The Image of Saffiyah Khan

First off let’s face it, this is straight up hilarious - this Chihuahua of a man nipping at the ankles of human decency. You can just about hear his ridiculous yelps (like our ruling party’s goons but with an accent) growing more and more hysterical as the mistress of bindi stares him down. “Should I swat him now?…Now?” I imagine her wondering which Louis Vuitton handbag he leaped out of. Bigot want a biscuit?

Look at her power stance – does she walk around like that, with her body angled for battle, her back ramrod straight, chest out, neck stretched, face relaxed yet ready to get into just about anybody’s face? Is this her normal life-condition*? I slouch, always have. That’s my normal life-condition. I have a weak core. My back is sick & tired of being sick & tired.

When I was 12 there were two Chihuahuas that would accost us on the way to our school bus stop. I remember being terrified in anticipation before I stepped out of my house. I’d pray they wouldn’t be let loose on the street that morning. If I saw them scurrying to get at our ankles, I would panic and slouch-run across the road. Maybe if I’d known, like Saffiyah does, that Chihuahuas live in handbags, I wouldn’t have been so afraid.

By her own account, when the image was taken, Saffiyah Khan was protecting another woman who’d been surrounded “360” by the same yelping thugs. Reports have interpreted Khan’s demeanour as ‘unfazed’. That’s bullshit if you ask me. She had to have been fazed, most fazed. You don’t get to stand like that if you haven’t been similarly fazed time & time & time again. You get to a point where the fucking Chihuahua has barked at you one too many times and you’re like fuck it, if it even bares its toothpicky teeth in the direction of your ankles, you'll swoop down, scoop it up and lob it into the stratosphere before its keepers realise that their dildo-themed pet has gone missing.

One might ask, why didn’t you swoop & scoop before? Why did you endure years of intimidation at the hands of these canine hobbits? Can’t speak for Saffiyah but when I was 12 they seemed bigger. Everyone at our bus stop was afraid of them, even the 16 year olds. Over years, they’d acquired mythic status and the stories had been handed down from seniors to juniors. ‘Did you know they bit so-and-so and they had to amputate his foot?’ ‘Their owner is a tantric yogi. His dogs have secret powers.’ (Ok that one I made up, such was the terror unleashed by these unleashed beasts.)

Obviously I don’t know what Saffiyah Khan is really thinking in these images but to me she has become the Monalisa of pussy power. She has run out of fucks to give and this fuck-deficit has allowed her insight into the Chihuahua’s handbag world. Sure it’s Vuitton (and that’s nothing to scoff at) but it is, at the end of the day, a dank handbag, made even danker by dwarf-dog sweat. Does Saffiyah Khan find this realisation amusing? Or did the Chihuahua pee in the bag just a little, its stench reaching everyone’s nostrils? Is that why Saffiyah is smiling? 

I’m no longer haunted by the Chihuahua twins from my school days but I have new challenges. The apartment where I live comes with neighbours, whom I would term ‘distinctly asshole-ish’. I realized this the day I moved, when the movers decided to use the elevator to transport a heavy sofa up two floors. My neighbour stood at the entrance of the elevator and threatened to let loose Jack – her 350 kilo vicious-looking dog. She knew the men were terrified of Jack, they’d asked her to keep him leashed. But she didn’t like ‘those men’ using ‘her lift’ and she let Jack loose. I slouch-stepped in and blocked Jack in a friendly embrace. Jack was confused. The men laughed. He jumped again. I slouched towards him again. This time Jack’s tail went insane, whiplashing his human-shaped asshole. She yelled “JACK! No!!”. I held out my hand. Jack held out his paw. We shook like adults who had no beef with each other. As we retreated to our corners, the men grinned and I thanked god that Jack didn’t live in a handbag.

Check out this beautiful Twitter thread:

Just a wee thread of women who truly don't have any time for your shit.

1) Tess Asplund, Borlänge, Sweden - 2016 (Photo - David Lagerlöf) pic.twitter.com/xjRmHfc3h5

— Xas (@_Xas_) April 10, 2017

---

* Incidentally, her stance has been described as an “improbably calm stance – smiling, slumped shoulders, hands in pockets” – I view the image very differently.

No This Is Not Rape (Trigger Warning: Sensitive Material)

The Mahmood Farooqi rape case has been immensely triggering for me.
Not just because the facts are so similar to what happened to me about a decade ago but because of the unfortunate discourse that's followed Farooqi's sentencing to a minimum 7 yrs in prison.
"Why didn't she resist?"
"Why didn't she go to the police immediately?"
"Is it rape if he goes down on her?"
"Is it rape if it's less than 4 minutes long?"
"Is it rape if she's white?"
"Is it rape if he's bi-polar?"
"Is it rape if he apologises?"
"Is it rape if his politics is widely acknowledged as progressive?"

There have been a string of rape apologies I've read under the guise of 'widening the debate' and 'inviting nuance', some by people I call friends.
Each piece twists my insides because they take me back to a time when rape-apologies weren't things others said to me but things I said to myself.
No, this is not rape because he's not inside me, I told myself as he pinned me to the bed. No, this is not rape because I've smoked a joint, I thought as I screamed stop for the nth time. No this is not rape because he's having a bipolar episode. No, this is not rape because I'm his houseguest. No, this is not rape because look! someone's broken through the door within minutes and lifted him off me. No, this is not rape because everyone in that house is pretending nothing happened. No this is not rape because he is widely loved and I must not destroy him.

I told myself this isn't rape as I ran home and then stayed there, unable to come out for the next 7 days. I told myself it's not rape as I quit my job and sank into a confused state. It wasn't rape for the next two years that I went underground, receding from the world. It wasn't rape when I finally went to therapy and it wasn't rape that made me spontaneously start crying every time my boyfriend & I got intimate. It definitely wasn't rape that stirred it all up again eleven years later when the Farooqi case came up.
Eleven years.

All this time and for me, it wasn't rape at all. Until the woman Farooqi raped showed me it was. Because every forced sexual act is rape. Lack of consent is rape. Taking away a woman's agency and right to her own body, her own safety is rape. I must repeat this to myself every time doubt creeps in and I wonder if it was indeed rape. So must we all, repeatedly until we get it.

Do read this Kafila piece, which succinctly breaks down the legal and feminist aspects of the case and judgement: https://kafila.org/2016/08/14/the-mahmood-farooqui-rape-conviction-a-landmark-verdict-j-devika-nivedita-menon/ 

Bikini Wax

At the lowest point in life, when I was in extreme physical pain from a back condition, Sunita from the neighbourhood parlour was someone whose kindness helped me make it through the haze of pain. She understood why, despite extreme agony, I would hobble over to get my eyebrows threaded or arms waxed. She didn't judge my need to indulge in such grooming rituals just to feel normal. When she noticed I couldn't sit up for more than 2 minutes at a stretch she invented new ways to thread, exfoliate, soften, condition and wax.

Since then, our friendship has grown. We continue to meet once a month, when she comes over, all-professional, to deliver 'parlour' services. I am healthy now and have my own place. I've had a significant romantic relationship and remain unmarried. She got married a year & a half ago, late by her family's standards. Within the first year, she suffered a heartbreaking miscarriage and came to realise that the man she'd married was less life partner and more petulant man-child.

Whenever she comes over, we hang out for a bit - me in my ganji and shorts, her chatting away as she heats the wax, knowing where everything in my kitchen is.

She tells me that a few days back she found herself at a bus stand at 8pm, not wanting to go back home to her husband yet unable to return to her parents because they would only send her back. As she rips out the tiny hairs on my calf, she declares that women in this country can rely on no one, not even their own parents. I ask her why she didn't call me from the bus stand.

"I thought you were traveling for work - don't you travel a lot?"

"I do, but you can still call."

"The phone works outside Delhi?"

"Yes, it's called 'roaming'. You can ask your mobile company to activate it. Anyway, I don't travel that much anymore."

"Oh, then I should call you."

Then like always, she recommends that I get a full body uptan treatment done. "I will do it nicely. You see how your skin will glow after that!"

"I don't want it Sunita. I barely have patience for the basics."

"But bhaiyya will like it."

There is no bhaiyya in my life anymore. She doesn't know this because I haven't updated her yet. Instead I launch into a lecture about how I don't care to go through hours of treatments for bhaiyya. Any bhaiyya who enters my life will just have to deal with me as I am.

"I'm waxed and threaded, Sunita, that's about all I can offer bhaiyya."

She giggles and then gets serious.

"It took me a year to realise it, didi, but I can't rely on my husband for anything. As long as I'm happy and laughing he's fine. He'll take me out for shopping or ice-cream. But when I suffer, he can't handle it. When I lost the baby, he moved out to go live with his sister."

Then she says, "It's good you are not married didi. You did the right thing."

Over the years I've known Sunita, I've heard this line many times. Earlier, she would say it as a kindness. "It's good you didn't get married." I imagined she felt bad for me because she knew how others perceived unmarried women our age. Now when she says it, it's as if she's proud of how my life turned out. So I don't tell her how lonely I feel sometimes and how my gut wrenches in the middle of the night because I miss being held so damn much. Instead, I listen as Sunita tells me about her other friends at the parlour, girls like her who wouldn't give up their jobs for all the husbands in the world. Girls, who would sneak out at lunchtime to cheat on their 'karvachaut' fasts because "When have our husbands ever cared enough to fast for us? The day they bother half as much as we do, we'll skip the samosas." She tells me about the elaborate labyrinth of untruths they spin to avoid the wrath of their in-laws. It sounds a lot like the lengths I go to to avoid relatives fixated on undoing my single-status.

"Ok didi, let's try something new today. Bikini wax."

"WHAT? No!"

"Just see how bhaiyya will love it, didi."

"I don't care what bhaiyya will love. It's too painful."

"Oho, the way I do it there will be no pain."

"Yeah yeah yeah. No thanks."

She looks exasperated. She had me pegged for an adventurous woman and now I've disappointed her.

I don't know when it happened but at some point a hairy bush became not-normal. When I realised it wasn't a passing fad and that 'everyone was doing it' it made me angry. Burning hot wax on my shins was one thing but my crotch?! That was going too far. My politics wouldn't allow me. My fear of singeing my cooch absolutely forbade it.

But here is Sunita, bored by my tedious politics, unimpressed by my fear. Is there some arcane code of sisterhood she's invoking because it's beginning to feel like I just might let her come at my vagina with hot wax dripping off a butter knife.

And HOLY SHIT it hurts like a motherfucker.

"You SAID it wouldn't hurt. STOPPPP."

"I can't stop now. That would be silly. I can't leave you half-done like a chicken."

"I DON'T CARE. STOP."

"Shh...it's the first time you're doing this, no? That's why it hurts. You see how good you will feel later. Especially when you get your period."

"Sunita, you're being ridiculous. OH MY GOD WHAT SATANIC TORTURE IS THIS."

"You know didi, I've opened up a secret bank account. I'm going to put all the money I make from this job in that. I won't tell my husband."

"That's so great." I whimper. I hate her so much.

"Bas bas bas...ho gaya. It's almost done."

Whenever Sunita says something is 'almost done' I know that something terrible is about to happen. And so, as a last ditch effort I scream out my confession:

"There's no bhiayya anymore! He's GONE!"

Sunita looks up at my face. She looks just the right amount of sad. And then she grins.

"OhO! It doesn't matter didi, who needs bhaiyya? Now turn over. Let me do your bum."

Like A Motherfucker

Queen

-->

In a scene nearing the end of ‘Queen’, the camera homes in on Rani (Kangana Ranaut) as she says goodbye (probably forever) to friends she’s made on a life-altering European ‘honeymoon’. As viewers we’ve accompanied her on this journey of self-discovery and we’ve come to invest in her friendships – short and sweet as they’ve been. It’s as difficult for us to say goodbye to them as it might be for her. For a second, one hopes they’ll return because we worry for Rani, you know? But they don’t. Rani looks shaky for a moment and we hold our breath - Please be ok, Rani.

And then her face changes. Lightens. Something has shifted in her, not for a bit, not for a fleeting moment, but indelibly. She won’t just be okay, she will fly. The euphoria that comes from having made contact with her own power extends beyond her, permeating through the screen to reach us. We feel euphoric too because we know that with this film, something has shifted for mainstream Hindi cinema too.

******

Some reviews of the movie have called Rajkummar Rao’s character, Vijay, a ‘villain’, which is the saddest thing I’ve read in a while because this superbly-crafted obnoxious man is so bloody…normal. Who amongst us doesn’t know a Vijay? Some of us are dating him; some of us have him as a brother, a father, friend or boss. The guy, who needs to feel superior to you in order to feel good about himself. The guy, who really doesn’t care who you are as long as you serve his agenda. The guy, who struts around with such a sense of entitlement about his ‘property’ (and yes, you are his property, whether you like it or not) that he can’t fathom you’re an equal stakeholder in the relationship. The guy, who feels so small that he needs to make you feel smaller. The guy, who will fall apart, either grovelling or losing his shit if you ever realize your power. Vijay is not the villain. He struggles as much as Rani does – but unlike her, he hasn’t lost enough to put up a fight. In Vijay, I see the tragedy of so many men I’ve known and loved – men, who are as confused by their privilege as women are trapped by the lack of it.

*******

‘Queen’ is extraordinary because of the male-female & female-female relationships it showcases. In Paris, Rani meets the free-spirited Vijaylakshmi, whose name shortens delightfully to Vijay, same as Rani’s ditching fiancé. This Vijay, unlike the other, likes Rani just the way she is. She helps her loosen up but doesn’t inspire Rani to change overnight (nor does Rani convert her or show her the ‘error of her ways’ like in that other horrendous movie on female friendship: Cocktail) but teaches her that women can be all kinds of different shades. In Amsterdam, Rani’s character begins to understand how fun and liberating it can be to get to know men. Men are humans. And some of them think women are humans too! Ergo, men can be friends with women! These are touching friendships, based on affection and mutual respect (and yes, even a twinge of sexual tension).

In spite of this, I’m ashamed to admit that till the very end I kept expecting Rani to find a man. As though the thrill of self-discovery would be incomplete unless witnessed & validated by a man (like that other film about an Indian woman losing & finding her self in the Western world: ‘English Vinglish’). In that light, what a masterstroke by the writers/ director to leave Rani walking away in the last frame, alone & more joyful than any Hindi movie heroine’s ever looked at the end of a film (even Konkona Sen in ‘Luck By Chance’ looked underwhelmed about her future, as the film ended on her charting her path alone). Rani may find a man, she may not. Whatever the outcome, she now has the skills to create value for herself (like that other recently released film ‘Highway’ that ends on a mid shot of the lone & unexpectedly not-tragic heroine, clutching a copy of ‘Women Who Run With The Wolves’, looking hopefully into the horizon).

******

I don’t know if this happens to other Indian women who’ve travelled – particularly to the West. A pall of gloom descends on me whenever I have to return home. Even if the trip hasn’t been long enough to grow attached to the foreign country, even if my entire life is culturally rooted and thriving in India and even if love waits for me at home. It feels like I have to put back into a box, this version of ‘me’ that had momentarily roamed free – going where she wanted, at whichever time of night or day, in whichever mode of transport was convenient, talking to pretty much anyone she wished to, learning to smile at strangers and not spending an unnatural amount of time worrying if her shirt’s neckline is ‘too low’. And even though coming back to India means coming back home, it also feels like the loss of a person I really, really enjoy being.

‘Queen’ allowed me to relive the thrill of being free in ways I didn’t even realize I craved and the sweet relief of not having to constantly be ‘proper’ or 'careful' or 'watchful' (or 'disappointing', 'unsafe' or ‘stupid’ if you choose to act differently). Like Rani, I too have had catalytic adventures (some of which terrified me, forcing me to recognize my strengths). Like her, travel helped me relax into myself, without apologies. Like her, I carried this transformative new energy back to India with me.

The biggest gift ‘Queen’ has given its viewers, is a story about an Indian woman on an adventure alone. Of course, travel changes everyone. But Rani & ‘Queen’ show us how a fearless journey to foreign shores can lead the Indian woman back to herself. 

POINT IS: GO WATCH THIS FILM

We Are All A Little Yo Yo - Part 2

So then this morning, this happened - a Twitter conversation between two women:

Assuming the plumber in question was male (or actually even if they weren't), this exchange made me uncomfortable.
I couldn't tell why. Like another itch I couldn't scratch.

Then I remembered something I recently read on The Last Cookie.
Please read the whole thing, but here's an excerpt:

"The 'comedy' behind male abuse is a result of the patriarchy, which is exactly what feminism is trying to destroy. The patriarchy mocks weakness in men, so when men get abused, it’s not taken seriously. It’s a joke, it’s funny, it’s no big deal. 'You’re a man, suck it up.'
 
That’s not what feminists want. If you think that’s what we want, then you you’re not talking to the right feminists. It’s about equality, NOT just reversing the roles, understand?"

 *****

Self chatter: I have to admit that for a long time I've used feminism as a repository of my personal anger and shame caused by patriarchal forces. This anger and shame is real and needs to be addressed. But I now see how it's a mistake to blur lines between this redressal and the principles of feminism. Feminism can give me the tools to understand where the anger & shame comes from and to prevent its mitigating situations from being repeated - as far as possible. But feminism does not give me the right to debase other humans in its name.

I don't know what this means for my future as a lustful female that might wish to covet a man's body parts in a lascivious manner but I'm sure I'll figure something out...maybe the guys can help me out with this one.

We Are All A Little Yo Yo

So this happened on Twitter last night:

Nothing more beautiful than a woman who doesn't care if she's looking beautiful.
— Oculus (@daddy_san) January 24, 2014

Following which the gentleman tweeter faced a fair bit of ire from a section of the Indian female population on Twitter.

And that's where the politically correct part of this post ends.
*****

My first impression when I read the tweet was discomfort, like an itch you can't track the source of, that has you scratching the back of your left leg when the itchiness is being felt in your right ear.

So I stared at the tweet some more. This came to me:

We all know how problematic this is. I mean, I wish they'd just COMB THEIR HAIR!

So anyway, I thought some more.

*****

I have never been 'beautiful' (except in a Maya Angelou/ My Mama Thinks I'm Beautiful kinda way). Therefore, I have pretty much always cared.

I have always cared because I have seen the more beautiful girls get advantages I never could, in spite of my sparkling personality and dazzling wit.

(Sidebar: Conversly, because of my sparkling personality and dazzling wit, I have had advantages that beautiful girls haven't - like a chance for someone to get to know me, a chance to be appreciated for who I am rather than what I look like.)

Inside me, live two people (well...more...but I'm only bringing two to the table).
There is a 13yr old fat girl who is trying SO hard to be validated by men because everything she's ever been surrounded by has informed her that men have the final word in how she measures her worth. Sure, she will also learn that getting a good job and having her own independent thoughts makes her valuable, but by and large she's figured out that she is not quite 'right' unless a guy tells her so.

Sucks coz guys never really end up telling her so.

What they do say is: she's too fat, she's too dark, they wish she'd dress up better, show her cleavage off more, trim her eyebrows, show her cleavage off less, grow her hair, wax her moustache, join a gym, smoke less, be cool and share a smoke.

Of course, they are stating a preference and what kind of a world do we want to live in if we can't let a human being state a preference? Besides, us women appreciate beauty too, don't we?

  This Guy Vs. That Guy

I digress.

Point is, I wish this preference would be just that: a preference in a world of infinite choices. Just an opinion. Unfortunately, the 13yr old fat girl living inside has come to understand it as a form of 'quality control'. In fact, it's all so messed up that she can no longer tell the difference between a preference and QC.

Now, this pisses the 34yr old woman off. She thinks: I'm not an object dammit. I'm not on some assembly line! My whole is bigger and more complex than the sum of my parts. And 'preference'? Like seriously? There's no such thing as a preference anymore. You can sugarcoat the opinions all you like, boys & girls, but it will always be a bit like saying: "It's just that I don't like when a Dalit drinks from my well. Am I stopping her from going to Venkatachallapthyrajulu's watering hole? Hell no! Am I telling her not to hydrate herself? Hell-er no!"

Here's my politics (which, as we all know, is always personal): A 13yr old confused fat girl, who's been dealt with cruelly a LOT. And a pissed off 34yr old who has no patience for anyone telling her what constitutes 'beautiful'.

Even if that definition of beautiful implies not caring about being beautiful: like piling on truckloads of 'natural' makeup to look like you just fell out of bed.

So here's my two cents, fellas. Perhaps there will be a time in the future where we will not be asked to take a magnifying glass to each definition of female beauty. But today is not that day.

And I know it sucks, but if you could, just take a hit. Take one for the team.

******

Also read: Dark Spots and Confessions for a more nuanced explanation of the itch I was trying to scratch.

Girl In Box

-->

“Wait…sir! Sir! Don’t walk away…here, sir, here! I have one last piece to show you, then you decide. Just one more, sir! I think you will like it.”

“---"

“Yes, surprising no, sir?”

“---?”

“No-no, not GIB! She’s not a piece of hardware or management jargon.

Girl.

In.

Box.”

“---"

“It’s alright sir. Everyone makes this error. Trying to simplify something that’s simple enough to begin with. But simplification is an art no, sir? Do it carelessly and you end up mistaking cutting-edge innovation for a glitch in the design, no, sir?”

“---"

“Of course sir! No time to dawdle.

What you have here is the very latest in downsizing. Yes. You thought ‘downsizing’ was a dirty word, didn’t you? But it’s really just making something smaller and smaller and smaller until it fits in your palm just so. That’s all this Girl is. Tell me, sir, what do you wish Girl In Box to do? Don’t hold back.”

“---"

“Yes of course, sir. This isn’t the only…she comes in many aesthetically delighting designs. Now I can see you’re a man of some taste – not ordinary taste. Give Girl In Box a chance. She will configure to your imagination.”

“---"

“Not too flashy eh? In your league, you say? Smart choice sir, good choice. Fully damage-proof, scratchproof. Toss it about & see. See? The ergonomics are just…I mean I still get a bit emotional about this product. I’m very attache--- yes, yes – you’ll need to do that...customized programming – I mean, that’s the whole point of Girl In Box.”

“---"

“Technology can be intimidating, sure. I understand what you’re saying. But there’s really no wrong you can do. Girl In Box has self-correcting features built in. Very little headache to you. Plus you look like someone who’s not afraid of reading the manual. Ha ha ha true, sir, true. We only read maps to pick a direction to point in – we choose the routes ourselves. You’re a man after my own heart…

“So as I was saying, Girl In Box is a highly intelligent machine. She has an advanced parallel computing system – multiple CPUs that splinter up complex problems…distribute the fragments to individual processors, get answers, put it all back together again like a giant puzzle made up of tinier puzzles made out of tinier puzzles made out of---

“No, no – it doesn’t matter how arcane your expectations are. Once programmed, you don’t need to spoon-feed Girl In Box with too much data. She can access your deepest needs, your expectations by - there’s an algorithm for that.”

“----!”

“Oh no sir. Nothing is ever that! Too good to be true ha ha. Of course, the Girl In Box requires maintenance. But we’ve been trying to minimize it with each version. The version before this? It would send out periodic audible alarms – beeps – if it needed to be charged or if some part was failing. If its juices were running out, you know? But users felt it was too disturbing, too distracting – I mean, if something were wrong, it would beep loudly at regular intervals until the user addressed the problem. Maddening, am I right?

“So now we have a new feature that runs on Suppression Technology™. Sounds fancy, no?

“---"

“Basically, Girl In Box identifies what she needs before you’re even aware of it. Her motherboard takes necessary action to repair itself without alerting you. Business as usual, as far as you’re concerned. In a meeting? In a movie? Out for drinks with friends? Chatting with the mum? You won’t hear a peep. You’ll never need to concern yourself with all the circuitry inside; you have more important things to worry about, am I right? You see, we understand – leave the nuts & bolts to the geeks, let the user’s experience be smooth.”

“---"

“Well yes, ok, I won’t lie to you. This latest feature has been in the news for all the wrong reasons. There were some kinks with making the logic board compatible with Suppression Technology™. But I assure you – those kinks have been ironed out. Absolutely.

“How, you ask? Two revolutionary features:

Number One: we’ve put the power of calibrating her responses in your hands. If the battery needs charging and you haven’t kept track of it but you don’t want to be nagged every 5 minutes, you can click on the option to turn the reminders off. What’ll happen is, just before the battery discharges, she switches off with a brief warning…

“You don’t look too impressed. It’s a very popular upgrade. Market research has shown us that users prefer the temporary inconvenience of sudden death, over the persistent annoyance of periodic reminders.

Number Two: We’ve made the user interface so minimal, noiseless & efficient that beyond satisfying your immediate needs, you really don’t have to interact with Girl In Box at all. She betrays virtually no signs of her internal circuitry – not unless you desire to see it, of course. I mean, we’ve embedded icons in the display that could provide you with that information. Their invisibility feature can be turned on or off as you desire.”

“May I ask you sir, are you intrigued yet? Even remotely enticed?”

“---"

“Sure. Sure. I understand. Information Overload. Ha ha. Ok, let’s talk about something less tech-y. I hate needlessly convoluted chatter too!

“Girl In Box is constructed from highly futuristic materials synthesized for super-elasticity & durability. How does this make your life easier?

Answer me: How big or small is your life?

“Fit her in the tiniest corner of your one-bedroom apartment or expand her to suit the high ceilings of your bungalow. The bigger your home, the bigger Girl In Box gets. Your world is smaller? She squeezes up real tight too.”

“---?"

“Now you’re just playing with me, sir! Why, you can do just about anything with her in your pocket (or wherever else you choose to install her). In fact I find it difficult to answer ‘What’s she really good for?’ not because she hasn’t a purpose…but because there are so many it’s difficult to mention them all.

“But let me try anyway. Everything you are, everything you want to be, everything you need, everything you like, every effort you desire to make, every effort you don’t desire to make – she will find a way to make it simpler, easier and more fun. She will calibrate herself to you, she will grow with you and she will fall with you. She will exist for you. She will perform her function and nothing more…but you can always rest assured that she could be bigger, better, stronger, wiser. If you so choose.”

“---?”

“Hmmm. Tough one to answer. Between you and me, sir? Nothing breaks Girl In Box. She learns and she learns and she learns. Just like a summafabitch, she learns.”

 *****

 

A Distressing Realization (in which she's becoming everything she mocks & mocks everything she's becoming)

The boy I am currently observing closely for the purposes of long-term-companionship-shortly-to-be-followed-by-imminent-rejection, has an intriguing habit.

We'll be coasting along merrily, when I will turn to him and EMOTIONS.

At other times, I might gently (or not so gently) CRITICAL DECONSTRUCTION OF SAID BOY'S BEHAVIOUR OR CHARACTERISTICS.

When this happens, he usually does a swift about turn and zips off into the horizon as fast as his Road Runner stalks can carry him.

Without so much as a beep-beep.

At this point, I usually take a moment - or several - to fall apart in a fashion not unlike that popularized by this fresh thing:

Yes, Uncle indeed.

  

Then I gather myself, wipe off the snot (or not - I work from home) and realize that there's a major part of my brain that's now freed up to think about other things. Like politics and my bank balance and travel & exploration. Yoga perhaps? Or Twitter. Aah Twitter. With a gaping boy-shaped hole in my cerebral cortex, other things of CNN-level importance can now pour in.

Over the last 5 months, these boyless interludes have resulted in (1) an accelerated rate of meeting work deadlines, (2) me powering through several unread volumes in my Kindle (including a David Foster Wallace book, which is worth not one but TWO 'boyfriend-stonewalls'), (3) writing a film script on ceramic crucibles made out of something called Mullerite (which I may have misheard as Miller Light and taken on), (4) planning a vacation to South East Asia and (5) being nice, in small doses, to my mother.

In contrast, when things are peaceful in the realm of boy, life takes on a decidedly free-flowing-no-responsibility tenor, where social outings and alcohol intake rise and a new daredevil attitude takes over me, where things such as caution, deadlines and reading the newspaper are thrown to the wind in lieu of weeknights out and pretending I still inhabit the body of an all-nighter-pulling 20 year old. There is sweet, sweet chaos in my otherwise ordered world - the kind that makes me wonder why I needed order in the first place.

Which all makes me come to a distressing realization. What kind of woman am I? The kind who can't function at her best when she's happy? Or someone who's governed so thoroughly by hormones that she has to drop practically everything in her life just to stay upright? Oh God - can I not have sex and a tweetworthy political opinion at the same time? Am I not - shudder - a female and hence a multitasker?

If this is indeed the case then I should perhaps, instead of weeping at the temporary loss of a cootchie-cooing counterpart, focus on all the things I neglect when in the throes of romance. Like reading a book, doing my taxes, taking in a show or an exhibition (haha who am I kidding, I never do that anyway), writing down all the wisdom I've gleaned from relationships with men and once and for all deciding if I want to audition for Indian Idol or not.

More importantly, just in case the boy returns before that hard-earned final chapter of DFW's book ends, I can always just EMOTION or DECONSTRUCTION OF CHARACTER more time to complete it.

First, Listen

This is the remarkable speech given by Malala Yousafzai at the UN on her 16th birthday.
There are folks who are questioning whether she wrote the speech herself or whether she is merely a pawn in larger geo-political games.
To which, the best answer I read on the interwebz came from Overrated Outcast:

"So?"

In my humble opinion, it's very possible that this young woman will become a brand (well, she has already) or that her story could be exploited for base political agendas.

But to dismiss her message or the fact that she stands in front of an international gathering of world leaders, having survived a terrifying attack on her life and liberty and insinuate that she does so because she's too stupid to know better, makes you - yes even the Taliban-hating you - a shithead.

A shithead of the variety that cannot understand what wimmens with their tiny brains will ever be good for besides parroting someone else's words. Or what, if anything, they could achieve with an education or a platform to express themselves.
Oh wait...

At The Risk Of Sounding Like The Worst Woman Ever

....allow me to reproduce an extract from an interview with comedian Rob Delaney:

Any advice for a 21-year-old who hates their job and has the possibility of traveling the world? And has a boyfriend that they like. (This is for a friend.)
Go do it. Fuck him. Is he a guy in his 20s? Then he's the least significant type of person on the planet. A male in their 20s? Run in the opposite direction. Nothing he says matters; his fears, his hopes his dreams are garbage. Men in their 20s are the worst thing happening on our planet. Go, go to Uzbekistan, go to South Korea, just go anywhere he isn't because men in their 20s are bad for young women.
 
So what do women in their 20s do?
Masturbate. Date other women for a while. Use men sexually for a while but don't ever invite their opinion or be bound to them in any way.


Men in their 30's however? Yum.

************

Link via @daddy_san

Notes From The Fringes

If you follow this blog then you know that over the last 2 months I have hovered around one of the many movements that have gained strength in the weeks following the Dec 16th gangrape.

I say 'hover' because I'm drawn time and again into a space I'm not sure I understand in its entirety. But still I go.

I go because I want to learn what women across this country are thinking.

I go because I want to learn what women across this country are feeling.

I go because I want to understand their, our, history of struggle.

I go because I want to appease the part of me that has suffered violence, harassment & injustice.

I go because I am curious about the men who turn up to watch.

I go because I am curious about the men who turn up to support.

I go because I am curious about the men who own these issues as their own.

I go because I want to add my voice to a movement that might get lost in the din of several other problems this country faces that are 'more critical' than women's issues.

I go to soak in the collective energy of a group of women, standing together, unapologetic about putting their needs at the top of this nation's to-do list.

So once again, some really rubbish photos and a brief description of proceedings as they unfolded on the 21st of February at Jantar Mantar in New Delhi. 

The 'People's Watch Over Parliament' was purposed towards reminding the Indian Parliament, on the first day of the Budget session, that they had a serious responsibility to discuss the Justice Verma Committee recommendations & rethink the hastily drafted anti-rape ordinance.

The idea of this gathering at Jantar Mantar was to stay put on the streets from 12 to 5pm. 

I was only there till 4:30 and don't know what happened after. 

But for most of the hours I participated in the 'sit-in' (with a sore bum to prove it) I heard many speeches & performances (music, poetry, dance, theatre). Here are some highlights.

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Some sloganeering (from the Bekhauf Azaadi repertoire) to get the crowd pumped up, a musical performance & some hulchul near the stage (which later turns out to be Shabana Azmi) and things get underway.

Ranjana Kumari begins with a reality check. 35 years of experience in trying to push women's issues into the consciousness of our political machinery has taught us one thing, she says. 

It is not priority for this session of parliament to discuss the JVC recommendations or the ordinance. 

(This is a much needed reality check for those of us who are new to activist movements. In the past weeks we've had a corruption scandal, riots over price-rise and a series of terrorist attacks.  These are bound to get the attention of the House and national media before gender justice makes it to the floor. Us lot had better be mentally prepared for disappointment.) 

Some more music. 'O Ri Chiraiya' is a hot favourite and it won't be the last time we hear this song this afternoon. (The song actually grows on you if you dissociate it from the memory of Aamir Khan's Social-Cause-Game-Face.)

Next Binalakshmi Nepram speaks. She speaks of having just met with Irom Sharmila, who has a message for the protesters in Delhi: "Don't let my life become a drama." By this, Nepram explains, Sharmila means that the movement requires more investment from us than just appearing at protests and invoking her name.

She (Nepram) speaks of aligning movements from other parts of the country (like the northeast & Kashmir) with the Delhi one. She tells us how the AFSPA (instituted in 1958 in what was supposed to be a temporary provision for 3-6 months) has overstayed its welcome (to put it mildly) and how the women of states like Manipur, Nagaland and Kashmir have suffered in its shadow.

Her pitch goes up a notch and one can sense her deep frustration as she explains how opposing the AFSPA does not make the women of these regions 'anti-national'. 

(When activists like Nepram speak it's easy to see how women get the shorter end of every stick - be it communalism, casteism, regionalism, poverty you name it. And this is what places it at the top of India's 'to-do' list. I can't imagine the horror & humiliation of having to repeatedly prove your allegiance to the country in order to get social justice.)

Then, there is movement from the sides of the crowd. A high-energy group of young women dressed in grey & red descends upon the gathering. They occupy the area just in front of the stage. These are the ladies from Delhi University's Maitreyi College. 

And they go on to put up a gutsy, funny and no-hold-barred streetplay on India's dodgy relationship with its women.

This street play has a way of divesting patriarchial tropes of their power over our collective minds and presenting them stripped of logic. Of showing them up as jokes that everyone can laugh at. (There's a lesson in here for all of us who ask what good a campaign like 'Slutwalk' is.)

They use real ad campaign slogans, misogynist comments of political leaders, statements made by military & government spokespeople, quotes from Bollywood etc. Without twisting the actual words, they use their tone, body language and theatrics to say: ISN'T THIS BLOODY RIDICULOUS? It is right? Right.

(And suddenly these immovable traditions, this 'maryaada' we've unthinkingly accepted, loses meaning. I can tell you there were some men in the audience who were a sight to see. They would laugh because it was all so obviously funny but then they would stop and look confused. Then laugh again.)

Speaking of men, let me break the chronological telling of events and bring in Gautam Bhan, who directs his speech towards the men in the audience.

He's the Boy in the Brown Sweater (with mic)

He asks: Have the men, who've collected to support 'Bekhauf Azaadi' understood what it means and what their role in it is? Bekhauf Azaadi necessitates the shattering of patriarchal structures. It has implications not only for women but also men. 

He also addresses the dangerous notion of making sexual violence laws gender neutral in India. Gender neutrality may be sold as a means to achieving equality but it's a red herring. Unless the inequality in society is accounted for, it is more than likely that sexual violence laws will be used against women & men who are on the wrong side of the patriarchy debate.

He underscores the fact that feminism is not anti-men and us citizens can't afford to be divided on the basis of gender.

In my favourite bit from his speech, he says that protesting isn't enough. We must make the time & effort to understand the political nuances of what's being demanded, granted and debated over.

It's nearly 4pm. Lawyers have spoken, as have activists from groups working on dalit causes & human trafficking issues. One fellow called Vidrohi has recited 3 poems that I haven't quite understood. Kavita Krishnan gets up on stage.

She is an incredible orater, always able to draw in attention, no matter how distracted the crowds may be.

She speaks of 'naitikta' or morality and how it's used & abused to preserve patriarchal structures. (Apparently there's a Delhi Police banner outside all women's colleges in Delhi that lists out a series of 'dos and don'ts' that must be followed to be safe in the city. Apparently no such banner has popped up outside any other type of college.)

She tells the delightful tale of meeting Union Home Minister Sushil Shinde, who seems most foxed about what women really want. 

The way she tells it, I imagine him shaking his head sadly, looking hopeless yet secure in his knowledge that his people did everything they could do to protect women, by drafting an ordinance that no one asked for.

Krishnan talks about how she & other leaders attempted to explain their points of view. But what language do you use to explain your stand when the other person has already decided it for you (and isn't really interested)? 

And so she talks about the lack of seriousness accorded to issues affecting women. At its best relegated to 'not so critical'. At its worst, twisted into devious machinations of women, who've gained quite the reputation for being liars, manipulators and all-round troublemakers ('narak ka dwaar' is the phrase she used) throughout our mythology.

(Fun fact: In Urdu & Arabic speaking parts of the world the word 'Dajjalan' has been flung about. There is even a wikipedia page about it. Thanks @imsabbah)

Some of Us Jolly Narak Ka Dwaars

The crowd has grown in the past few hours. Some folks from a neighbouring protest ("We Want Gorkhaland!!") have spilled into this one. Chaiwaala, papadwaalas, chaatwaalas and vadaawaalas have started networking. One lone fellow from a 'rival' 16th December protest walks around forlornly sporting a 'Hang The Rapists' signboard (What's happening in that head of yours, sir? I'm curious but timid to ask.) The newsreporters have finally settled down. 

As the clock inches towards 4:30 pm, I get up to leave.

************

I don't know how the rest of the evening panned out. 

As for the pariament, there was buzz that the issues would be discussed the next day in the Rajya Sabha. But then the Hyderabad blasts happened so I don't know about that outcome either.

On (Wrapping My Head Around) Intimacy & Love

This is the big work of my life. 

As I begin to pick apart the debris of my personal history, I try to work out a new way of thinking about myself at this age, in this time, as a woman who is ready & willing to love wholeheartedly or not at all.

A big part of that is to move from a place of abject mistrust of men (as emotional creatures) and begin to believe that they are capable of love. 

So, I'm reading a book by bell hooks. 'Communion: The Female Search For Love'. In it, she writes:

"Shere Hite published her voluminous report Women and Love. Providing an accurate and realistic examination of women's attitudes toward love, her data suggested that far from 'loving too much', most women were cynical about love. She reported an overwhelming majority of women in relationships with men testified they did not feel loved. Hite commented, "Given the assumption in our society that one grows up, falls in love and gets married, it's surprising that few women say that they are 'in love' with their husbands and how acceptable this seems to be to them." In her section 'Loving Men At This Time In History' she documented the reality that women involved with men felt they had surrendered the hope of finding love, accepting in its place the pleasures and/or benefits of care and companionship. In short they...gave up their desire for men to embrace emotional growth and become more loving. They repressed their own will to love. Denial and repression made life more bearable and relationships more satisfying."

I linger on this passage for a long time. I type it and send it to my closest friend. I re-read it several times. The pull of this extract becomes clearer and clearer.

I am the consequence of what bell hooks & Shere Hite write about. 

Born of a woman who bartered her definition of love and a man who refused to partner her in emotional growth. She needed more than children and a roof over her head. He understood marriage as just that. 

I have always carried their denial & repression inside me. It started sprouting at a young age until it spread its tentacles to the extremes of my body. Reinforced repeatedly like a self-fulfilling prophesy, like a cancerous growth so malignant, I could see no virtue in allowing men anywhere close. They could skirt the peripheries, yes. But my greatest asset: my loving & caring heart was hidden safely away from them.

Except in hiding it so carefully, I encountered the same paradox again and again: How is a heart supposed to do its job of loving if one keeps it boxed in? 

Is this a dilemma that other women (whether currently in relationships with men or not) face? Is there a cynicism born of repeated disappointment with their men, who while wonderful at companionship & security, are failing to embark on emotional journeys? I see it in the eyes of so many wonderful women I know - all in relationships with remarkable and caring (in a way) men. And I wonder, have they completely surrendered their version of love to accept whatever the men are willing to give? 

If yes and if this is the norm, I can't see myself following in their footsteps. It's a path I've already walked down through the lives of my parents & their parents and I know how it will end. Because you see, I am their heart's desire never fulfilled. I am the consequence.

Image stolen from here