The Day I Became a Woman.

Is it a question? Is it a statement?

I don’t know.

I didn’t know what it would lead me to when I started watching the film. Set in the rocky seaside country of Iran, the film begins with a coming to age of a little girl- Hava. Nine years is all that she is. Set apart by her grandmother already from her best friend- a boy. Traditions speak in less words, more actions. Words merely cajole out the liveliness, the need of an action. Words could be soft, endearing, flowing as the smooth glacier flows when the summers run wild and loose. Words could be harsh- the sound of a typhoon starting and then gorging up everything that comes in its way. Hava’s mother, her grandmother, and Hava herself use words. Dull but endearing words devoid of any use of their faces. Only the little girl so long uncovered, unhidden in the blackness of a veil that her mother and grandmother have been cajoled or forced to wear around them. Cajoled or forced- one will never know.

Hava is to turn nine today. Her birth time, mid noon, rocks forth in her prospects of becoming a woman or continuing as she is- a young girl turning nine. Her mother teaches her a trick to know time- to hold time in her being, in her actions, in her hurriedness, in her lateness, in her every step as she takes along the sea shore, even when she sits, even when she stands, even when she watches as the sun moves along- without stopping for her. She runs out of her home, running against the wind, her scarf up and down in folds. Her veil- her new possession, a gift from her mother and grandmother. In all likeliness, a beautiful satin black veil, a shimmering piece of cloth, meaningless otherwise, unless it falls on the head of a little girl turning nine. Meaningless otherwise unless it rests on the shoulder of an old woman guarding her womanhood, her dignity, her last years. So, holding the sea-breeze in her scarf, Hava runs. Hava runs like the hava (wind) itself.  

In the ticking minutes of her last hour as a girl, she checks the remaining time with the stick that she carries. Every time she checks, the sun has moved a little close to overhead, the minutes run a little too long, and the time to her womanhood, approaching sooner than she knows. And, yet she tries. She runs to her friend- Hassan.

Hassan asks her to wait for her near the shore. And, she traces her way to the shore, the scarf now and then, shifting and falling off of her head. Her tiny hands reach for it, the satin of the cloth slipping between her fingers- mellifluously. Sitting on the white sand, she waits and watches. She digs up a little hole, puts her stick once again just to reaffirm her saved girlhood. Oh! Yes. Few more minutes come to her rescue again. Her eyes follow to the outlines of the remnants of a newly-built boat. The boys working on it, send forth stolen glances aimed at her innocence, of finding some hidden treasure with her that could complete the object of their adventures- their boat and Hava’s black veil. The veil hasn’t yet recognized Hava as its owner and neither has Hava learnt what the veil would become for her in the forthcoming minutes. Alas! Freedom. She exchanges her veil for a little toy. Happiness. The blackness of her veil now the sail of the boys’ boat. Her head uncovered again- the head of a young girl.  

Tired of waiting now and the stick still defiant in becoming her accomplice, Hava runs back to Hassan’s house. There by the window, she shouts her pleas. Oh! The beauty of their conversation. Oh! See them talk- a conversation warmed by the knowledge of each other for so long, a conversation that has an understanding far beyond their ages combined, a conversation that has anger, a little disappointment, and instant reconciliation. A friendship surviving on the grounds of a city alongside the seashore.

And, yet in the comfort of their friendship and the sweetness and sourness of the candies they eat, Hava checks the time allotted to her by her mother. She measures the length of the stick’s shadow in the tininess of her hands, her fingers outreaching beyond their dexterity. No matter how long it was before, no matter how short the shadow has become now, Hava eats her candies in a hurry- a hurriedness known only to her and the stick that tells her the time to her womanhood. Oh! She is okay with it. She is aware of her limited time. She is aware of the hurriedness with which her sweets disappear as they exchange the sweets between them. Hasaan and Hava. Hava and Hasaan. A little giggle. A childish whisper.

At last, her mother comes to pick her up. A black veil in her hand, she skilfully covers her daughter’s head. Her daughter, now a young woman. One hour between forgetting her daughter as a girl and learning her as a woman. The difference- a black veil. 

A girl in every minute of the eleventh hour.

A woman from every minute beginning the twelfth.

 

Inspired by watching the film The Day I Became a Woman.

I am Conflict.

I, recently started with my Masters program at one of the premier colleges for social work. 

On the very first day of our 9-day orientation program at college, our field director asked us to use this time to introspect upon our decision to choose social work. 

All of us thought, she was being arrogant. That she was wanting us to willfully leave because in her opinion none of us deserved to be here... to be in the field of social work. But, sure we were. Hadn't we prepared for months altogether to get in here? Hadn't we survived the interview sessions where our professors grilled us to our core? 

Sure, we deserve this! We deserve this and more. 

A couple of days before, another professor asked us to define conflict. We all had our own definitions. Some of us believed it to be a clash of ideas, of philosophies. Quite a few believed conflict to be the difference between needs and wants. When wants are more than can be satisfied- boom! there was a conflict in the making. I, for one, didn't have a definition. 

I am like that. I make my opinions later when all has been said and done. 

On the last day of our orientation program, we were taken for field visits- a  very important component of social work. 

There, we were, 96 of us, walking carefully on the mud-bathed roads of a thriving slum.  

It had been raining the day before and it will continue to rain for another couple of days. Flies burst out like shooting stars on a black night. People walked with conscious steps, skipping a puddle or two. Thatched roofs leaked in the merciless rains. Children ran and laughed, nonetheless. 

On another rainy day, as I sit and think about tomorrow, my tomorrow includes what dress I will be wearing, what classes I can bunk or attend, I am warm, protected, and blessed. 

I am blessed with the knowledge that I have a dream that I am working on. I am blessed because I have more than I need. 

But, how is it that we are so comfortable and warm even when it rains outside while for someone else, everything would be similar if not worse? How is it that I get a chance to better my life when someone births and dies without much promise?

I believe, this is conflict. 

If I get a chance, so should everyone else.

Maybe, I am conflict.

I Missed Home.

The ache for home lives in all of us, the safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned.- Maya Angelou

The sojourn is over. It was exhausting. Contemplative. Confusing. A hurt on the ego.

But, the good thing is that it is over. 

I missed home. 

I missed the compress of my bed's mattress- its conformed, subtle, honest stability. 

I missed the knowledge of my room- how I know every corner of it, how I could point out at an object in its very place. I missed the comfort of the settled dust that seems to crop up every night, gathers up a little more. I missed the familiar pattern of the dancing motes in the single ray of sunshine that enters our drawing room. 

How every fallen hair gathers itself among its compadres in one corner, putting on solidarity, mustering more courage.

Or, how every little act transforms itself into a self-composed display of synchronicity.

I dwell on these things when I am away. I dwell on the little glow-in-the-dark stars that line my bedroom ceiling. How they stay there pointing to me a simple, well-guarded fact that here is now. In this place, in this moment, in this time, in this person- that is me.

Above is the shuffling of the last furniture that finally finds a place in a home.

Below is the rustic familiarity of an alien home, one could never relate to.

On nights such as these, I wait and watch. I wait for a tear to creep its way because this missing makes me want to hold on to everything that composes my life. And, I watch everything that surrounds me- every little book in its place, every furniture stuck in time and memory, every person- the same as before.

It is not so much that I love everything about this place- this little shack of a place that we have come to acknowledge as our home. But, it is more of the feeling of lack of origin... when I am away.

No one else's bed could have the right amount of bounce.

It is as simple as that.

No one else's home could have the exact wall patches that have formed in my room over the years.

Some things just belong to us. And, we belong in some things.

No wonder, I missed home.

Guest Advice Column: Tina L. Hook

Guest Advice Column is the place where we will bring people who are an inspiration to us and who have something to share with our crowd. This is the place where they offer tips, advices, and ways to let us keep swimming towards our dreams. 

And, today we bring to you our very first guest Tina L. Hook in our Guest Advice Column. (Boy! are we excited!!!)

-Image Courtesy of Tina L. Hook

Tina is a generous writer, a great support, and a perfect blogger friend. She has got her first book published- Enchanted by Starlight. If that title doesn't make it alluring, we don't know what does! We asked Tina to share with us her experience as an author- how she managed to stay sane during those grueling months of writing and then later on publishing. 

Tina is one of those people who write with a sense of alacrity, rendering her readers with a vivid and live experience of her characters. We still remember her Disappearing Girl- a piece, which we go back to whenever we are struggling with words.   

We leave you with this amazing person and author. 

And, don't forget...

Enchanted by Starlight is now available on Amazon. In stores in July.

She also writes at (Fl) Girl with a New Life.

She is also available on Twitter and Facebook.

 ~~~

Writer for Life. My Best Advice. 

When Rathi asked me to write this post I was thrilled, and not because I deem myself to be anyone of great importance, because I don’t. Rather, I was thrilled because Rathi is an important part of my online writing community. I care about her words, and about the vulnerable soul she manages to express through them. I look forward to her comments on my blog each month, and savor the moments when she is inspired by what I have to offer. Rathi is part of the tribe that cheers me on and motivates me to keep writing, and that is something every writer needs.

"Solitude, competitiveness and grief are the unavoidable lot of a writer only when there is no organization or network to which she can turn."—Toni Morrison

When I think about the engine that powers me through my writing I often come back to this quote from Toni Morrison. While it is true that writing is a solitary act, it can be difficult to impossible to navigate it alone for the long haul. If you want to turn your writing into a life long pursuit, this is my greatest advice to you. Build a community.

Whether your writing tribe is an online community of many or an in-person group of two, writers benefit from the support of other writers. We hold each other accountable. We inspire one another to keep going.  When our own passions dim with self doubt, which they will, we can lean on the enthusiasm of our tribe to buoy us up again. And when the day comes when your work goes out live to the world, your writing community will be the first to devour it, celebrate it, and pass it along to their friends.

I should add here that building a writerly community is not a piece of cake. Creative people are sensitive creatures, and we don’t always react well to critique, even when it’s constructive. Add to that, we don’t always know how to deliver critiques in the way that they need to be heard—with gentle consideration. At times, unfortunately, we measure the success of another as a measure of our own inadequacy. For these reasons the members of your tribe will come and go. Some will come back and others never will. Don’t allow this to discourage you. Wish them well and continue your work.

Being as that we humans are insecure, we sometimes flock to groups where our work will be more easily praised instead of challenged, and wilt from writers we presume to be better than us. I say do the opposite. Embrace as many great writers as possible; they will become your mentors. Support the dreams of the fellow writers in your tribe, and they will return the favor.

-Image Courtesy of Tina L. Hook

An excerpt from Enchanted by Starlight.

THE FIRST PAGE

My name is Grace.  Tomorrow is my wedding day.

Staring across the dark waters of the Gulf, I am uncertain.  I am exhausted and hopeful.  I am both completely in love and irreparably heartbroken.

After these long months attending to the minutia, the black and white stationery, the elegant table settings, the tropical flowers, the chocolate dessert course—I suddenly find myself detached from it completely and, now, with the night sky rising up around me, I have surrendered myself to the deeper implications.  I am standing in the moment that has defined my life.  I am finally here and yet so much has been lost.

It was a delicious ache that lured me from my bed tonight, drawing me out beneath the cobweb of stars.  Liam’s memory teases me, calling from the water’s edge as if he might materialize there, simply by my wanting him to.  I thought for sure I had pushed him so far back into my mind that I had forced him away for good.  Still, as much as he has denied me, as much as I have refused my heart, it seems he is determined to make an impression on this day.  Agonizing really, how enduring love can be.  Even after you have packed it up and put it away, it is still there—always there, yellowing around the edges and begging you to turn its pages again.

Ask Tina your questions in our comments section.