When I first told my aunt(former English Literature lecturer, lover of words and the one who helped in opening that secret window into books and their worlds) that I wanted to read Cat's eye by Margaret Atwood, she shuddered(a bit dramatic but I love her reactions) and said "Ooh that's a dark one" I didn't take her very seriously or rather I was actually inspired to read the book even more. I really underestimated how much this book would affect me. It's not just because it's dark or because it's about women. It's not even issue related I think. I started reading it and immediately related to it.
Have you ever had a friend while growing up who was the queen of the gang? Who everybody secretly hated but outwardly worshiped because the alternative-of standing up to her would leave you out in the cold? I did. Her name was D. She was the prettiest girl in our class and she made our lives hell. She was completely dictatorial. And we just followed her while wishing someone would just topple her over. So you wouldn't complain if you were told that you'd have to play the elder sister while playing princess and the witch, or god-knows-what we indulged in at that time. You'd rather be the nondescript elder sister in the play, than the rebel who stands up for herself in the playground and gets thrown out. Ya I was always the boring elder sister. D as you can guess, was the pretty princess. She would lets us know why we were worthy of her condescension and of course when we were not, she would inform us why. This would of course change at a whim. Now when I look back on all that I have no idea why we took it all. She was a kid. A stupid kid in pink. But then so were we. Maybe it was the pink, maybe it was the fact that she behaved as if she deserved worshiping- but the truth remains, that we let it happen.
Some friends of mine like A and G would shudder when they talked about her years later, much after she had left the school. I even remember when she came back once-I think we were in the 8th standard then. These two friends of mine didn't even look at her. I also heard she was pretty skittish about being back. I can understand that- it's harder for the perpetrator to look at her victims.
I think Atwood brings home a hugely disturbing fact about little girls which I see reflected in my childhood as well . We were awful to each other while growing up. Just awful. There's a major power struggle that exists that I think is either absent in boys or just less complicated. The worst thing of course, is that nobody knows about it. It's almost like this covert operation happening right underneath parents' noses who by the way, are too busy sniffing out their mischievous but far less harmful boys.I remember how we used to gang up on one person at a time and tell that person exactly what was wrong with her. Each of us went through it. And you never knew when it would be your turn. I remember the time it happened to me, quite clearly. We were in the 8th standard. N had left school and gone to Sishya-I was miserable without her and miserable with having to make friends with the others- those that I had neglected when she and I became friends. And it started slowly -the slight cold shoulders, the wondering, the looking over your shoulder, and then when finally they surround you to start the complaints you're almost relieved because it's finally out there and you can face it. It's hell. But you let it go- get accepted again, and the next time you participate in it? Someone else is the victim.
When I finished reading Atwood's similar account of peer torture I bawled my eyes out. I was in Conoor at that time and all I wanted to do was call my friends and reassure myself that we're not the monsters we used to be. Because we're still friends. And I almost feel like the way we treat each other now -all soft and warm and cuddly is to make up for what we did to each other before.We stand up for each other now. Whenever each of us is heartbroken or someone has treated us badly there are a flurry of emails that invoke a sort of inner sisterhood that bypasses distance, time, and yes even abuse. Because that's what it was. I think the fact that we're still around each other says something we never really acknowledge about love and friendship-that though we're often kinder to a stranger than we are to a loved one, there is a greater sense of validation in being around those with whom you share your failures.
(I just apologised to G while writing this. It's never too late for anything)
Unresolved. Don't know how to end this.
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