It's a (t)rap!

Of patriarchy, hope, music, and 2021

Endings are deceptive things, they have a way of running into beginnings. This is the last edition of Khwaabghar in 2021, and as I write this, 4000 books are making their way through NH1, from Chandigarh to Gurgaon, courtesy Amit Varma. That’s quite a departure from what my 10 year old self would have imagined for herself, and the life she was crafting. But here we are, and for myself, I am willing to give 2021 more credit than it has merited globally. 

This edition is about summing up the year I have had, and one of the lessons I have learnt from it. Towards the end, I give you a peek into what became of the flowers I pressed last fortnight, and what will become of the 4000 books that are currently in transit. Hint: It involves Christmans, and some work from you.

2021, the year that almost was

2020 was an event for those of us who didn’t quite get the 19 part in COVID19. It was THE year of the pandemic, the first time we saw the world stopping in its tracks, a realisation equalled only by having WhatsApp, Instagram, and Facebook down for a minute too long. Something was on its knees waiting to be forgiven, for the next act to begin, but no one knew what that was and how it would come to be. As 2020 memes and calendar predictions erupted, recorded classes, flexible travel plans, extended reward points systems, and dateless planners started making an appearance in our inbox- stretching time in their pages to make space for ‘uncertain times’. Concert videos from Italian balconies and Tambola games from Indian neighbourhoods filled social media, 15 minute workout videos urging us to move through what was promised to be transitory precaution. Scornful memes and one year free travel cancellation plans fed our basic optimism- this is just a bad year, a hiccup, this is not a bad life. It was no surprise then, how many plans and hopes were deferred to 2021. 2021 was to be the child on whom brown parent hopes were pinned after the first child opted for Humanities- this will be the year that fulfills our dreams as per our plans.

Speaking for myself, I fell for a dated planner for 2021 which my partner, Harsh, cheerily gifted me. It provided space for weekly plans, monthly goals, and habit and mood trackers. And it worked…for the first two months of the year. I littered the pages with travel and writing goals, adding colourful stickers wherever possible, and filled a daily record of my progress. For February, I had to add blank pages to contain all the writing I was able to churn out of simple reports of my days. 

But soon enough, 2021 became the ongoing pandemic, a bad party where the thrill of arrival has also worn off. For a lot of us in India, it was a race crushed under the weight of mild fever and breathlessness. By April I knew we had made a bad choice, we should have gone for the advertised undated planner instead.

I feel bad for this year. It came crashing down under the weight of expectations and the anxious energy we pumped into it to forgive 2020, as if a change of date could change Time as well. The mix of expectations and unrealised hopes gave 2021 the particular flavour of tired and unrequited love, the vision of flowers in a valley of bullets. Like love and loss, 2021 will leave a trace, and I will remember it as the year which, amidst a nightmare of death, grief, overwork, and mental shutting down, gave me Khwaabghar, the house of dreams. That is not compensation enough, but I hope we can find ways to meet, heal, and grow together.

Forget about voice, find your music

I came into my feminist self during my LSR days (how novel), a self I inhabit everyday with fierce love. Since then, life has been a lot about ‘finding my voice’ against inequality and injustice, and serenading above the casual sexism in weddings, on dining tables, in religious gatherings, and television sets. But a lot of times, it has also meant quiet comprehension, distant observation, and a whole lot of silent anger. This silence did not sit well with me for a very long time. I blamed myself for my lack of courage, words, and energy, and my inability to bring strangers and loved ones into the fold of what is so obviously, right.

In 2021, I learnt to comprehend patriarchal forces and power in much more nuance, finding its threads and contradictions inside of me. I started asking the questions I was too afraid to ask myself: Why do people, especially women, continue to inhabit spaces which demean them? Why do we agree to curfew timings when it’s the streets that should become safer? Why do we have to ‘choose our battles’? The answers were inconvenient and deeply personal. But they helped me shape a deeper sense of self, revealing the patriarchy of not just households and unlit streets, but of organisations and institutions, the subtle force of benevolent power which rules through love, and the masculinity of the mainstream leadership and righteousness ethic. I found myself going quieter, engaged in a form of sensemaking which assumes an internal life. 

These reflections helped me articulate a simple truth for myself- it takes time to identify what isn’t for you, and it takes a lifetime if you love doing it or being there. As if shaped from its antithesis, Khwaabghar became my experiment of feminist spaces and leadership, chosen communities, and quiet flow. Counterintuitively, this has expanded my will to listen and engage, while nurturing an anger that supersedes persons and ‘tribes’, and hinges against the larger system which carves them, and lets them flourish. I don’t think this quiet will last a lifetime, but it has taken me some time to get used to it. It has allowed me to be kinder to myself.

I have learnt that to find your voice is really to find an echo of music inside of you, and even on the days that you cannot find the sound, the music ‘rages’ on.

What are we reading?

We read ‘All The Light We Cannot See’ by Anthony Doerr this week, an exquisite journey through everything human during World War II. It was a gift to Khwaabghar from a community member, and I loved every single chapter (Thanks Tanvir!). Next week, I am picking up ‘Stories of Fatherhood’ from Everyman’s Pocket Classics. Reach out to talk about any of these or something else!

The afterlife of flora!

My pressed flower experiment was a success and has resulted in a photo album, 3 bookmarks, and 2 wall hangings. The bookmarks and wall hangings contain quotes by bell hooks, one of my favourite feminist authors of all time, who passed away this week.

Upcoming book sales!

We are launching monthly book sales at Khwaabghar starting from Christmas 2021! If you’d like to be updated on the details, please write to me at manmeetkaur0312@gmail.com or keep a look out for my LinkedIn update. We promise a great collection, elaichi chai, and prices in keeping with ‘The Great Resignation’ (yours not mine :D )

(If you are from the Clear Writing Community, wait for the sign up sheet!)