, just like any other girl  because I feared the implications. I agree, it wasn't the smartest move on my part. Here are two guys who genuinely helped me without any selfish intent. If anything they were constantly worried about my well being but I was so distraught that couldn't see this nor was I buying it.

After being harassed, cat-called, felt up, irrespective of day or night,it's really hard for a woman to trust unknown people.The time after sundown is such that it invokes all kinds of fear.  I didn't believe there would ever be a situation where the kindness of strange men would prevail at such dark hours. You can't blame me for this and I know I'm not alone in thinking so.

It did make me ponder on a Vogue Empower short film called ' Going Home' starring Alia Bhatt that circulated on social media. ( Watch it here ). Just like every other girl, I too believed that this type of feminine utopia would be a dream. The ideal world. Till it actually happened to me. 

I'm not saying that it's still safe out there, nor am I encouraging anyone to take a chance. The conflict I am left with is much greater. I trusted someone and they withheld it. I am so grateful that even now when I think of it I still wish good things for them because good work shouldn't go unrewarded.

However, it did make me realize that going home safely was not impossible but would I do it again? Despite the partial ' restoration in faith ', I still wouldn't.

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Crimson Venom

Artist : Sung Jin Kim

She walks down the street all by herself , lost in thought . The sun gleams overhead . She barely notices it and keeps walking . Everyone around her looks at her. It was hard not. She wasn't meant to be lost in the crowd. She always shone, she was born to standout.
She doesn't know this. She doesn't know how her presence itself meant she wasn't ordinary. Beauty lies in modesty. She never thought of herself as pretty yet everyone called her beautiful.
Faces pass her everyday. Some take a fleeting glimpse at her. Some would try to hold her gaze and look into to her soul. Well , they tried. She would let them, let them look into her face , into her hazel eyes. They couldn't resist touching her face. They would reach out for her , touch her skin tenderly, with gentle fingertips they'd caress her cheeks , her chin , her neck , down her back then stop at her waist. They pull her close and steal kisses from her lips.
They can't stop . They want more , hungrily trying to devour her like crumbling a rose in their fists. She can't give in. It feels unnatural, plastic. But they can't stop now. They don't realize that they're getting poisoned. Poisoned by crimson lips, one that makes you crave it more. This venom cannot be purged out of their skin even if they wanted to. Oh but it tastes so sweet , you can't stop yourself from drinking it.
She pushes them away , cuts off supply. Still in their light-headed haze they reach out for her. They want her. They don't know she's not anyone's to keep. She belongs to no one but herself.
She looks up at them with her hazel eyes. , presses a finger to their lips.
They melt.
She walks away. Back into the crowd.

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Blue

Artist : Audrey DeFord

I see you in blue.

With all your hair cut off, 

I see you in blue.

On a dark star-less night,

Waiting for something you haven't called for,

Seeking for something you haven't summoned for,

Looking for something that has no idea you are waiting for,

On a windless night.

I see you in blue.

A Persian blue that washes you out,

Highlights the whirlpools of your eyes,

On a moonless night,

I see you in blue.

Time is slipping by, 

The eerie silence of the night,

You don't cease to bide your time,

And I still see you in blue.

Searching

He looks at the analog clock on his phone , pacing his steps around. Guess she's running late. From a corner she appears, blonde hair flopping on her shoulders. He smiles halfheartedly.  Tries his best to make it seem genuine knowing very well that he'd fail miserably. A flashback over comes him. He was fine all this while. Or so he thought. Somewhere inside a part of him wanted it to be that girl with red hair.

'Hi,' blonde hair says. ' Hey how are you ? ' He says.

They begin walking. He feels no urge to hold her hand like he had done with Her. They sit. They talk. He doesn't comprehend a thing this one says.  This one flips her hair and rolls her eyes a lot. It doesn't faze him. This one looks straight at him with her green eyes whenever she talks as if she was trying to put a spell on him to control him. Green , not warm chestnut brown like Hers.

This one doesn't talk about her literary adventures with child-like excitement. This one doesn't talk about her love for dark romanticism. This one doesn't look at him with brave innocence. This one wasn't weird. Well , that's a good thing right? Then why was he looking for it ?

They get up and start walking towards his car. This one is tall , not 5 ft 4 inches and petite like Her. 

They drive to his house , walk into his bedroom. He tries to make minimum effort to tidy his room for his new guest. This one kicks her shoes off and climbs into his bed suggestively.  He follows suit. There are no candles lit like he had done for Her. No neatly made bedspreads like he had for Her. No tenderness with this one like he had done for Her.

She takes her clothes off revealing smooth flawless skin. No mole on the right side of her neck and between her breasts like Hers. No tattooed verses on the left side of her ribs like Her. No severe scars slicing the back of her arm , hips , elbow  and shoulder. Like Her.

With mechanical movements he gives into lust . Intimacy was only with Her. They climax , finish up, she turns and falls into deep slumber. He doesn't even try to put an arm under her pillow like he had done with Her. He doesn't moves her hair from her face and tuck it behind her ear like he had done with Her. He doesn't hold this one through the night like he had done with Her. 

He can't sleep. He doesn't even try to fight it. The sun rises , she wakes up and puts on her clothes 'That was fun,' she says ' Should do this again.'  ' Yeah' he murmurs.

She leaves. He closes his eyes and succumbs to his memories.

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' It's called Patriarchy '

Safine looks out of the car window. There's nothing new she sees but it's very rare they get invited for a lunch Dawwat . Her Husband's eyes are focused on the road , beside him is his cousin Azmal who has joined them for the long Eid holidays. Safine looks at Nooraan , her youthful daughter , who has now plugged in her earphones and has completely zoned out.

 Nooraan pulls one her left earphone out ' Ammi , Najma aunty's Kofta curry was so good! I loved it more than the Daalcha.'

'Yes! I was quite surprised myself! It was a different style of preparation. Delicious nonetheless.' says Safine.

' Ammi , I didn't know Saleem Uncle does sewing too? He even alters his children's school uniforms when needed'

'He does ,' says Safine ' He and even Amjad helps his wife do the house work. Both men  cook , get their kids ready for school and finish up on other necessities. If they notice that their wives are away or busy or overwhelmed they don't turn a blind eye. They immediately get up and handle the cooking and cooperatively tend to their kids.'

' What great men they must be. Understanding and comprehending the true essence of marriage. That's how it should be'

'You can't really compare' says Azmal after overhearing the mother-daughter's conversation ' Men go out and work hours and deal with all sorts of stress. Their wives are working women so it is difficult to do all work. But If she's a housewife Isn't 8 hours enough to finish up all the house chores? your cleaning and cooking?'

'But Azmal a mother's work never ends. If only 8 hours were enough. Parenting is a life long job. You get two days in a week off. ' Safine calmly explains.

' Then you should raise your child well enough to help you in your responsibilities. If women cannot handle both work and professional life then stay at home. And If you are a stay-at-home mother then you should manage all the work. You can't have your cake and eat it too!' says Azmal.

' But bhaijaan we can say that too , right? Men also cannot have it all.' says Nooraan defensively.

'You can't match home stress to work stress, ' says Safine's husband  ' there is so much pressure on us , all sorts of tensions , children's education , work stress , financial stress. It's all very different. '

' Just because she is not an earning member does not mean her job is of any less value!' says an outraged Nooraan.

' None of our points are actually valid' says Azmal ' For a man to do housework is not Sunnat. '

And with that he ends it.

A defeated Safine looks out of the car window. Nooraan sits grumpily in her corner knowing well that there is no point arguing with elders. She looks at her mother who smiles meekly at her.
 She reaches out for her mother's hand ' Ammi , It's not Islam. Will a man be punished at Akhirah for helping his wife?! No. It's called Patriarchy. It's so deep rooted that it has blinded countless people.'

Safine looks away with hope draining from her eyes.

Photo Courtesy: Majid Saeedi

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Torment

She lies in her bed wide awake. 2:58 am. Tormented by his thoughts. He's 3 hours behind . What would he be doing right now? Out may be , or just getting back home from a night out, tipsy and ready for thoughtless sleep.

She turns to her side , picks her phone from her bedside table and looks at the only picture she has of them together. Her auburn hair looks almost black, his blond hair seems almost platinum. The two evidence of their night starkly visible on his neck.

 That night still vivid in her mind like it happened just yesterday. Every moment stuck to her skin like oil and the undying  tender determination of the candle flame that lasted the night. It would be 8 months since she first met him , 8 months since she was broken. Now she was fixed but still not whole.

From the first glimpse they knew there was no turning back. They just couldn't. The anxious excitement to see each other refused to leave their nerves , the butterflies in their stomachs wouldn't stop fluttering for a moment and in those moments weeks passed by.

Now these memories wipe the smile off her face and inflict heartache. A sweet pain pulsates in her as though a shard of glass is stuck under her skin. Her mind goes back to what he might be doing. May be he is with someone new. Tall , slender , graceful , poised. The kind whose presence exudes radiance. Tangled in her arms , she'd drink up the deep pools of ocean of his eyes and he would let her as though he's at the mercy of a goddess. And here , half a world away , she's still where she was, the very thought of a stranger's touch reaching out to her makes her skin crawl.

She kicks her blanket away and walks to her mirror. She had lost a lot of weight in the past few weeks. Her skin looks dull and grey. Her eyes enveloped in darkness. Her once metallic red hair now lack luster.
 She closes her eyes and prays in her heart ' Ya Allah , What next? How much longer?'

                                                                   

                                                                            *

The day's work is over. He hangs around by the ocean aimlessly , letting his feet control him and take him wherever they wished. He's a wanderer , a nomad. In 8 months, he's gone about 4 or more places. You mustn't get attached. You keep moving. But what happens you lose your heart and mind so quickly it's like sanding slipping from your fingers. You just can't control it , it slips faster. 

The sun is soon to set. The soft breeze whispers ' Kashmiri apple' in his ears. He could almost hear it smile. He looks on , trying to escape the face that haunts his memories. A  sweet lingering aftertaste he's still reeling from. 

He never would have imagined her to be this fragile the first time he saw her, tiny , like a bird with a broken wing. How much he missed her nimble fingers. Even when she casually touched him , it was enough to make him wiggle. When she slipped her hands in his shirt , he'd try his best to stay still. When he kissed her , he caught her fingers and guided them to feel his racing pulse. That morning , when he pulled her palm to his cheek and slept soundly.

He couldn't forget how she would stand on her toes to kiss him and still be unable to reach him, how she snuggled closer to him in the middle of the night and sleepily murmured ' baby , I'm getting bad dreams' , how she would close her eyes and nod her head whenever he asked her something.

The memories overwhelm him , he shakes his head but his ears are still ringing. The sun is setting filling him with gloom. 'I will find my way to you and we will be together I promise you this' he makes a silent vow to no one. 

*

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