Marlene Dietrich Wouldn’t
Ankita was shy. She was very conscious of having plump arms and hips, and constantly muttered to herself about the needlessly hairy body her father had passed down to her. She had an awkward way of walking, almost sideways, moving apologetically like a crab in order to avoid attention. Her extremely curly, black hair was a nest that hid most of her face. Her nose was constantly breaking in sweat, and so were her palms. This was why she found it extremely hard to roll out joints.
Every night after her parents and sister had gone to sleep, Ankita would lock her room, stuff two bathroom towels along the length of the bottom of her door, put on Led Zeppelin or Peter Cat or The Beatles, and start to roll a midnight spliff. She was terrible at it. The apprehension of being caught made her fingers tremble and her sweaty hands only made things worse. Sometimes the paper roll would drop out and she would clumsily put it back in and smoke the joint anyway. Sometimes she would cut the top of a cigarette and empty the tobacco out, mix some of it with the Mary Jane and put it back in, poking little holes in the cigarette’s air filter to help with the flow. It wasn’t very satisfying and wasted a lot of the stuff but she did it anyway, because this was her midnight ritual. Her moment of Zen when she could saturate in the aesthetic of simply Being. This was the only time she could truly be herself.
Her sister would often see her scribbling mousily in a blue notebook. Her sister Kangana. 11 years old, incredibly energetic, talkative, curious, running to everyone with a million questions. “What are you writing about, tell me! Please!” she would coax Ankita constantly. Ankita would remain silent, writing assiduously in her beloved yellowing pages. She made sure to hide her book in a place none of her family members could find, until that one day she forgot.
It was a normal Monday morning. Ankita’s mother was kneading atta dough in the kitchen, sprinkling red chilli powder, coriander and water into the mix. Kangana was in front of her ipad watching a New age yoga video, circling her hips and moving her chest up and down in a snake like motion. “It’s supposed to bring the kundalini shakti energy upwards into ecstasy” she informed Ankita. “It’s better than regular exercise, you should try it.”
“Aren’t you too young to be watching this stuff?” Ankita peered into the screen and read the title under her breath ‘Sensual Kundalini Yoga Flow’ by Kat Crystalline. Any other older sibling would have gotten the younger one to switch channels, but Ankita didn’t have such a filter in her head. She marveled at her sister’s precocity, and how she had found her way through the stream of possible entertainments from around the globe to this niche corner that was definitely not intended towards children. “Maybe she’s just different,” thought Ankita, “children intuitively know what works for them.”
Ankita wasn’t nearly as forgiving and accepting of herself, taking meticulous efforts to hide her conceived flaws and fetishes. One of her deepest secrets was that she was attracted to boys, boys who were much younger than her. Boys who were skinny and bony and somewhat emaciated. That was her secret obsession, and she was deeply ashamed of it. At the not so young age of 30, Ankita was still living under her parent’s roof, still working a job she despised, was still unmarried and had a bare handful of friends. She had reconciled herself an introvert, but what she couldn’t reconcile was her desire to sleep with her neighbors, two teenage boys who probably didn’t even know she existed.
Each evening she took a walk in the park, knowing they would be playing there. Each evening she sat on the same park bench, pretending to watch people walking their Alsatians and golden retrievers and adopted mongrels, while actually noting the behaviors, glances, and expressions of the two boys. The way his shorts lifted above his knees as he jumped to throw a ball made her shiver. The way the other’s teeth sparkled in the setting sun. The faint glimpse of a rib cage when his shirt flapped in the wind. She couldn’t decide which one she found more attractive. One of them was taller with a bendier body, but she liked the other’s face more- an expression of seriousness that made her heart beat like mad. She had studied them intimately for years now, but still didn’t know their names, having never approached them, walking quickly in the opposite direction if they came anywhere close. “They probably don’t even know I exist,” she morosely repeated to herself. “And it wouldn’t matter if they did. I can’t do anything about it. I don’t want anyone to know I have a reversed gender Lolita fetish.”
This was how she referred to it. Me and my reversed gender Lolita fetish went on a walk and saw two tasty young boys. We could do nothing. We just stared. Sometimes she felt like a witch from an old Russian folk story, a modern-day Baba Yaga with a desire to eat naughty boys up, chewing their bones noisily, making hideous slurping noises, burping with satisfaction at the end of her meal. But just as such images flashed through her mind, she was mortified by their content and would wipe her mind-slate clean. “Have some self-control Anki,” she would remind herself, “you’re not allowed to think such things.” She would then imagine her parents peeping into her head that lay sliced open, darkness filling its cup. Other times in her head they would watch as she made love to both neighbor boys at once a la the paintings of Toshio Seiki. Anki did not enjoy her imaginative faculty, chastising herself for how lurid and absurd her thoughts would get.
This deep-seated sense of shame and guilt could well be attributed to her early years being forced to memorize the Bhagavat Gita in Sanskrit. She would sit for hours, rocking back and forth as she struggled through the abstruse verses, whose English translations still didn’t manage to clarify their meanings sufficiently. Her father believed she had a scholarly proclivity, and her mother automatically agreed with him. And so she was signed up for several competitions and debates where she would be allowed to show off her ‘natural’ talent. Ankita, with gloom and smallness filling her chest, did as she was told. When she discovered in her late twenties that she hardly knew herself at all it was too late. “Now I am doomed to bumble about and get through life as a mediocre person,” she would tell herself. Even when she aced her exams and always came top of the class, she never felt so great inside, feeling like an imposter as she held medals and certificates, and lifted her lips to smile.
Growing up her father would tell guests who came over, “She can do anything she puts her mind to. She is gifted,” and awkward little Anki would cringe and feel humiliated. She never felt connected to her grades or marks, nor to her classes at school. She would secretly doodle nudes and her beloved skinny boys on the corner of her textbooks. She studied diligently just to keep face, so that people would leave her alone with her fantasies. But in her mind she was nothing short of filthy.
…
Back to the fateful Monday morning, Ankita had been in a rush. She hadn’t even had time to iron her salwar kameez and put on her kajal. Her blue notebook lay amidst a pile of tossed clothes that could be mistaken for a giant rag sculpture. The baby’s breath standing in a small dusty vase with angels painted on them had wilted past recognition. “Oh no! What a mess” she thought, before dashing out into a road drenched in sun and heat.
Her mother had walked into her room, and appalled by its sorry state had decided to take matter into her own hands. She folded each piece of clothing softly and precisely, straightening out the creases and checking their pockets for paper and coins, sorting them into piles based on cleanliness and crispness. That’s when she noticed the blue notebook. Her mother absentmindedly opened it, to check if it was work related. She read a few lines and drew her breath in sharply, “Shaantam paapam”. She read a few more lines and gasped loudly, infuriation rising in her. She slammed the book shut. Wringing her hands and wiping her sweaty hands on her sari, she began to pace up and down the hallway. “This can’t be happening; this can’t be happening…my child is a good girl.” She briefly entertained the idea that it was a friend’s book before recalling her own daughter writing in it on several occasions. “I never thought to ask her what she was writing…” she mused. Sadness, anger, frustration and a sense of doom grappled within the simple woman who liked things orderly, organized and peacefully dull. This disruption was worse than any household emergency. What was to become of her daughter? Who would marry her now? “I don’t know her at all,” she thought despairingly, sinking down to the sofa in tears.
And so when gullible old Ankita walked in she had no clue about the shitstorm she had unknowingly brewed up. Her mother was seated in the hall, as if she were in a movie, as if she had sat there forever. The guilty blue notebook was placed directly in front of her on the coffee table where her daughter couldn’t miss it. “What is my book doing here?” Ankita was about to take it back when harsh ringed motherly fingers snatched it away from her. “You are not going anywhere near it. And don’t dream of going near any of those, what did you call them, ‘the super cute boys with the super skinny butts.’ I had to look up the word skinny,” she said with a serious look, “to make sure it wasn’t another dirty word to add to your shameful writings. You have brought our entire family’s name down! How will I show my face to our neighbors now?”
Ankita wanted to laugh in her mother’s face, at the way she said “skinny” and “butts”, at her self-righteous melodrama, but she stood frozen, too scared and horrified to move. Her mother had read all of her deepest, darkest secrets, her slimiest of desires, her strangest of thoughts. Her mother had read her mind without her permission. Akita felt more naked than naked. She almost couldn’t speak. “How could you read my diary? I didn’t give you the permission,” she managed to choke out. “What’s written in there is personal. It’s for my eyes only.”
“Oh, and what? You thought your ocd with skinny buttocks would go unnoticed?”
“Mom it’s not an ocd!” yelled Ankita, “and don’t call them buttocks!”
“Do not split the hairs,” said her equally livid mother. “You know exactly what I mean. You have a sick mind, a very sick mind. I have a disturbed daughter, I never thought this day would come…” and tears began to spout from her eyes. She put her hands to her downcast head and started wailing. “I don’t know what to do with you, I don’t know…”
Kangana who had crept in after hearing the raised voices, curled herself around a pillar, blinking. “What happened Anki?”
“Mom read my notebook, which she had no right to” muttered Anki whose voice was inaudible in the sea of sorrow her mother’s vocal chords were now composing.
Kangana went over to their mother and hugged her sitting form. “It can’t be so bad mom, after all Anki is a writer.”
For the first time had someone called her a writer, and even in the gloom and doom atmosphere, it made her feel a little proud.
“Writer!” scroffed her mother, struggling to draw breath between sobs, “This is not writing. This is pure perversion. She needs to see a doctor, and if she can’t change her ways,” and now looking directly at her elder daughter, “well then, she better pack her things and leave forever.”
“Mom you are over-reacting,” Kangana said stroking their mother’s shoulders.
“No I am not. Ankita is going to a therapist. In fact, tomorrow. She needs her head straightened out. And if that doesn’t work, we won’t be left with any choice but to disown her.” And their mother walked out, slamming the door behind her.
Ankita stood there, shoulders bowed, silent tears running down her face, feeling more wretched than she could ever remember. She couldn’t believe some of the hurtful things her mother had said. Hadn’t Ankita always listened to them, did as she was told? And she would continue to do by their bidding, no matter the cost, because she loved her family.
“She’s right you know, I am sick,” Ankita told Kangana, “And I need to stop with my juvenile obsessions and indulgences.”
“What obsessions?” Kangana asked her curiously and solemnly
“Skinny little boys with skinny little butts.”
“Oh that’s nothing,” said Kangana blinking, “I am into clowns.”
…
“Mrs. Shylaja Rathore?” said Anki hesitantly as she opened the door to the therapist’s office.
Ankita had been given the name, address and phone number of the therapist first thing next day. Her mother, who was giving her the silent treatment, simply put a piece of paper with all the information in Ankita’s hand and left huffily. Kangana had been given the task of stressing that her sister must visit the psychologist pronto after work, failing which she wouldn’t be allowed to set foot back home. And so obsequious Anki did as she was told, and there she was, in her work clothes, a bindi on her forehead, crazy black hair tightly bound in a braid.
“It’s miss,” said a deep husky voice, relaxing behind the desk, “and call me Sheila won’t you”
The sight that greeted Anki’s eyes left her a little befuddled. “Do counsellors really dress like that?” she wondered, eyes widening.
The woman in front of her was not young by any means, wrinkles ran around her mouth and eyes, and mild brown age spots had begun to show on her cheeks. Her hair was grey, but in a classic way, and she had swept it up into a stylish bun at the top. She wore horn-rimmed glasses with delicate beading on the rims, an expression of defiance, appraisal and compassion written on her thin, wry face. She was wearing a black flowy frock with polka dots on them.
“Please, sit” said the woman, “you must be Ankita. I want to get to know you.”
“My full name is Ankita Rao. I work at the software company called Delta One, I work as a junior analyst. I am…”
“No, no, no, no, no, no darling, I want to know about you. Not what you do,” said the woman with a smirky smile.
Ankita felt confused and a little unsure. “Um, what do you want me to tell you exactly?” she asked. “Are therapists really this queer?” she inwardly wondered.
The woman lazily reached for a pack of black clove cigarettes and lit it before continuing. “You clearly came here because you’re in some sort of trouble. Probably your mind making a fool out of you. I want to know you so I can help you with it. How does the name of your ancestors or where you live matter to me?”
Ankita could slowly see clouds clearing, and a ray of sunlight shone through. “Well, I could start by telling you why I am here. My mother sent me. She read my diary and decided I was mentally unstable. She wants you to straighten me out.”
“But what’s straight in life?” said the woman, looking like a seasoned dragon as smoke streamed out of her nostrils. “Life is not linear, it’s a squiggle.”
Immediately she took a piece of paper and started drawing. “Look, this is life,” Ankita saw something like a ball of yarn that was knotted in several places, whose ends had long gotten lost in the madness of their crisscrosses.
“Are you saying life is messy? Or that we don’t know where it starts and where it begins? Are you saying life is a ball of yarn?”
“All of it!” said the woman, lightly tapping her cigarette over the ashtray, “Life is messy and it’s beautiful, and it’s crazy, and yes it’s a bit like a ball of yarn, if that’s what this looks like to you. Why does your mother think you are unstable?”
“I am not,” said Ankita defensively, “I have some unhealthy obsessions I guess, but I don’t really let them control me. I keep them in check, always. I have never let it interfere with my life, it has never been a hinderance, except now, when it was discovered.”
“Then you truly must be a boring person,” said the woman with another smiley smirk.
Ankita was taken aback, but more curious than hurt. “How so?”
“Well darling if you’ve only expressed the part of you that’s self-righteous and socially acceptable, how could you have lived? It’s like exploring an aquarium when really you are part of the sea! It’s like saying, all the fish around me are green and blue, so I’ll paint myself green and blue to fit in, and I’ll pretend octopi and eels and dolphins and sharks and other kinds of fish don’t exist.”
“I think I understand,” said Ankita slowly, “I never did feel like I fit in. But I have to, I owe it to my parents you see!”
“Do you owe your parent’s your happiness or sadness?”
“My happiness of course”
“And are you happy pretending to be someone you are not?”
“No”
“So, what you are giving your parents is your sadness. Not your happiness. You are fooling them, and betraying yourself.” The woman took out another clove cigarette and held it between long bejewelled fingers. Ankita suddenly noticed the beginnings of a scaly tattoo on her neck, the part that wasn’t covered by her dress.
“Is that a tattoo?”
“Yes,” said the woman, “It’s a big one. Got it in Costa Rica. It’s a snake winding up the side of my body.”
“Do you mind my asking, aren’t you conscious of it, my mother won’t let me get a tattoo let alone trying one on herself! ”
“Hahahah!” the woman roared. “but Marlene Dietrich would. You know her? Probably not. Old actress, vintage, black and white era. She had spunk. She didn’t seem to like Americans much. Nor did she like being told what to do. What Marlene Dietrich wouldn’t do? She wouldn’t stand for interviewers putting words in her mouth, telling her who she was and wasn’t. Just like me! I won’t stand for it either. The question is, will you?”
“Well, I think it’s a really cool tattoo,” said Ankita respectfully, “but I’ve got a long way to go convincing my parents- ”
“Sweetie. I think you’re missing the point,” she cut in wryly. “What was it that you wrote in your diary that disturbed your mother so?”
“You see, I am attracted to teenage boys,” admitted Ankita in a voice shot with guilt and self-reproach. “I am attracted to cadaverous boys, specifically. And they’re much younger than me. I have a reversed gender Lolita fetish.”
“I like that!” said the woman, making a mock evil face. “A reversed gender Lolita fetish you say? What’s wrong with liking younger men? I’ve had some, they’re all right.”
“My mother thinks I’m crazy. She wants me to get married asap. I’ve been holding off, making excuses about workload and things, but I know it’s high-time. Soon. And I’ll have to let all of this go, forever.” Ankita looked determined and resigned to her predictable future.
“Do you know what individuation means?” said the woman. Suddenly, she swung her chair in circles and let her bundled up hair drop down to her shoulders.
“No, what is it?”
“It’s what you need. It’s what you haven’t done for yourself yet, it’s what you have to do if your life is to be happy and fun and authentic. It’s about you having a self-identity Ankita. Separate from your parents, your siblings, your friends, your neighbors, your dog. It’s self-knowledge, it’s standing up for who you truly are. And if who you truly are likes young, cadaverous boys so be it. Acknowledge it. See where that goes. Give it a try.”
“What! Are you telling me to ask them out? Like on a date?” mortified Anki responded
“That is up to you!” said the woman, who looked like she was having an entertaining time. “How would you like to continue the story? But first tell me what else you truly are. What have you always loved to do? What sets you apart”
“We-el, let me think. I’ve always doodled in my text books. Usually nudes . I’ve always felt peaceful journaling. I’ve always enjoyed taking long walks in nature.”
“There you go, more individuation. These are all the things that make you you. If there weren’t people with fetishes the world would be boring. If everyone was the same, did the same thing, the world would- look something like it does right now. But we’re here to change that, aren’t we?”
“So you’re saying the path to happiness is finding out who I am?”
“The path to happiness, or something close, is being who you are. For really allowing yourself to be that person, without judgement and guilt and blame. Accept your darkness, darling, the things you want to throw out of your closet because other people don’t approve, and stitch a sexy little corset out of it,” and the woman winked. “She may be old but she’s striking,” thought Ankita, “perhaps through the grace and daring she embodies.”
“But what about my parents?” mused Anki, “they aren’t going to be happy and that’ll make me sad.”
“They’ll come around eventually,” smiled the woman. “Mine did. They threw their hands up and gave in. They had no choice you see, I was a wild horse in a world of mares. Finally they saw that horses are more graceful and strong, more free. They’d just been scared that I would lose my way. But when they saw me standing in my power, they understood”
“I think I see too,” said Ankita. She slowly untied the scrunchie from her braid and began to loosen up her hair until it surrounded her face like a bushy halo. A smile spread across her face.
“You do” said the woman, her eyes warm and compassionate. “I see you.”
Just then the door to the office swung open and a younger woman walked in. She had a strange resemblance to the counsellor. Her face took on a worried expression when she saw the scene in front of her.
“What? Who is this? Are you Ankita? Mom, I asked you to tell her I wouldn’t be able to take the session!”
“Well, Shailaja, I was itching for a talk with a human being, and in walked one!” said the grey-haired woman, unfazed.
“Mother! This is not done. We spoke about this. You aren’t allowed to talk to my clients. You aren’t a registered therapist…let’s handle this later!” said the highly miffed daughter. “Ankita, hello, I am Mrs. Rathore. So sorry for the inconvenience. I had a meeting and was running late. I had asked my mother here to cancel the session, so we could fix it up for another time. But clearly, she hasn’t. So sorry, this is highly unprofessional. You won’t be charged of course. In fact, let’s arrange for a free session soon, dear.”
Ankita had been swinging her eyes between the mother- daughter duo. True their features had an uncanny semblance, but their demeanor and clothing couldn’t be further apart. The real counsellor looked and spoke a lot like her own mother did.
“Uhm, that’s okay. I had a great time. I’ve received some insights I will always value. Thank you…ma’am?”
“Call me Shelia,” repeated the older woman. “No formalities required. I am like a friend.”
Mrs. Rathore rolled her eyes but said nothing.
Ankita got up to leave, and suddenly remembering what Sheila had told her, straightened her back and fluffed her hair. As she swung the door shut, she exchanged winks with the prankster.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever ask those boys out,” thought Ankita as she walked back home, “but I’m sure as hell going to work on my art and writing. And it’s high time I moved out and got my own place.”
