|Copyright A Homemaker's Utopia|
Anyways, I can't be totally rude to her..She was neglected by her parents..Also her childhood marriage is one of the primary reasons for her demeanor,but her matured years with three beautiful kids couldn't satisfy her longing for love hitherto..So what kind of love she is looking for,I wonder!! Her husband allowed her to be herself atleast..It would be ideal if she would come out of the painful relationship with dignity and lived her life the way she wants..But she shared the same roof with the person she disliked and had extramarital affairs and she tried to convince the readers that she was constantly in search of love(?)..One more thing is,being married to a RBI employee she enjoyed the luxuries and company of high class society,but still,she says that they never had enough money to lead their life in a better way..
I truely appreciate her honesty with which she revealed the dark corners of her life in the society of double standards..Such kind of work usually couldn't be expected by an Indian woman..I bow to her courage in this regard..I haven't found a single point where she tried to project her as the poor victim of a typical society..Some praised her writing as bold and rebellious..But I believe,the beauty in feminism lies in patience,commitment and above all dignity..Anyways,I'll stop my rude conclusions about this book for I strongly disliked her..Perhaps nobody has any right to judge her,particularly on moral grounds.Because it's her life..I felt,this book is a best example for showing the necessity of emotional control in the civilized society..This memoir was far ahead of its time and is now acknowledged as a bonafide masterpiece..I would like to say that this is the most straight forward and extremely honest memoir I've ever read.Would like to read some of her works,probably reading her works might help me understand her a little more.
Here are few lines from the book,
Society can well ask me how I could become what I became,although born to parents as high-principled as mine were.Ask the books that I read why I changed.Ask the authors dead and alive who communicated with me and gave me the courage to be myself.The books like a mother-cow licked the calf of my thought in to shape and left me to lie at the altar of the world as a sacrificial gift'..
If my desires were lotuses in a pond,closing their petals at dusk and opening out at dawn once upon a time,they were now totally dead,rotted and dissolved,and for them there was no more to be a re-sprouting.The pond had cleared itself of all growth.It was placid.
There was Carlo,the dark haired young man who loved me enough to want to marry me;there was in another city the one I was infatuated with ,and of course at home there was my husband,passionate and eager as a lover.I was a poor girl who found rich all of sudden.I was drunk with power.
With words I had destroyed my life.I had used them like swords in what was meant to be a purification dance,but blood was unwittingly shed.
She always knew she was a poet and thus different from others:
They cannot close shops like shop-men and return home.Their shop is their mind and as long as they carry it with them,they feel the pressures and torments.A poet's raw material is not stone or clay;It is her personality.I could not escape from my predicament even for a moment.
The essence of the writer eludes the non-writer. All that the writer reveals to such people are her oddities of dress and her emotional excesses.Finally when the muscles of the mind have picked up enough to read people's secret thoughts,the writer shies away from the invisible hostility and clings to her own type,those dreaming ones,born with a fragment of wing still attached to a shoulder.As I wrote more and more,in the circles I was compelled to move in,I became lonelier and lonelier.I felt that my loneliness was like a red brand on my face.