Friends, it is time to begin this blog in earnest - the danger of Birth has passed and now it is time to fly into the next chapter of this life.
Questions of Being are usually at the forefront of my mind, and especially questions of the Being of Women.
The Being of our Body.
The Being of Habit.
The Being of that part of us that can choose to move beyond Habit.
And, of course, questions of The Being of Culture and its impost on our Bodies and Minds.
Of course, it is very complex question and I am not a philosopher, but this teasing out of the big questions seems to have been playing out in my work since I was 9 years old. In the next post I will tell you a story. But, for this post, I want to quote a remarkable poem called 'Breasts' by a contemporary Indian poet, Kutti Revathi
Kutti Revathi is from the souther state of Tamil Nadu and work speaks to the position of women not just in Delhi but in all of India and the world. She is a poet and a doctor of Siddhar Medicine. Her work, along with the work of three other women poets writing in Tamil caused so much outrage that one commentator called for these women to be doused in kerosene and burned alive. Kutti Revathi believes that women of India today can forge a new language and claim a space in history out side of folk narratives - a new language of the body.
She says, ‘Your breasts are not just an object that can show your beauty. It is not just your body, it is not just your emotion. From one woman another person is coming and from that woman another person is coming. You are like chains, you cannot cut off from that. So, breasts and vagina, they are like our roots. They are not just sexual objects that are seen and concealed by society.
Here is her poem,
Breasts are bubbles rising from marsh lands.
As they gently swelled and blossomed at due season, at times edge,
I watched over them in amazement.
Never speaking to anyone else
They are with me, always, singing of quiet sorrow, of love, of ecstasy.
They have never forgotten to enthuse the seed beds of all my changing seasons.
At times of penance they struggle and strain.
And at the thrust and pull of lust, like the proud ascent of music, they stand erect.
From the press of an embrace they distill love.
From the shock of child birth, milk flowing from blood
Like two tear drops which cannot be wiped away.
When love is thwarted they fill and they over flow.