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 !!

An Intimate Untouchability - #PeriodPride

Image Courtesy : Google Images

“Hi! I am writing an article about menstruation awareness. Please share any personal memories regarding it, particularly about seclusion/confinement/restrictions, or the other names used for it. Your privacy will be protected. Thanks!”

I sent this text to about a 100 random women in my phone book, before I wrote this piece. Most of these women are urban, educated and seemingly liberal. Only 4 of them replied, surprisingly only those whose families were not silent about periods but despite awareness and understanding the issue had applied ‘minimal’ restrictions like not entering sacred spaces on them.

The silence and shame associated with talking about it to even a fellow woman is quite evident. Such taboos are passed on from one generation of women to another conveniently because women/girls are socialized into a state of ‘learned helplessness’ as suggested by Lenore Walker though in the context of domestic violence victims/survivors, where the victims/survivors begin to think of themselves, their anatomy and their sexuality as subordinate and dirty.

In fact body shaming, sexual shaming is sometimes more covert but aggressive in urban spaces. I can say this from personal experience that ironically the talk about periods began much earlier for most rural girls in my home state Himachal Pradesh than it does for most of our little girls in cities even now.

Little girls there know that every few days women in their homes and families are secluded because they are dirty and must remain separated from the rest of the family for those few days.

Periods in some local Pahari dialects are referred to as “Zudke”  ,literally meaning ‘clothes’, so it is not even referred to as anything related to the female anatomy, but to the clothes or rags the women traditionally used to soak the flow and how they had to wash everything clean once the dirty period was over. Even the popular Hindi words – Maasik, Maheena, and Mahavaari refer to its monthly occurrence, indicating no connection directly to the female body.

Image Courtesy: Google Images

Little girls by default in hilly villages become the carriers of food and messages to and fro between the ‘Obra’/’Khudh’ (cow/cattle shed) and the house as their mothers, aunts, female cousins and older sisters are confined/secluded during their ‘unclean’ period. They mustn’t touch the ‘dirty woman’ they are told, if they do they would have to bathe again, so they are instructed to leave the eatables at a distance and speak from a distance if they have to. It is believed and enforced by deep cultural conditioning that contamination from menstruating women can bring the worst curses from local deities and even lead to drying up of crops or secret diseases.

The irony is that they are confined to a corner of the cattle sheds traditionally and yet is believed that if a menstruating girl/woman touches a cow, the cow will become infertile – leading these girls furthermore to regard their own bodily functions as curse and impurity and be restricted to a corner even in that confined space.

The culture not only associates a routine female body function as unclean and impure but imposes seclusion on women in connivance with ‘god men’ and local deities, as women and families are often scared with curses and diseases so that they adhere silently to the seclusion and do not speak up against this humiliation month after month.

It is also important to understand the generic architecture of homes in the hills to realize how traumatic and humiliating this seclusion can be for most women especially young girls.

Traditionally the homes were wooden structures with two floors, while the upper floor was family quarters, the ground floor roomed the cattle and the sheep, so women were confined there during their periods. With changing times cattle sheds are now constructed as a single hut slightly away from the main house and the seclusion thus becomes even more evident and in some cases unsafe too. The door is locked from outside and in case of an emergency even her loudest cries may not reach the house.

To add to this turmoil is the fact that toilets if there are any are also constructed closer to the main house and the woman is often denied access to it during this time. If she uses cloth, she must wash and dry it to reuse in complete secrecy and if she uses napkins then these must be disposed secretly.

Social and economic upward mobility and some work by social initiatives and NGOs have probably increased awareness about menstrual hygiene and girls are increasingly using modern sanitary products but the discrimination at ground level hasn’t changed much. Women in some families might not be sent to cowsheds but even in their semi-urban or urban homes are confined to one room, have to sleep on the floor, can’t go to the kitchen or prayer room, can’t touch some eatables like pickles and can’t touch other family members etc.

While women slog equally in fields and kitchens all year through, only men participate in most religious rituals in villages and cook the sacred feasts and only they are allowed to offer the yields to a deity. Lots of rural girls drop out from school still around puberty due to lack of support and awareness. Hundreds succumb to infections due to unhygienic methods of managing menstruation. The fear and shame associated with a menstrual stain is so overwhelming that they give up their opportunity of an education for it.

The religious notions of purity and pollution are rules that deny women basic human rights of caring about their health and bodies. All women, regardless of their caste are considered unclean during menstruation. Sometimes they are not allowed to even take a bath especially for first few days of their menstrual period as it is believed that they can contaminate the water source permanently.

The argument often propounded in the favor of seclusion is that the confinement frees the woman of all her household duties during those days and she can rest. Even if a logical benefit of doubt is granted to that logic, what kind of rest does a woman experience if she is psychologically stressed by separating her from her children and family and the physical comforts of her kitchen and bedroom are denied to her?

Untouchability based on caste and religion was long back ended legally by our constitution, but this untoucahability of a more personal and intimate kind is still practiced in many homes and families, and the worse is it is taken for granted too, both by the perpetrators and the victims.

There is no open discourse about it within families, TV channels still get changed whenever there is a sanitary napkin advertisement playing and women though are not tied with physical ropes to restrain their movements and daily routine, the stronger but invisible ties bind them securely to the margins, make them silently experience the “shame” and discrimination associated with menstruation.

Silence about it strengthens the shame and the shame shrouding it strengthens the silence. Generations of women suffer in shame and in silence.

Its time our girls are freed of this burden and can love their body and menstruation as a privilege and not a curse.

 

“This blogathon is supported by the Maya App, used by 6.5 million women worldwide to take charge of their periods and health.”

Other posts for the same blogathon

Not just Blood, Not just Red

Not just a woman's Problem

Not just Blood, Not just Red #PeriodPride

Image Source : Google Images

The red blood that flows

From every womb

Month after month

Is the same

That runs in the veins

Of every new born

Yet it is the colour of

a dark lonely night

Secluded in a cow shed

For a young helpless girl

who alone endures the pain

and is labelled unclean

It’s the pale colour

of constant uneasiness

for a young school girl

the fear of a red stain

that killed her smile

and her young spirit

It’s polythene black

for a young college girl

who is ashamed

as she buys napkins

or discards them

hidden as dirty secrets

It’s the colour of sin

for a newly wed

who had no words

to tell her husband

that on certain dates

her body is different as

she is menstruating

It’s the reddish purple of

a daughter-in-law’s bruises

who was beaten

as she committed the

unpardonable sin of

letting her shadow fall on

a gallipot of pickles

It’s dark maroon of

thick painful clots

for a wife/mother who could

never tell her family

how much the fibroids hurt

month after month

It’s the muddy brown

of confused emotions

for a daughter/sister

who is told she cannot

speak about “it”

to her father/brothers

the blood is just red

but hopefully some day

“it” will shed all

Shades of shame and be

the colour of rainbow

of fearless femininity.

“This blogathon is supported by the Maya App, used by 6.5 million women worldwide to take charge of their periods and health.” #PeriodPride

Other posts for the same blogathon

An Intimate Untouchability

Not Just A woman's problem

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.

Metaphysical musings on Republic Day

Representational photo of small tableaus on The Ridge, Shimla
Source: Google Images

 

Sitting atop an Electricity Board tableau that had the permission to drive through the generally restricted The Ridge and The Mall in Shimla, my 4-5 years  old self back in the eighties understood nothing about republic or the need to celebrate it.

 

A  small procession that began from the old Telegraph building up to the Christ Church  and the perk of a good refreshment was enough to get me excited about it.

 

That year the theme was how electricity had changed lives in remote areas and the moment the bulb hanging on my head was to be lit , I had to give excited expressions sitting there with a book.

 

All the "artists" were chosen from the residential complex of the board for ease of access.

 

Cause and effect are such a strange phenomenon, what we think is the cause might be the effect of something previous to it.

 

For decades I had completely forgotten about this  but now as I struggle to pinpoint the meaningfulness of a republic or its celebration, the memories are back.

 

My father's family paid a huge price of freedom in 1947 and lived for years with the label "refugees" from across the border. Home was always a very fluid concept for them.

 

I spent a large part of my life in the hills and in some parts of my state democracy or republic has still not changed quality of life services much.

 

The city I live in now, the glorious capital is struggling to find clean water and fresh air.  The disparity between the "haves" and the "have nots" we overlook everyday because we are all helpless in its face.

" Things are changing" is such a lame argument because I feel my 7 years old girl is still as unsafe as my grandmother was in 1947.

 

Yes I am the sceptic, I am alright with being labelled  "naysayer" for asking the cause and effect questions, for asking what use is a latest radar to me if I don't have clean air.

 

To me glorifying the soldier without his human rights is pseudo, to me the façade of a republic where all voices are not equal is a sham.

 

I was reading  Emil Cioran earlier and I so relate to - I feel completely detached from any country, any group. I am a metaphysically displaced person.

 

PS: I will do a follow up post for all the trolls labelling me "traitor" after this, if need be.

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.

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!”