My vagina recently ejected a mass that was not a baby. It could have been a baby, had it been viable. Instead it was a blighted ovum, said the doctor. Very common. Cheer up, said my female relatives, it happens to everyone. Buck up, and another baby will be on its way in no time. Maybe for others, this would be true. But my vagina had seen too much.
My vagina had first been touched by a man when she was only a few years old. In a family of neglect; cultivated from generations in a society that dismissed individuals for the collective; receiving attention was a novel sensation. At first, the attention seemed like love. I revelled in being special, being seen, being touched. Soon the touch felt unsafe. And there was no one to turn to. When I told my mother, she said, “it must have been done out of love – he’s your uncle.” Words that dismissed my heart, my body, and my agency. So I learned to dismiss myself.
Art first came into my life around that time, taught in regimental structure – one, two, one, two. Stick to the beat. Colour between the lines. India has an ancient culture proud of its traditions. It refused to allow individual bodies to matter before collective training. I yearned for it first, and then I hated it. My hips learned not to move, my voice learned that a nasal twang was okay as long as the teacher approved, and my lines became straighter and straighter. Just like the love that turned to abuse. I must have been six.
My vagina was kind. She suffered, and she made me forget. I erased all my memories until – that comes later. I learned to strive for approval. Push myself towards excellence – scholastic or otherwise. Approval meant love, right? In India, in the US, back and forth, again and again. So what if I was being uprooted? I was strong, I could face anything. I was a good girl.
My vagina was too dark in Minnesota. Gym classes involved changing in front of other girls. Smaller girls, fairer girls. So I took to the bathroom stall. When my periods came, my mother asked, “Do you know what they are?” It sounded a lot like “Do we have to talk about this?” Of course not. Let me spare you the shame. It was my first and only conversation with my mother about periods or sex. So I learned that I was shameful for bleeding.
Art classes allowed explorations and movies and experiments like I had never experienced back in India. I drew my own face in shades of red, and rolled paint onto a Lino cut board that I had carved myself. I heard the word ‘gay’ for the very first time in a writing assignment as meaning anything other than happy. I didn’t know what to do with all that freedom. I tried my best to show up in that scary place without rigid instructions. I was merely pretending to be fearless.
My vagina felt attracted to girls and boys as I got older. One was sanctioned and one was shunned. Homophobia at home produced a homophobic me. Ashamed of unnatural attractions. When I stared at models in the lingerie store, my mother admonished me. When a friend came up in a conversation as queer, my father said, “but I thought he was smart.”
My vagina curled unto herself, protecting me yet again by expressing only part of herself. The part that was safe in an orthodox society – where women’s bodies matter as biological clocks for producing offspring, not independent entities that are meant to enjoy themselves and their sexual freedom. So I learned that I was abnormal and wrong.
Art fell away from my life. I threw myself into academic pursuits, choosing to develop language, maths and science instead. I had a good memory and it would serve me well as I studied to become the good girl that earned well and reproduced at the right time.
My vagina recoiled in horror as an adult, when I first understood the realities of caste that pervaded the air around. Raised as an ignorant, urban child, I had never understood that caste meant anything at all. Like much else in Indian society, and my home, it had been brushed under the carpet to be dealt with by the next generation – mine.
My vagina understood that she was the product of two different castes, and the fights in her family were not random. When a person from privileged priesthood married one from newly educated farmers, conflict would rise up about almost anything – language, food, clothing, values. True to form, these things were never aired out or spoken about. Much later, in a fascist Hindu state, I would feel threatened as a person of mixed-caste, lower than the lowest of castes if the stringent Hindu texts are to be taken seriously. And they still might be. We are living history that is unfolding itself. So I learned that my nation disapproves of my existence for no fault of my own.
Art helped me navigate this unfair reality. Pushing back against the oppressive religious society, I found Baul – a musical spiritual tradition emergent from a marriage of Buddhism, Hinduism and Islam, and yearning to move past their mores towards unity. For five years, I sang and danced, my body finding new ways to express herself. With a new language, and a new spirituality, I found freedom to express things left unsaid. My breath deepened from a traumatised shallow to a relaxed belly breath. My voice lost that nasal twang. My taut limbs relaxed as my knees softened. My voice came from my core. At a point, though, the limitations that make the rules of every tradition made themselves evident to me.
My vagina had found enough freedom now to remember once more what she had chosen to forget. The waves of heartbreak from leaving beloved community were swept away in the tornado of pain, shame, guilt and anger for my child self, as memories of abuse resurfaced.
My vagina collapsed under the weight of memories and loneliness, the dark night that is inevitable in every practitioner’s path. There were days of no speech, and the futility of being alive became a regular feature of my thoughts. I was plunged deep within my own darkness. So I learned that there is more within me than I ever could have imagined.
Art had always been for or through someone else before; but now, a dam broke free. I turned to painting with my fingers, hundreds of canvases smeared with my emotions. Joy, pain, sadness, frustration, anger, all found their way out of me and onto canvas. My fingertips became conduits for energy that flowed out, almost of its own volition. For years, my body healed herself through art; with the help of therapy and beloved community. Sublimation, my therapist called it. The positive defence mechanism that produces creations for others to enjoy. As people enjoyed my art, I understood that the emotions I was feeling were universal. It humbled me to be steeped so deeply in the human experience. And yet.
My vagina was an exile now. Having withdrawn into the lap of nature and a few loved ones, the world looked completely different. Greens and blues were prominent. The grey of concrete seemed meaningless. I learned that I was daughter of the earth, a living aspect of beloved Gaia. Things that had previously seemed imperative lost their value, and the simple pleasures of life, love and truth took over.
My vagina learned that she was not quite the same as others. Everything that had happened, from the abuse to the depression that she was healing from, was based in neurodiversity. There is a way of thinking and being that typically suits most people. I am not quite like that – I am different. In my attention, in my interests and in my behaviours. My brain is different in the way it processes trauma, and in the way it perceives the world. And that is quite alright. So I learned to accept myself just as I am.
Art changed its nature as I changed my rhythms. Catching up to everyone else fell away and restful slowing down became my new preoccupation. Fluid bellydance came into my life, helping me embrace all parts of me. Writing returned to heal my heart, honest and direct as never before. Music, painting and dance were all for me. To reflect the joy of my own being and existence. More and more, my expressions are turning into a mirror, to reflect my true self, whatever that may be. More and more, my capacity increases to see all the shades and enjoy them – a holistic human, not an aspiring perfectionist on the treadmill.
My vagina may produce a child now, or she may not – it will definitively be my choice. Everything I went through brought me to this moment, and so I am grateful for it all. Tempered by the fires of life, I am more myself than ever before and that is a gift I do not take lightly in this illusory world of ours.
My vagina is learning to be free – of the shackles of abuse, race, caste, sexuality, religion, neurotypicality and gender. She is learning to surrender to the magic of nature and trust her own intuition. If I have a child, this will be my legacy. My story and my journey. My learnings and my yearnings. I will fight for her like I wanted to be fought for. For finally, finally, I have learned what I want to teach her most – that I am free.
Art will continue to be my breath, my movements and my colours. We are woven together, there is no separation. I may have stopped this telling of my story on a crest, but life is a rollercoaster – it will certainly ebb and flow. I hope that this ‘I’ from my story echoes the larger we – not just women, but humans and plants and birds and insects. That we learn to harmonise into the symbiosis that life on the planet could be, if we chose unilaterally. Until then, I will continue to do my part. May my story benefit all sentient beings.