Why Complain?

There is an iron mold

hard, stiff and cold

they all have to fit in

goddess, bitch, 

wife or whore

each in their own frame

and why complain?

they have the pedestals

the whore-houses

homes and tombs

what good is empowerment

 without a man

work for him ,birth progeny

provide pleasure

take his name

why complain?

Feminism is only

for the mad single women

who waste their lives

asking questions

in vain

you the good women

must be seen not heard

you the "devi"

the maa and the behan**

why complain?

*mother, ** sister but here used together to indicate sexist abuses in Hindi

Yes I have a Vagina ! #KanganaRanaut #AIB

Recently AIB launched a parody video featuring Kangana Ranaut is not only probably her personal stance about sexism and nepotism in Bollywood but to extend the metaphor is also a reflection of the conventional cliches that dictate most of Indian men-women relationships at large as well.

She outdoes her Aap ki Adalat interview here taking a satirical and musical dig at what is wrong with the Indian ideal male hood.
At the onset the heroine is asked- Who are you? , a question that haunts most women in a traditional setup where largely still even their last names are not a choice but denote them “belonging” to father/husband’s family. At best they only get recognized as “love interest” of the hero in films and as wife/girlfriend/spouse of a certain so and so.

The lady being a physicist/scientist or any other professional is of little interest and while her opinion is dismissed as just a “cute” whim the same opinion from a male is THE WORD, and widely accepted as intelligent speak.

Women must be seen not heard is still like the default brief in Indian patriarchal psyche whether it’s the hero, director( symbolically other men/women in authority) , just titillate and look good, no need to use your mind or voice. As one of her female co-star says in the video, “….don't say anything just smile and dance.”


The woman asserts- I have self-respect, yes like most “modern” women would and not just remained confined to “smoke a cigarette and abuse brand of modern womanhood”, and that becomes the point of conflict in most relationships.

In a satirical vein the lady touches lots of raw veins that still hurt a lot of women in real life too – social approval for older man/younger woman relationship (even if it’s almost pedophilia kind of an age difference) but older woman/younger man and she becomes the cradle snatcher. Older heroines pushed to the margin selling detergents/soaps just like women are after marriage/motherhood while men can still be Casanovas and male leads.

The lady also talks about cleavage being used to sell products, no carbs to have perfect bodies to be objectified because we have a vagina.

The glass ceiling in getting better opportunities, in getting better pay for same work, in men having entitlement to call the shots is not just a Bollywood thing but an everyday reality for most women. 

Their work pre-defined to reduce themselves to being showpieces and remaining lesser than and/or dependent on men , though symbolically putting the name first in the casting or “giving” them progressive roles in homes and outside seems to be the favor men are doing.

The mansplaining throughout is so real in everyday situations and relationships and the last nail is how when a woman speaks she is not even “allowed” to own her bad-ass card but labelled as playing the victim card.

More voice to every girl who doesn't mince her words !! 
Yes We have a Vagina !!

Mansplain !! (Men Explain Things To Me )

The do's and don'ts

should and shouldn'ts

yours to say

and mine to obey

the list is long

- smile some more

- just ignore

-let me handle this

- just dismiss

he takes the call

crawl or brawl

Since Mahabharata 

they have the dice 

as if we are mice

blindly following a piper

into a ditch

Dear men

please abstain

I understand

this pounce and save

is an old game 

I need no saviour

no patron , no saint 

I can take my calls

and wage my wars

keep in your pants 

your mansplain* !

*verb

informal

1. (of a man) explain (something) to someone, typically a woman, in a manner regarded as condescending or patronizing.

Term derived from Rebecca Solnit 's Men Explain Things To Me

Lord of the Flies

Image: Google images

Rapes, abuse and deaths

suicides and silences

battered breaths

only numbers

mere statistics

Women - 

nothing to the

Lord of the flies

amidst a thousand

patriarchies !

This post is part of a #blogathon at BAR

Of Ice and Men

Image:Google Images

He rubbed her wrong

and you looked away

She body shamed her

and not a word to say

 the sexist jokes

and the street harassment

the discrimination

fear and embarrassment

you remained aloof

and closed your eyes

patriarchal men

as cold as ice.

This post is part of a #blogathon at BAR.

The Fault is in Our Stares

Image : Google Images

Is a man defined 

by the length of his pants?

then why the moral police

complains and rants

about the length of her skirt

or the neckline of her shirt?

No one asks for violence

wearing what she wants

isn't a dare

there's nothing wrong

in what girls wear

the fault is

in our stares !

Too Little, Too Late

The little happy girl in school

You called dark/fat/ugly /slow

The intelligent girl in middle school

You would make fun of for her body hair

Or carrying sanitary pads in her school bag

The high school girl whose dirty graffiti

You made in the toilet

Because she refused to kiss you

The college classmate you defamed

Because she refused to sleep with you

The girlfriend you hit and abused

Because you had intimate videos and photos

The colleague you harassed online

Because she was better at the job

The wife you exploited and ruled over

Because she could never leave the kids

The child you killed unborn

Because she was a daughter

The sister you never allowed any choice

Because she meant "honor"

The daughter-in-law you never supported

Because your son was a bully like you

They were all DEVI
or none of them is

A few plates of halwa and poori

Is too little,too late.

Nothing is Forever

This story was first published as a winning post in Muse of the Month August, 2016 here at Women's Web.

Image Courtesy : Women's Web

Tashi Chodron was a symbol of peaceful resistance, women’s empowerment and brilliant literature from conflict.

She was born in McLeodganj, her parents had moved there from Tibet a few years ago. Her father started a school and provided her and her siblings good education and a comfortable life. As soon as she was in high school, proposals for marriage came pouring in and like all traditional parents the best prospect was soon arranged for her.

The first few months were stuff that dreams were made of. He was an upcoming writer, traveled a lot, was used to fans and publicity, but soon she realized he was also used to something else - violence. It was the kind of vicious violence that happened in the closed confines of bedrooms. The scars of which are too personal to reveal and too hurtful to ignore.

Still she carried on for three long years because “abandoned” women were not honorable in their culture. It was another “episode” as he would call them later, when he pushed her so forcefully against the wooden railing that she knew he had killed their third baby instantly. She walked out, blood running down her cotton trousers, straight to the police station.

Four days later as she lay in the hospital, she saw her mother sitting by her bedside. She knew the same rehearsed lines would now pour at her about tradition, marriage, and hope. Her father and brothers were waiting for her to gain consciousness so that she could withdraw her complaint and not ‘disgrace ‘the family. She didn’t. Hers became the first case from their community about marital rape and violence in Himachal Pradesh High Court.

The most expensive case for her, it took away everything- her home, her marriage, her social status and most importantly her family. She was disowned and all ties were severed, so much so that even relatives or former friends looked away when they saw her somewhere in the town.

Tashi took refuge in books. She read Buddhist literature and every book she could lay her hands on. In the next three years she survived on charity by tourists and odd jobs but completed her graduation and teacher’s training via correspondence courses.

She stared writing a blog and small assignments for local magazines and newspapers. A year later she was teaching in a monastery’s school and also working with an NGO for women. She now realized she had to let go of her family and unborn children to find a much larger family of distressed like herself.

Today the auditorium was bustling with literature enthusiasts, critics and Buddhist monks. One of their own would be here later for an event for her much-acclaimed poetry book.

Tashi walked onto the podium to read her favorite piece. Her voice faltered a little in the beginning, as she remembered the “no” that she could never say to her father when she was married off young, or the ‘enough’ she should have said to her husband.

She read:

Look out

At the cages

Ties of blood and race

Family and society

And then look in

Towards freedom

Find the peaceful place

That says and repeats

‘Nothing is permanent’

Be your own Buddha.

Amidst applause Tashi saw faces of women from her NGO, her students, and in the last row her ex-husband holding a copy of her book. The dedication of that book read – To Buddha, who said “nothing is forever.”

Freedom

This story was first published at Women's Web here.

Prabhjot Kaur had moved to this Gerrad Street home in Toronto only a year ago, to live with her only son Angad and his wife Kiran. Her husband Kulvant had passed away after a stroke about two years ago in their hometown Patiala, and ever since she was struggling with old age, loneliness and health issues.

Angad decided to rent out the house in Patiala and brought her along to Canada, she was not initially to move so far away from her roots but knew her fate now as a widow was in her son’s hands and being a dependent she should just adhere to whatever he decided for her.

She had long back give up her capability to decide first gradually when her parents had fixed her marriage without even thinking about her consent once and later completely as her domineering in-laws and husband made all her decisions for her.

Her only solace remained her faith. She was a devout Sikh woman and despite her inability to move around much now because of her ailments, she like to read her Japji Sahab every morning without fail at the same time after her daily bath. There were no servants here, so by default Kiran helped her in her toilet and daily routine.

She was a beautiful, quiet, homely girl whose parents had paid happily for Angad’s degree here in Canada and also helped him setup his business.

Today as she woke up, the house was drowning in an eerie silence, it was a dark foggy morning outside and there were no noises either from the kitchen or her son’s bedroom upstairs. She looked at the clock, it was just quarter past four, and she decided to wait for a while for Kiran before she rang the bell they had installed next to her bed, if she needed something urgently.

So many times Kiran had asked her to sleep late because unlike Punjab it was very cold in the mornings here, but a habit she had inculcated almost four decades ago as a young bride was difficult to break. She was always up before the sunrise for years though she could still never finish the tasks to the satisfaction of her late mother-in-law, or please Kulvant or her four children.

Finally at around six she heard faint footsteps on the staircase, it must be Kiran. In a while as she walked in slowly, without a word she placed Prabhjot’s tea on the side table and turned towards the restroom to turn on the geyser, her neck was badly bruised and one elbow had a deep gash. Prabhjot knew what this was.

Angad was their youngest, after three daughters and two abortions finally Kulvant was happy to have a son. She was relieved and hoped that it would soften him and his family towards her but that was never to be, she never became his life partner or even wife, just a round the clock slave and child bearer. She was a graduate and an intelligent girl to begin with but over the years the violence not only numbed her body but her mind too.

She was Kiran herself decades ago. Angad had taken after his father, a sexist patriarch who believed women needed to be thrashed often to be put in their place. In their five years of marriage Kiran had undergone three miscarriages, Prabhjot knew that pain too, of trying to protect another life inside you when you are pushed down the stairs or banged around.

She never asked Kiran and Kiran never said a word – just like her this young girl had chosen silence as her defence. Prabhjot felt her pain but her own helplessness overwhelmed her.

Two weeks after this Prabhjot was woken up in the middle of the night by Police sirens and a lot of armed police personnel storming into the house. After a while a police woman entered her room, asked her to identify herself and then explained to her in easy English- Kiran had killed Angad. She asked again and again because in all probability she feared that Angad could have killed Kiran.

Her world had come crashing down as she finally saw Kiran being taken into custody and Angad’s body being taken by paramedics. The two women looked at each other, both blank as stones.

Kiran was under trial for several weeks after that. Prabhjot was sent to an NGO’s old age centre because her testimony was crucial for the case.

Her daughters called her and were unanimous that her statement should implicate Kiran as the murderer of their only brother. She looked at Kulvant’s hard eyes in their family picture taken several years ago and wondered what would he have to say in this situation.

She wished it was him too on trial somewhere for treating her and their three daughters worse than cattle and for raising Angad the way he had.

But Angad was her son, the son she had given birth to after millions of prayers and fasts, the son who was her only hope for old age care.

Finally after weeks of deliberations and moral dilemma Prabhjot had made up her mind. Her statement had detailed descriptions of Angad’s fiery temper and violent nature, she testified how he used to brutally beat Kiran sometimes even in front of her while she had looked the other way because that is what they are taught to do in India, never interfere between a husband and wife. Prabhjot insisted that Kiran was a loving and caring girl and she was sure that she must have struck her husband only in self-defence.

Now five years had passed. They had returned to Patiala, and Kiran had taken up a job in a local school as an art teacher. It was Prabhjot’s 65th birthday today and as a gift and Kiran had painted and framed a quote from some author for her –

“How like flowers we are…knowing nothing of the fate we simply inherit from others.”

Prabhjot read it again and again and moved her wheel chair to the front porch. It was time for Anhad- her grandson to return from school. They had come back to Patiala together, she could not save her son from a violent life and a terrible death as a demon that he had become but Kiran had saved hers that night from a drunk father who was about to kill him in the womb itself.

She still prayed for Angad’s and Kulvant’s souls every day and hoped Anhad would grow up to be a better man and inherit his fate from his grandfather and father, to choose not to be like them, to make amends, to break the chain of violence.

The two women were also now healing slowly from their own deep wounds and had formed a bond much stronger than Prabhjot had ever formed with anyone all her life.

Prabhjot had finally found peace, because the freedom she had gained for Kiran had freed her to.

GIVE UP GENDER STEREOTYPES #AtoZChallenge #LifeLessons



If boys will be boys

and girls will be girls

they will remain trapped

in gadgets and twirls

 

 

be a person first

don't put on a gender screen

without a gender prejudice

see others as

you wish to be seen.

 



I live in India and one of the most bitter battles I have fought here and continue to fight is about gender stereotyping. Being an only child and a girl in early 80s in small time India was very challenging both for me and my parents.

Sadly now being a parent to a single girl child by choice I do not see much change, our dwindling gender ratio has only made it a hugely unsafe and unequal society for girls.

The moment you are born you are tried to be labelled and typecast according to your gender, every time you act or behave beyond those clichés , you face resistance and ridicule.

One of the most detrimental factors in our self-image and identity is our gender. Sadly it also starts acting as a prism through which we see everyone around us.

The moment we see the person beyond their gender and remove the label-man/woman/transgender/others we see the real person, we connect at mental, emotional and intellectual level. This goes a long way in humanising ourselves and others and not seeing them as clichéd, gendered identities.

Go ahead once see beyond gender, find the souls.
 

NAVRATRI SNAPSHOTS 2015



•  A 40 years old, mother of two teenagers is distributing ice-cream sticks on the road near her apartment complex to street children. Some of them pre-teen and teenage boys, soon she is being pulled and groped and loud whistles and leering and she runs back inside the gated residential complex. The misguided kids enjoy the free ice-cream, aunty goes back to her condo, runs a hot bath and all that remains of the incident are the wrappers piled on the footpath.
  When we let go of any incidents as minor incidents of street harassment, don’t we pave way for far more dire incidents?
  What makes our boys believe they are entitled to rowdy behaviour ?Is our "Charity" misguided?

•  I am watching news, my little one who is unaware of the technical gross details of sexual violence and RAPE, knows the word and knows that it is a cruel and bad thing to do to anyone. She stops colouring and after overhearing bits and pieces of a debate over the rape of two minors, she asks, "Mumma why do people hate and hurt little girls , so much? " I have no convincing answers.

• In a neighbourhood Kirtan, almost every other song or line has the word "laal" (red), traditionally the colour for married women ( Saubhagyavatis), those singing these lines loudest are widowed mothers, sisters and wives , sitting in a corner away from the deity, the inauspicious women.

• Not far from the Indian capital two little children are charred to death because they were not fortunate enough to be born upper caste, we look away and feel we have done our bit for the future kids of this country by distributing a few plates of poori-halwa.

•P : Mumma we Indians are generally brown you said , because of our genes and race and ,and climate.

Me: Yes dear.

P: Then why are all the goddesses fair, other than Kaali?

Me: ahmm....

P: and why don't they make Kaali beautiful? If a woman becomes angry does she become ugly?

I have taken some time from her to answer these difficult questions.

Break the Silence #MomsForABetterWorld

“Let’s raise children who wont have to recover from their childhoods.” —Pam Leo

 

As every other parent the things I want to tell my child is a never ending list. A few weeks ago for the #MomsForABetterWorld initiative I had to prioritise and re-order this list and I wasn't surprised that Awareness about Child Sexual Abuse topped my list.

 

Almost every person I have talked to about this has recalled some or the other incident of some kind of abusive behaviour they have witnessed or experienced as a child. So I am sure this is an issue even larger than we can ever imagine.

 

I have always hated the festival of Holi because I was once forcefully coloured by an inebriated neighbour, a friend hates chocolates because her uncle would make her kiss him for those, an online friend recalls how horrified she was when as a child a grown up relative exposed himself to her.

 

These are real incidents that may/may not damage the child physically but leave deep scars for the rest of their lives, we cannot even imagine the horror a childhood becomes when abuse is persistent and under the covers for years.



 

 

 

 

 

India is still largely a traditional country where issues related to sexuality are largely taboo.A large number of our children are still made to view their bodies with shame and fear. We rarely speak about bodily functions openly and our social setup does not bar unsolicited physical contact like hugging or patting on the back.

 

We have a country where toilets are still unavailable to a large number of children making them even more vulnerable and easily accessible to sexual predators.

 

A lot of parents from my generation are shy to speak about touch and pleasure to our children because we were brought up in times when even mothers or teachers would not talk about even mensuration or puberty.

 

Often parents think its too early to talk to children about it but the sooner they know the better. Also it happens to only girls is a huge myth- all children, boys and girls run a huge risk of facing abuse. 

 

The only way we can protect our children is by educating them about sexuality in an age -appropriate manner without scaring them

 

The increasing number of sexual crimes against children and the alarming trend that most often the perpetrators are people known to the child and the family makes it even more imperative that our children are aware of the risk and know what to do when.

 

Here are a few things that I often repeat with my six year old :

My Dear P,

• Our private parts need to be named and these are just like our other parts but private because we do not talk about them in public or show them in public.
• Always remember good touch and bad touch, try to know the difference between a simple/normal hug and an uncomfortable hug.
• Even when you feel the slightest physical discomfort with any person run and tell a parent /teacher immediately.
• You and me keep no secrets especially the ones that hurt.
• Say NO to physical contact whenever you are uncomfortable. Go offend the world, all I care about is your comfort and safety.
• Use your vocabulary well, use and know words and actions like cuddle, hug, kiss, hold, rub, show to indicate anything inappropriate.
• Know that whenever you report any such incident or even intuition YOUR version will always be trusted by me, I am here to listen even if at first it sounds funny or awkward.
• You can dial 1098 (CSA Helpline) and seek help for yourself or a friend whom you feel needs help.

 

A few reminders for myself and all other parents:

• If our child is a survivor of sexual abuse he/she or us have no reason to be ashamed about it.
• No tradition or family honour is greater than the childhood of a child so speak up , whatever the odds.
• Stand by your child ,only love can heal even the deepest wounds.
• We can prevent our children from being silent victims.

 

We need to be a loud and clear collective voice Against Child Sexual Abuse. Yes maybe awareness alone would not prevent all incidents of abuse but by speaking about it openly, strongly and clearly we are initiating a social avalanche that may save a lot of our children from suffering in silence.

 

This post is a part of #MomsForABetterWorld Blogger Contest at Women's Web.

Pay it Forward Parenting (in the memory of my late father)

 

 

Today when I am a parent myself, I feel some of my most special lessons in parenting come from my father. These were not written in some kind of a rule book or spoken aloud like quotable quotes but these came to me in actions that were louder than any words.

•  About three and a half decades ago in a quaint little town you were a diaper dad by choice. I understood parenthood as being better than the highly popularised motherhood.

• I always saw you helping mummy around the house, especially with my tasks- tiffin, getting the school dress in order, homework. My first lessons in gender-neutral parenting and partnership.

• Unlike a lot other homes, me and mummy would watch a cricket match and you would make us tea. So the first person who broke down gender stereotypes within the family for me was you.

• In teenage years, periods or sanitary napkins weren’t a taboo, I could talk to mummy or I could talk to you. It made me so much at ease with my body and my sexuality.

• Unlike a lot of parents, contrary to public opinion and even your own preference for the Sciences you supported me when I opted for Humanities right after school. There was no pressure to be someone I was not.

• You kept struggling with your own patriarchal upbringing to accept my male friends, boyfriend, my independent lifestyle choices, but you never held them against me even when some of them went horribly wrong. You allowed me my mistakes and their lessons.

• You always told me no matter what you were proud of me and that you would always love me. This realisation is such a huge part of my self-worth.

• You always believed and displayed so much of confidence in my abilities that I could push my boundaries every single time. You gave me all my strength.

Trying to raise my child with self-belief, gender-sensitivity, an independent mind and a strong voice, just like what my father did for me.


This post is an entry for father’s day contest by kreativemommy



The Last Bastions of Patriarchy

My father was a Hindu Brahmin by birth and an engineer by education and profession. So I presume this whole conflict between reason and ritual afflicted him all his life.

He was a liberal parent in so many ways, being an only child I was never brought up "like a boy" but as a strong and independent girl who didn't have to be like a boy to prove any point. But the same man who brought me this way had his patriarchal hang ups too. One of the major ones was regarding the Antim Samskar, the Hindu  ritual associated with funeral.

Traditionally the eldest son of a deceased has to perform the last rites and in the absence of a son the next male kin i.e brother, nephew have to step in, in some families with only girls and no male cousins even son-in-laws do the needful.

Till a few years ago both my parents were doubtful about me doing their last rites. So one day I actually asked them that to ensure that none of us comes between me and this natural right of mine ,lets have a legal agreement where they sign me and no one else this right to perform their last rites. That I think made it clear to them how resolute and prepared I was for this and that settled it forever between us.

It is also suggested sometimes that the inheritor or heir of the deceased has to perform these rites. Daughters traditionally were not allowed to inherit property especially once they were married off so it automatically ruled them out from conducting the last rites for their parents. A common reason being cited is that post-marriage the girl is a different Gotra hence not entitled to do the rites of her parents who now are a separate Gotra.

My logical answer to this conundrum is - What if I marry/divorce/marry multiple times? Wouldn't my Gotra and/or religion change as many times? But wouldn't I still remain my parents' daughter as much as any son remains his parents' offspring?

As a lot of our popular culture will testify, this masculine obligation is the oldest reason to want a son in the traditional Hindu family. It is believed that women are faint hearted and only do the weeping and crying, rituals and management generally falls to the men.

I see it as the most copious form of discrimination by keeping key religious duties exclusively a masculine domain.

If I could do everything else a son can then why not this?

Another subtle form of discrimination that I faced was how people perceive a girl should grieve. She should wail and cry, be weak, disoriented, shouldn't smile or laugh, look for support from men in the family.

I did not cry in public, no not even a single tear. I was smiling and laughing ,whatever came naturally, not because I didn't respect my father but precisely because I was being myself. My grief has no obligation to live up to any expectations.
I am not a weak woman, any one who feels uncomfortable or threatened by that, its their problem not mine.

My father passed away on 6th of March and on the 7th I was the "karta" in his cremation and all other Hindu rituals that followed. This act and public post is not to earn a few pats on the back as a lot of detractors have already suggested, this is not to prove that I am different or stronger.
Because actions speak louder than words ,it is a message for my mom who being a married daughter was not allowed to touch her parents' dead bodies or accompany them to the crematorium, for my six years old daughter whom I tell innumerable times that she is an equal to any other human being in every possible way, no less.
It is a message to families with a single girl child or only girls, please don't deny your girls this right.
It is a message to families with both girls and boys, if you are really dedicated to gender equality show it when it matters.


I don't know much about afterlife and so don't see how a girl or a boy doing the last rites affects that but I do see a lot of power going to our girls if this last bastion of patriarchal power is defeated.

GIRLS CAN.

HERstory

This was a winner at Muse of the Month (November) at Women's Web HERE.


It was Genesis time
crafted from your rib
you god’s own image
me a mere ‘auxiliary companion’
Dear man, the glory all yours
the blame all mine
I was the temptress
the bringer of misfortunes
and you the Hero


you were the
legendary son of Ayodhya
the ideal man for all times
and yet, a king first
your glorious tale
lives on centuries later
because chastity is always only
a wife’s belt
the test by fire
only for me


In a no-choice polyandry
I was the wife
of five gallant men
polygamous all
my owners by default?
conveniently lost me
in a game of dice
What was I?
in your victory- a prize
in your defeat a price


I was Snowwhite or Cinderalla
always waiting to be rescued
my only chance at a future
charming you
The Perfect Prince Charming
who knew the spotless skin
the perfect hair, the narrow waist
would be an industry someday
and me just a product
on display


all of this remains “HIStory”
Antigone, Medea, Pandora
Kekayi, Ahlaya, Menaka
Helen and Cleopatra
painted black
by male hands
the only colour
for women
all pseudonyms were mine
or I chose anonymous


all the rooms in art, philosophy,
discourse, films, media
already taken
Woolf, Plath, Dickinson
Sexton, Akhmatova
in every century
looking for
A room of one’s own


Dear Jane was right
when she said,
“The more I know of the world,
the more I am convinced
that I shall never see a man
whom I can really love.
I require so much!”

HAIL MARY ! For the daughters of India

For the last few years I have always done a daughter's day post, especially because in addition to being my online journal this is my intellectual legacy for my daughter. I hope some day as a  young woman she would come back to this space to know me better, to understand my compulsions and know my answers.

This year I did not do a daughter's day post, because it was a day with mixed feelings and a lot of disillusionment about how this online armchair activism had become plain and empty rhetoric and going by the number of crimes against little girls ,this country did not seem like changing sometime soon for its daughters.

I was in utter despair because just that week a young two and half year old had been sexually abused in her play school in this city that I call home. My little girl also goes to a school here and takes a school bus with many other little kids. Knowing that none of them are safe till each one of these kids is, is sad and disheartening.

And then today this happened MARY KOM WINS ASIAN GOLD IN BOXING

Mary with her youngest son , Photo courtesy: Google images





M C  Mary Kom is a renowned boxer from India but she has now transcended to becoming a symbol for many aspects of the lives of the marginalised in India . Her story is a special story of triumph because:

• She is a WOMAN in a hugely patriarchal system, that either subjugates women or gives them limited powers as collaborators in oppression.
• She hails from the NORTH-EAST state of Manipur, which for years has felt marginalised and suffered political turmoil.
• She is into BOXING ,which isn't exactly as glamorous as men's cricket in this country.
• She is a MOTHER & WIFE who carries the extra psychological burden put on her by tradition to always put her husband and kids first and her career down the list.

Her triumph then becomes the triumph of all of these marginalised sections- the women, the people from north-east and the sportspersons in less popular sports.
She is a personal HERO , who makes her own choices, pays the prices and overcomes all hurdles.

A special part of THE MARY KOM SUCCESS STORY for me is her husband Onler Kon. The man who is secure enough to look after their three kids when the lady steals international limelight, the man who supports her career choices and becomes her backbone.

So Mary's story is also a special message for all Indian men - Just Imagine what all your daughter, mom, wife, female friend, female colleague or any other woman could achieve if you would just let her be , if you take your fair share of responsibilities of the home and the hearth, if you let her be less intimidated and be free of prejudice and cliché.

Mary Kom for me is one of the stories that we need to tell our sons and daughters , as its multiple layers will make each one of them revaluate their choices about gender and about stereotypes.

Hail Mary !!



 

Women of tomorrow and Election 2014

The sun is about to set in Delhi on what they are calling the election of the century #Election2014. In a society park little girls between 5 to 12 years huddle by a swing for chit-chat and play. The most important topic who wore what on which day and who repeats her dresses most.

What's wrong with that? Probably the growing up of our kids beyond their years faster than we imagine is what's wrong. They no longer talk of fairy tales or games.

 

The next topic #election2014. The slightly older ones say condescendingly you can only vote when you are 18. But only boys become prime ministers says one. The others laugh," No stupid, Indira Gandhi was also prime minister." 

Thank you Indira Gandhi I mutter, whatever were the reasons or the political motivations you still inspire some hope for our girls. But the little one born only a few years ago has only seen men as presidents and Prime ministers, not her fault if she does not relate to you I argue with myself.

 

And then comes the shocker, "You know only men know "kisko vote dena hai" ( who to vote for). Why?, ask two little ones simultaneously. My dad was telling my mom and my elder sister to vote for M****, and we must always obey our father. Papas are heads of family you know.

 

I peer into my phone's screen Mulayam Singh Yadav is condoning RAPE and  suddenly I do not blame the illiterate women in the villages of UP who cast their vote where there men ask them to. I am looking inwards, at educated women like myself and how they let go of every iota of power that they can possibly have only for the elusive ghar ki shanti (peace at home).

 

I wanted to talk to these women of tomorrow but they have run away by then.

From the shacks across the boundary wall  the light of a single bulb filters through, I look at the multi-storeyed apartments and I see their shallow core producing another generation of unaware exploited women.

 

The sun has set.

 

On our way back my daughter asks,"Mumma you know who I will vote for?" I tell her," You don't need to tell me or anyone its your right and only you should know."

MY VOICE IS MY FEMINISM

It took me a while
to come to this space
where I am no longer
scared or awkward

to restrain the man's hand
trying to grope a girl
on a bus

to protest loudly
when I hear men
use abuses
that are women-centric

to tell every girl I meet
that she doesn't have to hide
her body or her mind

to confront men
related to me
by blood or society
if they abuse or discriminate

to use my word
and my writings
to catalogue
the lessons and the fight

so however little it may be
a small speck in this
struggle of enormity

my voice is my pay forward
to my mum
her mum's mum
my daughter's future daughter
and all women everywhere

This is my sword and my shield
my defence and my attack
and I will break
the conspiracy of silence.

This post is dedicated to an inspiring fellow blogger popularly known as IHM who blogs at THE LIFE AND TIMES OF AN INDIAN HOMEMAKER. Her work and her personality as reflected in her work inspire me as a blogger, as a mom and as a woman.

Ironies of gender stereotypes

You cook and its an art
We slog it out
meal after meal and
never secure a place
in culinary history

you speak socialism
and equality
you are such a
sensitive intellectual
We speak about rights
and become the
bloody feminists

You are a charmer
a ladies man
and we are
just shameless

your clothes
at best define your
social status or profession
my clothes
can get me raped

So lets talk equality
in some other
time
in some other
equal space.


 

Beyond stereotypes

This was first published on the PARLE-G parenting blog here.



I am no longer the little toddler who wanted to be teacher like my mom or the
mad little girl who was fascinated by how electricity gets transmitted to the
whole town from her dad’s office.

In my teenage years the ordinariness of my parents and their professions used
to bother me. But now as a parent I know that even in their ordinariness both
of them made great parents.

My openness to gender roles comes from the fact that the division of labour in
our household was never gender-based and neither was respect for any kind
of work. My dad would iron my school dress, make a tiffin as easily as my mom
would watch a cricket match and manage the finances.

Me being their only child was never raised to be like a son ( bete jaisa),but be
a confident and strong willed person. They respected my choices and accepted
my male friends, my late hours at theatre rehearsals, my travelling alone,
though I now know how scary it must have been as a parent to let their little
girl explore the wild world alone.

Today I thank God for making me their daughter. Happy parents day Mummy
& Papa!