Check out 16 Return-To-Work Programs In India For Ambitious Women Like You!
What do you do when you don't have someone you can pour out your feelings to? You take out your book, a pen- and write.
Ever since I was thirteen, I developed the habit of writing in a diary- it was my diary. What drove me to this was loneliness and lack of companionship.
Having no friends at school and some formal ones in the neighbourhood was a disadvantage. My sibling and I have a nine-year difference, so being friendly and connecting with him was ruled out.
My parents- especially my mother- had always maintained a healthy and open relationship with me. Yet, I couldn’t discuss particular issues with her; they were intensely private and not for human ears.
The only option was to pour out my innermost feelings into the crisp, blank pages of diaries. Interestingly, Dad would gift me a diary at the beginning of the year. He somehow seemed to understand what I was up to, and I am thankful he never peeked into or probed their content. Neither did Mom.
Almost every night- after homework, studies, and dinner I would retire to my room sit down with my diary to record the day’s happenings. It was a no-holds-barred interaction between two entities, so to say.
Adolescence is a period of turmoil, anxiety and confusion, and I was no exception. There were sudden bodily changes, mood swings, weeping bouts without specific reasons. Jotting down my emotions in my diary helped to restore my equilibrium.
My diary entries were about how some teachers cold-shouldered me even though I was good in academics; instead, they pampered pretty girls.
My classmates made fun of me because I was absent-minded. Moreover, my modest background was no match for their opulence.
I also encountered body shaming because of my broad face, big bones, oversized hands and feet and my husky unfeminine voice. At times I bore their behaviour patiently. But sometimes, they went overboard.
On such occasions, I would cry myself to sleep. But the only thing that offered me solace was my diary(s).
Several of my entries were about my crushes in school. Yes, I was a dumb doll. But that couldn’t stop me from having a crush- could it?
I also penned down other fantasies and dreams: How I would fly to faraway lands to pursue higher studies, travel extensively across the globe, how one day my ‘prince charming’ would come and sweep me off my feet, we would live happily ever after.
There were ‘bad’ days at home too, when my parents would thrash me for my- supposedly- insolence, disobedience or rude behaviour.
Distraught and sulking- I would turn to my diary and scribble a few lines to cry my heart out. Often tears would smudge my entries, but I felt calm afterwards.
Years passed, I finished college, began working, got hitched and finally became a mother. But, this habit clung on to me tenaciously. I still write about job-related hurdles, intrigue, betrayal, gossip, controversies within the family circle, ruffled emotions and misunderstandings in a conjugal relationship, etc.
In all honesty, over the years, my diaries have been my true friends that absorbed my agony without judging me for who I am.
Today, poised on the brink of senility, I still take time to record my musings, lingering hopes and dreams in my diaries.
Image credits: Ketut Subiyanto on Pexels
Am a trained and experienced features writer with 30 plus years of experience .My favourite subjects are women's issues, food travel, art,culture ,literature et all.Am a true feminist at heart. An iconoclast read more...
Women's Web is an open platform that publishes a diversity of views, individual posts do not necessarily represent the platform's views and opinions at all times.
Stay updated with our Weekly Newsletter or Daily Summary - or both!
Neena was the sole caregiver of Amma and though one would think that Amma was dependent on her, Neena felt otherwise.
Neena inhaled the aroma that emanated from the pan and took a deep breath. The aroma of cumin interspersed with butter transported her back to the modest kitchen in her native village. She could picture her father standing in the kitchen wearing his white crisp kurta as he made delectable concoctions for his only daughter.
Neena grew up in a home where both her parents worked together in tandem to keep the house up and running. She had a blissful childhood in her modest two-room house. The house was small but every nook and cranny gave her memories of a lifetime. Neena’s young heart imagined that her life would follow the same cheerful course. But how wrong she was!
When she was sixteen, the catastrophic clutches of destiny snatched away her parents. They passed away in a road accident and Neena was devastated. Relatives thronged her now gloomy house and soon it was decided that she should be married off.
Being a writer, Nivedita Louis recognises the struggles of a first-time woman writer and helps many articulate their voice with development, content edits as a publisher.
“I usually write during night”, says author Nivedita Louis during our conversation. Chuckling she continues,” It’s easier then to focus solely on writing. Nivedita Louis is a writer, with varied interests and one of the founders of Her Stories, a feminist publishing house, based in Chennai.
In a candid conversation she shared her journey from small-town Tamil Nadu to becoming a history buff, an award-winning author and now a publisher.
Nivedita was born and raised in a small town in Tamil Nadu. It was for schooling that she first arrived in Chennai. Then known as Madras, she recalls being awed by the city. Her love-story with the city, its people and thus began which continues till date. She credits her perseverance and passion to make a difference to her days as a vocational student among the elite sections of Madras.
Please enter your email address