Wonder Women: The care and sweet gestures that make life possible

I came across these readings scrolling through Instagram: Seher Nagma reading Shailaja Pathak; RJ Mirchi Sayema giving Iqbal’s mountain and squirrel their spirited exchange; Amita Sharma reading a poem about “not all men”. Then Prashant Savaliya and Shivam Parashar—men reading poems about women. I stopped at those last readings. I know what it is to be held up by women in ways that look ordinary to everyone else.

I arrived in New York looking as if I belonged, perhaps even at the top of my game. I was broken by life, circumstance, a relationship. Marina Ahmed, my music teacher and the senior-most disciple of Pandit Jasraj, saw through the appearance. She picked me up, took me places, dropped me home, held my hand. She helped me cook and pack, shifted things, dropped off friends. She showed up when I needed her, and made the big dream I was trying to live less lonely.

I remember how practical her care was. She noticed what needed doing and did it. When everything in my life seemed too much to carry, Marina would arrive, and somehow the next thing became possible.

Years earlier, my sister had done something of the same kind. I was fourteen, fifteen, sixteen—coming of age in Delhi with big dreams and no sure sense of where I fitted. She gave tuitions, ran a boutique, coordinated models, earned what she could. She bought me clothes, made me clothes, gave me money to buy them. She wanted me to walk into the crowd feeling that I was part of it. She saw the dream before I could explain it.

She did not know I was gay. She knew I had big dreams and aspirations, and wanted to look as though I belonged. The clothes she made and bought let me walk into the crowd without feeling out of place. It was a kindness I understood fully only later.

My mother knew not to hurry my words. When I was young and frightened, she let silence and hesitation take their time. She waited until I could speak, share, smile; until she could see I was all right, only in a funk. She stayed close, never making my quietness into a problem to solve.

My Dadi had her own remedy. She would press Poppins into my hand and ask, “Achha hai na? You love these?” (Nice isn’t it? Don’t you love these?) Then: “Kha lo aur kaam karo, homework karo, kal naya din hai.” Eat these, do your work, do your homework. Tomorrow is a new day. I can still taste that sweetness. It made tomorrow feel possible.

Perhaps that is why the men reading these poems matter to me. A man can lend his voice without making the moment about himself. He can pause, listen, let the words travel through him. I know what it means when someone stays beside you without needing to explain you to yourself.

Marina, my sister, my mother, my dadi did that for me. Their care had car keys, cloth, a patient silence, and a sweet pressed into a palm. The men reading these poems remind us that listening, too, is something we can learn and practise.

During Durga Puja, we saw the Goddess’ eyes opened, her many arms lifted, her lion beside her. I think of strength as it came to me: sometimes in a car pulling up, sometimes in a hand held out, sometimes in a voice saying tomorrow is a new day. The reels bring these voices into our rooms. May we carry their attention with us, and make room for the women who have always made room for us.