A conversation with Dad

Dad called me the other day, as he usually does. I was sounding tired and truth be told, I have been working long hours lately. We had the following conversation, produced verbatim:

"You're sounding tired. You should take it easy."

"Yes Pa, I will."

"You're not young beta... By the time you get to my age, you will be burned out."

"Hmm..."

"You're already 42. At your age, you should let up."

"Im not 42!..."

"Huh?"

"My birthday is in January, and until then no one can say Im 42. Im 41 till then..."

"Oh ho... (laughing uproariously).. Ok... You're 41 but you have to learn to take it easy."

This conversation is so special to me because my dad is not the kind who likes to 'encourage' laziness or tardiness... To him, work is worship and it surprised me to hear him tell me to take it easy...which also means I am doing something right... 

From being reprimanded by him as a child for reading too many books and having too much fun, I have finally graduated to being his prodigal daughter. 

Dear Women, Stop being Hypocrites...

Personally, I have nothing against Ms Kavita Krishnan. But I do not agree with her methods.

The one thing feminists across the world fight for is equality. To demand equality is to accept that we want to be treated as fairly as possible or as is commonly assumed, we want to be treated like men. 

There should be no discrimination of any kind against females. If I can put in as many hours as my male colleague at work, I deserve to be paid as well as him. Since I am an equal stakeholder in raising a family, whether as a homemaker or not, I deserve to have equal rights as a wife and mother. I should also have equal rights in inheritances, and must be treated at par with a male counterpart (father or brother) for the same. Many of these rights are granted to us under law but there are many rights we still fight for – the right to raise a female child, the right to her education and future, to make marital rape recognisable under the law etc.

Rights are good. Equality is good. The problem arises when we want equal rights but don’t want to accept responsibility. 

So we want to have the right to free speech on a social media platform, but we don’t want the baggage that follows. We want the freedom to use abusive language against another person (because we are ‘right’), but don’t want reactions. We want to have the freedom to make insinuations, but once the volley of abuse begins, want respect and dignity because we are women. We want the freedom to voice our outrage/accusation, but want immunity from the backlash ‘because’ we are women.

Many so called feminists and supporters of women's rights especially in India are caught in this quagmire of hypocrisy, where equality means bashing up men on a public forum, indulging in name calling, making insinuations and resorting to the use of abusive language and then asking complete strangers to show restraint because they are women.

Freedom of speech and expression is never absolute. It comes with great responsibility. And at a price. Gender abuse is one of them.

Abuse in any form is condemnable. But it is a reality we know has existed long before social media was born. When we raise a voice, the only way our voices, as women can be smothered is by threats – of violence against us, of rape, assault and worse, even murder. 

A very renowned child rights activist from Pune who has uncovered several adoption rackets in the city and the state of Maharashtra, receives threats frequently. Once during an interview she opened her wallet and showed me a pack of condoms that she carries with her at all times. “The worst they can do is rape me” she said stoically. If they killed her, well, that would be 'it' she believed. In an ideal world, children would not be put up for sale and a woman like her would have had to find another cause to fight for. But this is the real world and she is aware of the pitfalls of her life’s calling.

The Internet is not a safe place for women. Of the 3,787 people who reported harassing incidents from 2000 to 2012 to the volunteer organisation Working to Halt Online Abuse, 72.5 percent were female. Since the number of women users has grown exponentially since then, this number is also bound to have grown. (There are no figures for India.)

Just because we get trolled or pilloried on social media doesn’t mean that we stop expressing ourselves. On the contrary, we must make our presence felt even more, raise our voices individually and collectively, fight for causes, for our rights etc.

But we must be aware of the responsibility that comes with it. If we use the keyboard to express our views or opinions and rant or vent, we must stop asking for privileges due to our gender, stop crying wolf and stop expecting the world to be nice to us. 

We must also remember that ultimately, 'niceness' is also a two way street.

Postscript: I sent this opinion piece to several online journals and sites, a couple through contacts as well, but no one responded. Perhaps as a dear friend told me, trolling of women is far more dangerous, rampant and sexist than it is for men could be the reason no one wanted to carry it. But I think that is one reason why women ought to read this.

Clothes Make a Man, But a Woman is Damned Whatever She Wears

So Smita Sabharwal, an accomplished IAS officer from Telangana, known for her “ethnic style” wore “a trendy trouser and frilly top at a fashion show” and grabbed eyeballs.

The story first appeared in a column titled Deep Throat in Outlook magazine recently and sparked a controversy because it made derogatory remarks against the lady. It said that she makes a "fashion statement with her lovely saris and serves as 'eye candy' at meetings." The caricature carried by the magazine is distastefully sexist and, quite rightfully, the IAS officer has slapped a legal notice on the magazine.

This is the caricature carried by Outlook 

The problem is not just that the column sought to insinuate that the lady held a position of favour with the Telangana chief minister, it also made crass remarks about her having worn perfectly acceptable attire to a fashion show – trousers and a top – which, the officer clarified in her legal notice, she attended with her husband and not in the capacity of a civil servant.

The episode serves to highlight the conundrum for many of us – what should we wear to suit the occasion? Working women who often have to juggle other responsibilities (such as raising kids and having a ‘real’ life, which could mean catching up with friends after a hectic work day) must spend a lot of time each morning deciding what to wear depending upon what their plan for the day is.

A linen kurti with jeans if you’re teaching in a college is acceptable, or a tee with the same blue jeans to go grocery shopping. But you surely can’t wear a tee with jeans to college because you’re a ‘teacher’ and have to set the right example!

You would be gawked at if you wore a western formal suit at a civic body meeting (aren’t journalists ‘supposed’ to dress fuddy-duddy?) and would perhaps be confronted with questions like, “What’s the special occasion?” if you wore a sari to work one day instead of the usual salwar-kurta. A linen skirt wouldn’t work at an evening party, or at a seminar. But a shirt with jeans or trousers would probably work for both.

Most often, the confusion exists because working women want to be seen as serious and professional in the workplace and so the way we dress becomes important. We can’t be seen as being provocatively dressed (sleeveless tops, a skirt shorter than ankle-length, or tight-fitted trousers would fall in this category) or dressed too well (the silk sari falls in this category). As long as we wear the kurti that covers our butts, a dupatta that covers the bosom and a salwar or trousers to hide our legs, we have a chance at being considered ‘decently dressed’.

In the case of Sabharwal, it seemed like a double-edged sword because the saris she wears to work and the trousers she wore to a fashion show, both became talking points for the magazine.

Sadly, hers is not an isolated case. In the recent past, Malayalam writer and secretary of the Kerala Book Marketing Society, Babu Kuzhimattom wrote a Facebook post saying that the leggings women wear are provocative and ‘arouse’ men.

It seems that the freedom to wear what we choose is a Utopian ideal confined to the Page 3 sections of newspapers and websites. In real life, a woman will probably get undue attention and unwarranted observations for wearing a swimsuit to a pool.

This post first appeared on www.Fashion101.com 

The Brown Building

a new brown building has come up
close and yet not
I can't see who lives there
although the occasional blue tee
drying out on a line
in the glass edged balcony
catches my eye

who lives there...
someone like me?
a person much loved
yet sad and melancholy?
who has wings
that take flight
every once in a while
only to be clipped
not by winter
or the need to find a home
but by her own self
and the lack of wind
to hoist her up
far away

does she want to run
but not too far?
be happy but not delirious?
be content and yet want more?
be an achiever and ordinary all at once?
be a lover, a mother
a partner and a worker
and yet not 'be'
any of them at all?

has her heart been broken?
has she lost friends?
friendships?
loved ones?
has she forgotten
the hurt?
overcome the pain?
made peace with the demons
that inhabit the innards
of her fickle soul?

is she alive and happy?
or happy to be alive?
or just living and hoping
that someday
happiness
will mean more
than just
a smiling face,
or a hug...
when happiness
will mean
contentment and ease
peace and silence...

.................................

its funny how
when the world celebrates
the onset of a weekend
I curl up in my bed
and stare
the old dilapidated apartment
where the parrots perch
every morning
a dash of green
in the greys of the walls'
cracked and peeling facade

sometimes I wonder
who lives behind
those heavily draped windows
on certain evenings I know
no one's home
because the lights don't
switch on
at all...
some mornings I see
the fancy air conditioner's
outlet leaking water
indicating that she was home
slept the night
in her bed

does she sleep alone?
does she pile up the pillows
on the side of the bed
that is never slept in?
or does she squeeze one
between her legs
choking the loneliness
to temporary bliss?

does she remember being in love?
being happily ignorant
of life's travails?
or being high on the stuff
that blocks out memories and sadness
turning life into a haze of
welcoming euphoria?

does she feel regret, remorse
repugnant rage when she is cornered,
cheated, lied to?
or is she that person you see
standing in the line ahead of you
at a grocery mart, the one
who hides behind an easy smile,
and mouths 'thank you' for every
little gesture of kindness;
the calm, happy woman you wish
you could be?

does she live in a created cocoon
of self preservation
denying herself love, attention,
adulation and true affection?
does she desire?
or does she wish she could desire?
is her loneliness a symptom
or the cure?
..........................................

It rained down on me

It rained down on me

like a thunderous applause from the sky

soulful and strong
intense and poignant
like a bridge being built
on a new paradigm;
a newfound freedom
in expression and bond

warm and welcoming
words do flow
o'er wine or scotch
heaven knows...

calm insides
peaceful smiles
happy songs
the heart doth know
since it rained down on me
like a thunderous applause from the sky....

when will it be
when will it come
when will the darkness of this soul cease
when will it rain
when will clouds disperse
when will be release

when will faith shine
when will comfort rise
when will the strongholds of negativity fade
when will it feel right
when will this end
when will peace be made

Sometimes I hate my job...

We all live in our own private hells. 

As I spoke to a gentleman this evening I was left pondering over the following questions: Can parents ever get over the loss of their child needlessly - to a road accident? Dreams, hopes, all crushed?

And what is worse? 

That someone from a newspaper calls you to talk about your decision to donate your child's organs and she may also need a photo? 

Or that she may be so sickened by the thought of even asking those questions and noting their answers down in a note pad that she may want this story reassigned to someone else? 

How is this reporter going to talk to the mother of that 18 year old tomorrow? 

Sometimes I hate my job. And I live in my own private hell knowing that I have stoked wounds that are still fresh.

When Life ends...

And this is how it ends. 

A body we take pains to keep fit, beautiful. A body that we take pride in as we adorn it with the best money can buy - clothes, shoes, jewellery...

A body that helps us achieve happiness - experience the joys of love making, of intimacy and physical proximity; that helps us give birth to our babies;  that helps us become who we are as we travel to work, to achieve our goals, pursue our passions, rise above our own expectations; helps us climb mountains, surf the waves, dive deep underwater, fly high on the wings of a glider....

A body that we think is ours - our genes playing a role in what we look like, how we smile, how we frown, how we laugh; that makes us different from our siblings and yet alike in so many idiosyncratic  ways; that either makes our children from 'my side' or 'his side'....

A body that we protect, preserve, use or abuse...

A body that transcends its physical form and makes us a person - with a name, an identity and a form...

And when life ends, the same body becomes what it is meant to be - a 'body'...

Hospitals refer to you as 'the body' because you cease to be their patient. Your loved ones who are awaiting the arrival of your physical remains also refer to you as 'the body' because suddenly you're not a living being with a name, you're the recently deceased, the 'body'...

Not only are you that lifeless mortal remains of a once thriving human being, your remains are also tied up to a stretcher/bed with ropes, tightening your frame against this metallic structure without a care for your comfort, because you're no longer you...you're just a 'body'...

So much for the illusion of owning our bodies; once life ends, we are just a lifeless rag doll waiting to be picked up and taken for that final journey....

On the highway

It's amazing how the sights and sounds
you attempted to capture in the day
change character when darkness descends

The trees, the ponds and wells
ancient temples and sprawling churches
paddy fields and pools of water

coconut trees and a cloud-laden sky
bananas, apples and oranges hanging from ramshackle roofs

newest cars parked inside sprawling bungalows
school children with neatly combed hair, backpacks and eyes that light up when they see the camera
tiny courtyards of little houses;
dark, mysterious interiors that hold secrets of lives like yours and mine
disappear into thin air,
replaced by rows after rows of houses and shops; indistinguishable, continuous,

lit so bright that you can see inside;
the man in a mundu, seated on the floor watching television, lights dancing on his hairy chest,
a boy kneeling in front of the altar, looking upwards, palms joined...

temples look like haunted houses, the sky dark and starless, 

bright red flags of the communists

triangles and rectangles, on strings and poles,
blend with the road 

appearing briefly when a speeding vehicle's light reflects on them -
less menacing, subdued and almost subservient...

It is true  

somethings die and somethings come to life
when darkness descends on the highway

Blood Moon, Chizhik-Pyzhik and I

Diwali cleaning always manages to throw up some surprises. Every year while cleaning up I find remnants of the year gone by, a dress I bought which has now become loose, one part of a favourite earring, old clippings, older memories and some fresh perspectives.

It is when I sat down to clean up my silver jewellery case that I came across the Chizhik-Pyzhik. Locket on a black thread, it jumped up at me surreptitiously, the tiny little object, nudging me along a series of memories I had kept locked away.

That was three nights ago.

I lost fitful sleep that night. Couldn't rest. Tossed and turned. This way. That way. Sudden bouts of indigestion took over; it happens to me when I am anxious. Woke up feeling tired, unsure, a bit unhappy, a bit sad and very confused.

In the morning sometime I saw a notification from a friend on Facebook who'd written about her own restless night, as her thoughts filled her with anxiety, revelations and aspirations. This is what she wrote:

It's known as the Blood Moon....Chaotic endings and transformable beginnings? Total Lunar Eclipse on 8th Oct 2014. Times of change, often preceding natural or man-made cataclysms as predicted by astrologers, that major events will occur in the world and in our personal lives, revealing things unknown and bringing situations to a climax or critical point. So its time for radical shifts, changes, endings and new beginnings in our personal and collective lives. Intense and possibly highly emotions that will trigger and push everything to the edge and beyond. So I am trying to look at this positively..... god, please give me strength and patience during this time, to harness the tremendous energy available to us for transformation for the highest best for myself and my place in this Universe. This is a perfect time to become a witness and watch yourself and your emotions and an opportunity to change the way you react to the World and reinvent yourself.....

‘This full moon and eclipse triggers a two week time frame of revolutionary intensity that can either propel you into radical transformation or have you falling off the three-legged stool. Your ability to pay attention, and to stay focused and present while also allowing yourself to grab the power of the storm, will be key to staying firmly on the stool’.

I wrote to her about my experience to which she responded, "Sensitive people will feel it the most."

It is night number 3 today and somehow I feel like I am falling off the three-legged stool.