Review: The Grammar of My Body by Abhishek Anicca

As the memoir progresses, it becomes clear that the striking parallel drawn between a novella on alienation and isolation juxtaposed with his own experience as a differently-abled individual is very Anicca-esque. The book is laced with many such moments of black irony — the time his neighbours watched him crawl down the staircase of his apartment block but no one offered to help or when he mentions that his house, located in New Delhi’s Khirki Extension, gets no sunlight through its khirki (Hindi for window). What is also visible in these lines is the pain that comes with losing control over one’s body.

Over 49 chapters, Anicca traces his childhood and adolescence and describes how his mental health braved blows even as his physical body deteriorated through his adult years. While he uses humour to narrate incidents that must have been painful to revisit, he doesn’t brush away the sadness that accompanies those memories.

The Grammar of My Body urges readers to see the disabled not as tragic figures who lost control of their bodies but as humans with needs, sexual desires and complex emotions.

The final chapter seems to ask a pertinent question — is an individual’s trauma valid only if it is used to create meaningful and engaging art? Must those with disabilities crack a competitive exam, get a government job or create a breakthrough mobile app to gain recognition? And if they don’t, does it invalidate their existence and their struggles?

The ableist world uses individuals with disabilites as inspiration porn for Instagram reels with captions like “If they can do it, why can’t you?” Corporates treat them as social causes for CSR initiatives, and NGOs call them warriors.

Standing in stark contrast to all this is Anicca’s memoir which de-pedestalizes the differently-abled by talking about their sexual desires, and about what it’s like to use a dating app to get a match only for things to go nowhere after the first date. It talks about the pain that comes with yearning for a companion and the severe impact that alienation and othering can have on mental well-being. It highlights the awkwardness that comes with turning down wedding invites and the incessant need to rein in the pain while sharing personal experiences.

In a moment of unfiltered honesty, Anicca writes that he holds back details while sharing his experiences with people in his life because they can come across as “too ugly’. He occasionally even manicures them so they don’t make the listener too uncomfortable. In his memoir, though, Anicca isn’t afraid to make anyone uncomfortable so those who feel squeamish at the slightest mention of human faeces and adult diapers, please adjust.

For those who think he is “too negative” for sharing the details of his condition, Anicca writes: “We [differently-abled] are so negative that sometimes the able-bodied mind never reaches us. The distance is too far on a number line.” His take on toxic positivity is especially insightful.

“But wait, who do disabled people often get attracted to?” he asks at one point. “Answer: The most beautiful, able-bodied people around them. It’s only natural, na? Maybe it is also how we have been conditioned. Our internalized ableism. No?” Observations like these set The Grammar of My Body apart from the usual narratives around disability.

Elsewhere, while acknowledging the queerness of his body, Anicca wonders “Could I have been the ‘daddy’ to a woman I met on a fetish site? Why not! Maybe I will be the porn star whom everyone enjoys in private but when asked in public, my existence would be denied”. He leads the reader to wonder why the heteronormative world denies differently-abled bodies the right to desire and be desired.

The author also talks at length about the importance of caregivers in the lives of the disabled. He fondly remembers a health care worker in a hospital who was kind to him — would always draw the curtains, make sure he was clean and made him feel comfortable. He also touches on how women are disproportionately expected to take up caregiving responsibilities in a family as compared to men. “My mother lives with guilt inside her. Her sacrifices become a part of my failures,” he writes. He also examines what it means to be independent and if anyone, including the able-bodied, are truly self-reliant. In a heartfelt moment, he shares how he takes on the role of a caregiver when his mother needs emotional support. “I became her friend and confidant. I talk to her. And then I talk some more”.

The no-holds-barred narration laced with sharp observations, pithy humour, philosophical questions and sublime poetry (that deserves a book of its own) make Anicca’s memoir a must-read. Brilliantly written, The Grammar of My Body is actually a primer to help the able-bodied understand what it really means to be disabled beyond the portrayals on mass media. More importantly, it is a radical act of self-love and acceptance by the author.

Deepansh Duggal writes on art and culture. He tweets at Deepansh75.

Franz Kafka’s Metamorphoses finds a mention in Abhishek Anicca’s The Grammar of My Body. The author alludes to the novella while describing the time his condition left him with limited mobility. Since the bed, kitchen stove and the refrigerator were on the floor, he could crawl to them. “This was around the same time I was reading Metamorphoses,” he writes, “Not by choice though.”

As the memoir progresses, it becomes clear that the striking parallel drawn between a novella on alienation and isolation juxtaposed with his own experience as a differently-abled individual is very Anicca-esque. The book is laced with many such moments of black irony — the time his neighbours watched him crawl down the staircase of his apartment block but no one offered to help or when he mentions that his house, located in New Delhi’s Khirki Extension, gets no sunlight through its khirki (Hindi for window). What is also visible in these lines is the pain that comes with losing control over one’s body.

Over 49 chapters, Anicca traces his childhood and adolescence and describes how his mental health braved blows even as his physical body deteriorated through his adult years. While he uses humour to narrate incidents that must have been painful to revisit, he doesn’t brush away the sadness that accompanies those memories.

The Grammar of My Body urges readers to see the disabled not as tragic figures who lost control of their bodies but as humans with needs, sexual desires and complex emotions.

The final chapter seems to ask a pertinent question — is an individual’s trauma valid only if it is used to create meaningful and engaging art? Must those with disabilities crack a competitive exam, get a government job or create a breakthrough mobile app to gain recognition? And if they don’t, does it invalidate their existence and their struggles?

The ableist world uses individuals with disabilites as inspiration porn for Instagram reels with captions like “If they can do it, why can’t you?” Corporates treat them as social causes for CSR initiatives, and NGOs call them warriors.

Standing in stark contrast to all this is Anicca’s memoir which de-pedestalizes the differently-abled by talking about their sexual desires, and about what it’s like to use a dating app to get a match only for things to go nowhere after the first date. It talks about the pain that comes with yearning for a companion and the severe impact that alienation and othering can have on mental well-being. It highlights the awkwardness that comes with turning down wedding invites and the incessant need to rein in the pain while sharing personal experiences.

In a moment of unfiltered honesty, Anicca writes that he holds back details while sharing his experiences with people in his life because they can come across as “too ugly’. He occasionally even manicures them so they don’t make the listener too uncomfortable. In his memoir, though, Anicca isn’t afraid to make anyone uncomfortable so those who feel squeamish at the slightest mention of human faeces and adult diapers, please adjust.

For those who think he is “too negative” for sharing the details of his condition, Anicca writes: “We [differently-abled] are so negative that sometimes the able-bodied mind never reaches us. The distance is too far on a number line.” His take on toxic positivity is especially insightful.

“But wait, who do disabled people often get attracted to?” he asks at one point. “Answer: The most beautiful, able-bodied people around them. It’s only natural, na? Maybe it is also how we have been conditioned. Our internalized ableism. No?” Observations like these set The Grammar of My Body apart from the usual narratives around disability.

Elsewhere, while acknowledging the queerness of his body, Anicca wonders “Could I have been the ‘daddy’ to a woman I met on a fetish site? Why not! Maybe I will be the porn star whom everyone enjoys in private but when asked in public, my existence would be denied”. He leads the reader to wonder why the heteronormative world denies differently-abled bodies the right to desire and be desired.

The author also talks at length about the importance of caregivers in the lives of the disabled. He fondly remembers a health care worker in a hospital who was kind to him — would always draw the curtains, make sure he was clean and made him feel comfortable. He also touches on how women are disproportionately expected to take up caregiving responsibilities in a family as compared to men. “My mother lives with guilt inside her. Her sacrifices become a part of my failures,” he writes. He also examines what it means to be independent and if anyone, including the able-bodied, are truly self-reliant. In a heartfelt moment, he shares how he takes on the role of a caregiver when his mother needs emotional support. “I became her friend and confidant. I talk to her. And then I talk some more”.

The no-holds-barred narration laced with sharp observations, pithy humour, philosophical questions and sublime poetry (that deserves a book of its own) make Anicca’s memoir a must-read. Brilliantly written, The Grammar of My Body is actually a primer to help the able-bodied understand what it really means to be disabled beyond the portrayals on mass media. More importantly, it is a radical act of self-love and acceptance by the author.

Deepansh Duggal writes on art and culture. He tweets at Deepansh75.