Good Girls

It was searing hot. And it blew in her face. Black stinging smoke, choking noxious, scary. She squirmed and tried to draw away. And caught the disapproving eye of her pristine-white clad mother. Good girls did not make scenes in public, it seemed to say.

She stared stony faced at the fire. Yes good girls did not do any thing. Except exist as they were directed to. Not even think….

.. but no one ever knew whatever she thought. No one can know. “The gods know”, her mother would tell her, “whenever you have any bad thought they know and they punish you for it. ” But a perverse imp would argue back inside. “Then why don’t they do anything about Amma and Jyoti Bua, when they berate you about being unlucky. When they make you cry” But of course good girls never spoke aloud.

Because silence was coaxed out of them. Slowly stifled. Because it did not matter anyhow even if they did speak. So they learned to keep quiet. To stop living, merely exist, doing what was expected.

Even if existing involved giving up cherished dreams of breaking free through education. And also not daring to even voice those unnamed but deeply felt flashes for Ravi. And the gods, whatever became of them, when he readily transferred all affection for her “more eligible” cousin?

Because good girls were just that. Good girls. Who took whatever leftovers from life’s table was thrown at them. And they just chanted meaninglessly, monotonously what their wonderful families told them to. Sixteen consecutive Monday fasts for a wonderful husband. Had not worked for her, had it? Nor the pilgrimages. And it did not help as she began to notice how lopsided the “good life” was. Women did all the work and had none of the starring roles in the several million rituals. Secondary, subsidiary, unless flanked by a man. Who would be feted, fasted for, cared for… oh and if they were good, they probably would get a decent person, who tried to treat them like decent human beings.

And yet good girls never opened their mouths. Never even thought for themselves. Perhaps she was not that good. Since she did think. It would just bubble up these thoughts of rebellion. More chanting, more prayers, more meek acceptance drummed down by the one person who should have understood. Her mother. But she was bringing up a good girl.

She imagined herself, twenty years later , sitting in the position her mother was , glaring at her own daughter, saying ”Good girls…..”

At that moment, it just burst out of her: “What absolute nonsense all this is, This ceremony is a sham, because I do not believe in your ways, your rituals and even your gods”