A must-know for all creative writers, by http://interestingliterature.com/
He stood at the bend of the street, concealed in the darkness of the deserted alleyway as he watched the couple a few paces away. It was the same every time, yet entirely novel. It never failed to surprise him, never became a cliché, never felt old, never repetitive. He was hit by the same awe, same longing every time he watched the scenario unfold. He could feel exactly what they felt, but not quite. His ecstasy, a ghost of theirs.
He watched as they exchanged smiles, sly glances and compliments. He felt their hearts leap as their hands brushed, almost accidentally. He felt the color rise in her cheeks. He felt the man’s heart warm at the sight. He stole these emotions, these desires, like a parasite. Those were not his to own. Yet he claimed them, never willingly, never consciously. It was occupational hazard.
He felt unfulfilled. Like a man who could smell food, but could not taste it. His experience was flawed, like a man who was kissed every time, but never made love to. A man who touched hearts, but whose heart longed for a loving embrace.
His weapons. He was immune to them. Initially out of curiosity and later out of longing, he had stabbed himself again and again with his arrows, till he bled. Till his body was blood red and it oozed and spilled over to the ground. It lay there, the blood, congealing, clotting, a mass of connective tissue. No stories flowed with that blood. No legends, no histories, no real heartbreaks. And yet his tears flowed, uninhibited. Disappointment, incomplete ecstasies and highs almost reached. It was a little too much to bear.
Disappointment became hurt, hurt grew to pain and pain to anger. Anger can make one do cruel things. He was envious too. Envious of these wonderful highs he could only give to other people and keep none for himself. Envy can rob one of his judgment. It robbed him too.
He saw blood, he brew chaos. His arrows no longer brought happiness and harmony. He no longer shot at two people at once. He had eyes for only one. He would watch with a triumphant grin as the one shot would pine away for another who walks about, oblivious to it all. And the one pining would remain indifferent to another suffering from arrow wounds, hurting every moment, longing for her.
Being a Brown Feminist in a South Asian country is not easy. Not easy Folks!
It’s darn difficult. Feminism here is a bad word. Feminism here, is almost a crime. Feminism here, is foolishness that will make your suitors flee. Feminism here, is surefire way to never get married and never be loved. Feminism here is an ugly rebellion against the society. Feminism here is dishonor to your family. Feminism here is an excuse to not dress “properly”. Feminism here is an excuse to be a “slut”.
On that note, (Yes, this post is going to be a rant) I am now inclined to narrate an incident. Couple of weeks back, we had a bunch of relatives coming over to our place for a visit. While we sat down and chatted, the man recounted how someone grabbed his daughter’s legs from the window while she was sleeping. Basically, his twelve year old daughter was blissfully asleep in the middle of the night, and the window of her room was open. Some pervert just decided to push his arm in through the window and yank at her leg. Naturally, the child was frightened to near death. She screamed for her parents, and went into a panic attack. The culprit in the meantime, had of course, fled. One of my family members picks this exact moment to exclaim, “Well, it’s your fault! You let your daughter run around in inappropriate clothes and go wherever she wants! Of course she was attacked! I always ask you to cover her up, make her wear modest clothes! But you didn’t listen!”
I sat there the whole time listening to this obviously illogical and ridiculous line of argument and felt obliged to butt in.
Me: *with a laughter* What are you talking about? Are you saying she should be covered from head to toe while she’s sleeping? (What I really wanted to say was, Shut up you ignorant idiot! You woman-hating good-for-nothing!)
Family Member: No! But she should be covered up when she’s going out and when people come over to her house. That is when she must have attracted all the attention. Someone must have seen her prancing about in her frock and followed her home.
Me: *with a dizzy head by this time* She is twelve!
Family Member: She is old enough! If her dad doesn’t make her wear proper clothes from now, she will rebel when she grows up! She must be kept in control!
Me: At the end of the day it’s her choice whether she wants to dress conservatively or not. You can’t force her!
Family Member: Keep your twisted ideas to yourself! Stop poisoning the minds of the women! Don’t try to influence them!
Me: You’re influencing them too.
Family Member: I can! I am a man and I am responsible for the women in my family. They must learn how to conduct themselves. They must be kept in control!
Me: (in my head) God, please kill me now!
So this is what being a feminist in a patriarchal family and society looks like. Ughh!
Things really do fall apart when one culture invades another. Nevertheless, when the fragments that have fallen apart come together again, rearrange themselves and join each other once more in a slightly different order, with some foreign pieces as well, a new culture is born. This breaking and joining is a never ending process, and in this process, sometimes certain fragments need to be discarded. Some pieces do not fit into the new structure.
In Chinua Achebe’s novel Things Fall Apart, Okonkwo is one such piece. He was a fragment that simply did not fit into the new design of society. He fell apart. In the quest of life, Okonkwo had no back-up plan. He was a man who was rooted in traditions and he valued these traditions more than his own life, as his suicide at the end of the novel would prove. His greatest fear was being like his father, and hence to avoid that, he avoided any action that might portray him as a weak man. He detested weakness, in the traditional sense of the word. His only dream was to live up to his own definition of a man, and earn all the four titles that a man could earn in Umuofia. Hence, when he is driven out of his village, he falls apart for the first time. However, he depends on the idea that he can win back the titles when he returns to his own land after seven years, that he can gain back the status that he lost. Naturally, it came as a huge shock when the he discovers that the land he went back to, was not the land he had left. All that was familiar to him was lost. All that made him who he was, no longer seemed important in his own homeland. His identity was lost forever. Despite his male bravado, and despite having the heart to kill his own foster son, he did not have the strength to accept this, and he fell apart irreversibly.
The culture we see in Wole Soyinka’s The Lion and the Jewel, is at a different stage of invasion altogether. In fact, it may be said that it had crossed the stage of invasion, and was now going through a stage of incorporation. The characters in this play are no longer vulnerable to the invasion. The ones like Okonkwo have already died out, and now the remaining pieces are being glued back together. The people who survived have adapted to the new scenario. They have learned that direct opposition would not win them anything; but with a little bit of luck and cunning, they can easily work their way around it. The Baroka definitely could. He was a truly wise man who knew the extent of his powers. He knew that he was no match for the technologically advanced civilization that threatened his. However, he knew how to survive, and how to keep his own culture alive despite the invasion. His civilization was certainly wounded but it was not dead, and he made sure that it would live on by exploiting the elements of the very culture that he opposed and despised in his heart. Sidi and Lakunle too are forward looking people of the next generation. Lakunle has accepted the new culture wholeheartedly and yearns to be more like them. Even in Achebe’s novel, we see that the newer generation is more accepting of the new culture. They are much more malleable than Okonkwo and the people of his generation and hence they survive. Culture is never a constant thing. As sociologists and anthropologists would agree, culture is always changing; as Rene Descartes commented that you can never step into the same river twice. However, you can survive, only if you can accept that the same river, is not going to remain the same.