Columns
The Question Of Identity
Moushumi Chakrabarty
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These things are no longer so effective. For she's even
there at night when I'm preparing for bed. And I realize
that throughout the day, despite my slipping in and out of
my other roles - wife, mother, journalist and friend - with
practiced ease, she remains always there, breathing
quietly, a sister-like figure. And so at night, the kids are
in bed, my husband is reading a book, I find myself alone in
front of the mirror with this woman who looks so familiar. I
wander through the inner roads leading to her mind and
heart, and am amazed at the thoughts flowering there: I want
to be creative, I want to write prose that will touch
people. Alas, it is easier said than done.
Being creative requires hard work, and a strong belief in
oneself. We've all heard about creativity being "99 percent
perspiration and 1 percent inspiration". And it is
absolutely true. Now, I am a woman in her thirties. I am
married, with two young children, and I have to make time to
be creative. When I'm rushed for time upon my return each
evening, I can't help but feel it is an indulgence to spend
time writing rather than with the kids. Add a job as a
reporter, and you've complicated matters more. Besides,
there are other issues to be calculated, little things that
make up the grand total but which cannot be sidelined.
Cultural conditioning, for one, is something I cannot
ignore.I am an Indian woman, very middle-class in her
upbringing, brought up to believe in the sound values of
merit-based education, and later, as a second thought,
expected to try my hand at a job, perhaps to satisfy a
"whim". But while nothing was so important to my family as
earning good grades, their main goal for me was nevertheless
that I should be a good wife and mother, the kind of
daughter my family would feel proud as having "settled" in
life.
And yet despite all this I had always secretly longed to be
a journalist, or even just to write. I've always written, as
far back as I can remember. First there were school essays,
and then, on a trip to Darjeeling, intense outpourings in a
diary in appreciation of the sheer, breathtaking beauty of
nature. I knew I was hooked for life on writing when my
first poem was published in the local newspaper.
I eventually settled on journalism as a goal. With that in
mind, I studied English in college as a way of broadening my
perspectives, dipping into the seas of words written by the
masters and savoring their thoughts and experiences. I
genuinely loved reading. I had been a lonely child and books
were my best friends - they still are! It seems no wonder
that I always wanted to be able to write one. But I hadn't
bargained for some things in the process.
When it came time to consider working, my mother wasn't keen
on the idea. She said it would be best if I continued
studying literature. She imagined me studying at university
until the time arrived for me to marry. That was her dream.
Not that I can blame her; now that I am a parent I
understand how she wanted me to live her dreams. As for
myself, however, I was adamant and crammed for journalism
entrance exams. After so many years, I can still remember
the joy of passing them! But despite the admission to a
program teaching journalism, despite writing the
articles/features for college magazines, local newspapers
and odd poems in my diary, nothing that I dreamed of seemed
to happen. I didn't write a great novel or bring out a book.
And then the right man came along. I fell in love and got
married. Very quickly, I found I'd totally immersed myself
in the process of playing a young and desirable wife,
waiting for my husband to return from work. I was the
picture-perfect wife, dolling myself up every evening,
enjoying the satisfying nights, but after all was said and
done, there was still an empty space inside myself after
he'd gone. After some time, I realized I'd stopped writing,
disheartened by rejection slips and a lack of direction.
Then I thought - Ah! I want to be a mother. That will erase
this strange ennui. I am pregnant! The wholesome joy of the
baby, oh! Yet, she grows up too. After a four-year gap
during which I tried to fulfill myself. Though busy teaching
children at a local school, there was soon that restless
feeling again. I quickly make up my mind one evening while
serving dinner to noisy guests . . . another baby! Yes,
that's what I want. And so I cajoled hubby dearest: don't
you see? This teacher's job is not what I was born for
after all. That's not the job for creative people like me.
So I resigned from the teaching job and awaited the arrival
of baby number two. It was smooth sailing for a while, then
again, unexpectedly, those pangs of "missing something." I
am dispirited and take up a job as a reporter for a
newspaper writing news stories. Even now, wife, mother and
reporter all, the question pops up repeatedly: who am I
actually? Am I the spouse, the parent, or the journalist?
Or am I something else? Perhaps forever a would-be writer
who will never finish the novel she started? Or is my time
yet to come?
Is it selfish of me to spend time at the computer when I
should be reading to my children? Have I ever taken a close
look at what I am writing? Who would be interested in
reading it? As I focus inward, the answers eventually do
come to me, and they surprise me with their simplicity. I
write because it reinforces that positive feeling that I
have come to recognize as the "me" I have spent years
seeking. I feel good whenever I write, so I shall make time
to write. Despite the kids clamoring for attention, despite
the Muse sulking and occasionally denying me her
inspiration, I will make time to write, and thus, to be me.
Moushumi Chakrabarty is an Indian journalist/writer living in Bahrain. She has two young daughters, Trishita and Ritika. She is also an aspiring novelist with a penchant for good mystery novels. email Moushumi at:
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