Of pickles and fragments

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For a woman, her family comes first, career second.

For a girl, she is over smart. She is going to cause trouble.

Aspiring for leadership positions might jeopardize a woman's chances of getting married.

You can never do a 100% job of being a career woman and taking care of your family.

Try this concoction. It will make you fairer.

You have been so lucky in life to have gotten all that you wanted.

Why do you have to work so hard? Can't you stop work at 2 o'clock?

These maxims and snide remarks, often heard in predominantly patriarchal societies, offer a sneak peek into an insidious world - a universe of microaggressions created to cut and chisel girls and women down to size, so that she can fit into pre-conceived notions of what is good and best for her and her family.

I call this pickling.

When one is born into such a culture, one grows up seeing, hearing, feeling, and experiencing all the nuances of a patriarchal culture rather subtly, almost unconsciously. One gets pickled into it. Like raw, crisp pieces of mango that turn soft and mushy when pushed deep down into a jar of chilli and turmeric powders, crushed ginger and garlic, dollops of salt and vinegar, and soothing sesame oil, every cell of its being infused with the perfect balance of oils and spices. 

Sometimes, these pieces of pickle get to leave the pickle jar. Perhaps they get to move to another jar, even shipped off to another country. 

But, by then the pieces have been fully pickled. Even when they are outside the mother jar, they are caught in the clutches of these sticky maxims and snippets. Even when not physically surrounded by the searing hot spice of being regarded as a lesser child because of the colour of her skin, or by the hurtful tanginess of vinegar that constantly reminds her to cut back on the career front, the spices that she has been pickled in continue to work their insidious ways. 

To top it up, from the mighty pickle jar, comes the constant ominous reminder, "Do not forget your roots!" Yes indeed, how terrible it would be if the pickled piece of mango were to realize that there are a hundred shades of beauty or that a woman can aspire to be a leader while managing a home, or that a man can join her to balance home and work. 

Woe begone! No one should realize that the roots are rotten, that they are holding her back, that they are cutting her down to size, and that sometimes it's best to cut off roots that can damage its branches.

Sometimes, the pickled pieces never change. They hang to the maxims of the mother jar, clinging on for dear life to the holy roots of familiar bondage. After all, these are comfortable, known terrains they have been well trained to navigate.

Sometimes, the pickled pieces change. It might never be easy for a fully pickled piece to completely dry itself out, shake off the spices and restart, especially when the chances of being pickled again in another culture are typically very remote.

The best one can hope for is to receive fragments of wisdom, wherever they come flying from. From much denigrated WhatsApp forwards, from sponsored pearls of wisdom on Facebook feeds, or from online groups filled with people who think otherwise. 

These frail fragments teach the pickle that a woman can and should...

Take space.

People are just as wonderful as sunsets if you let them be. When I look at a sunset, I don't find myself saying, 'Soften the orange a bit on the right hand corner.' I don't try to control a sunset. I watch it with awe as it unfolds - Carl Rogers

Do not put out your fire because someone else doesn't understand your flame - @GirlBeBrave

Oh what we would be if we stopped carrying the remains of who we were - Tyler Knott Gregson

Some people will judge you for changing. Others will celebrate you for growing. Choose your circle carefully.

Trying to hurt me by bringing up my past is like trying to rob my old house. I don't live there anymore. That ain't my stuff - unknown

We may not know who most of these people are, or whether these quotes are even correctly attributed. But, what matters is that slowly, like an erratic trickle of spring water that falls on a piece of ancient mossy rock, these fragments of wisdom chip away at the piece of pickle. Painfully slow, drip after drip tries to water down the oils and spices entrenched in every cell. Ever so slowly, the piece starts leeching, the oils and spices leaking. Ever so slowly, the piece of pickle reimagines itself, anew, armed with tiny fragments of wisdom that came floating on WhatsApp forwards and sponsored Facebook feeds.