She pointed to the washing area inside the kitchen. 'I've put water for you in a bucket. Help yourself. No need to shut the door: nobody comes here.'
'Do you want me to scrub your back for you?'
'No, no. Thank you.'
'Are you shy? No need to be shy; we're both women.'
'What is this report you are writing?'
'About women.'
'What is there to write about women?'
'How they live. What work they do. What they think about their lives.'
'What do they think? We bore our children. We fed them.'
'But you didn't bear children all the time. You must have had other thoughts in between. Mustn't you?'
'Yes. So we had our thoughts. Go on with you.'
She could hardly breathe. Protection is a form of repression too.
'What do you really want after you are married? Come on, let me make a list.'
...
I want to walk along the streets outside, every day.
I want to eat a plate of snacks in a restaurant.
I want to walk in a shop and choose my own sari.
I want to go to the cinema.
I want to see lots of places.
She walked about with firmness in the world of her own backyard...
Thursday, December 08, 2005
Discovering Ambai
Ambai is the pen-name of writer C.S.Lakshmi. I discovered her in Amit Chaudhuri's excellent compilation The Picador Book of Modern Indian Literature. This book carries 'The Gift', a translation of Ambai's original Tamil piece. The Gift is a piece about an educated woman who goes deep into Southern Tamil Nadu to write a report on women. Quoted below are few lines which really moved me.
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