My younger self was always fascinated by the idea of princess and her magnanimous castle. The delusion broke when the walls started to become visible, when my parents stuffed their orthodox believes in the toys which replaced pillows and still bear the weight of my tears. It was a submission I loathed along with the mathematical equations. My imagination found its peace in rebellion when I broke the shackles of submission and indulged myself in pursuing literature. My independence came to a crossroad of dilemma when I fell in love. Unknowingly, I was engaged in BDSM, intellectually and emotionally.
Submission always scared me. Pain always bothered me. But good grades in literature aroused that sensual pleasure I have felt in the physical and emotional dominance of the man I love. Somewhere in those lethargic winters before semester exams when the bitter aroma of coffee kept my eyelids open and my attention was reined to remain fixed upon essays I could never understand, I was already enjoying the torture of the discipline I love. The pain was worth it like those moments of intimacy when I desperately want to belong to that person. In both the cases, I gave my consent, to torment me, to exploit me. A tornado broke the walls of the castle driving me towards the violet clouds, churning the stagnancy that left the blood of my tears soak on their own.
Security gave way to possessiveness, to belongingness. Be it a good academic report or a healthy personal life. The pain is something I needed to know the world, to learn the ways of the world, far away from my childhood castle. Perhaps the most magical aspect of this beauty of pain is the consent. To be loved. To be cared for. To give my life to the person, to become his responsibility, to be relished, to be devoured. A submission I always craved, a submission without pretence. A submission which gave me the liberty to explore the world… the world of literature… the world of my identity as a heterosexual woman… the world as my better-half. Interlinked in my veins, in my brains like the words and rhymes of poetry. It’s the love which drains me intellectually and emotionally and yes, physically. It’s the love which knows consent, something orthodoxy lacks. Suppressing the BDSM, orthodoxy has been suppressing the consent along with other emotions. This consent should be everywhere… in choosing one’s life, one’s career and in love.
Slowly I discovered the marvels of BDSM, in my own poetic ways before getting into the theoretical part. That was when I understood how much I love this play of love… the pain questioning the love and the consent establishing it. And then the pain emerges as the air one needs to inhale to experience the beauty of human relationships. Not every beautiful thing in this world is delicate. Flowers and teddy bears are not always beautiful!!
Aparajita Dutta is a writer, translator, social activist and a research scholar. She is the contributing author of Tell Me a Story, published by Penguin India. She has written for other books and magazines as well. Her interests are gender rights, football, food and travel. Samples of her writing can be found in her blog: crystallasia.wordpress.com.
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