Having spent four days in Chhattisgarh, doing what I do - consuming substantial quantities of chai - I realise what a grave mistake it is to give up control in the realm of the brew.
Chai is not the sort of thing you drink because it is a nice brew with many variations on the theme, and you're fond of it. Or because it helps you relax. Or because you need a caffeine fix. Or because you're socializing politely amongst people who don't drink.
No... chai just is a bit of you. Like blood. Or, like a steel rod fixed somewhere between your joints. It gets internalised, as gradually as bone and ligament, as inevitably. It becomes a large part of you, and you get so used to it, you can no longer function without it.
Chai is personal, intensely so. As personal as touch, and you feel as bereft and vulnerable without it as you would without your underclothes. Very few people can quite make it so it exactly fits your gut, your tongue. Very few people even realise what they're doing wrong when they're making it. And you can guide them but you cannot imbue them with your gastronomic sensibility. Their hands will often err on this side of sweet or that side of milky.
Such is my take on chai.
And for me to get bad chai - day after day, morning after night, theme after varied theme, in office after office, on railway station after station - is a relentless assault upon all five senses, which I bravely endured, for three days, without a word of complaint. But when I began to feel like there was a thick powdery-solid layer of milky chai drying itself on the back of my tongue, my resolve died. On the night of the third day, I buckled and asked the hotel to send up some hot water in a flask, tea bags and cubed sugar.
But my travails were yet to end. Room Service mixed up orders, and sent me milky tea instead. And, for the first time in my life, I SENT IT BACK to the kitchen. Never before have I summoned a waiter, induced just the right amount of icy disapproval and restrained irritation into my voice and said, "Take this away, please!"
And having said all this, I apologize.
Sorry, Rajdhani train.
I like your chai.
I like the little satchets of everything and the flasks of boiling (give or take 35 degrees C) water.
I like being able to hold my tray on my lap, a cup held awkwardly between my knees. I like being able to use only half a satchet of sugar and perhaps no milk powder at all. I like tea when it is weak, suggestively sweet-bitter. I like being in control.
I promise you, Rajdhani train, I will never EVER complain, even when my knees get scalded. Just don't give up on the flasks, please.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Skirts, skin and tarnished images
A few days ago, I read a column by Pamela Philipose where she says "we confront one of the most assiduously cultivated fears in traditional societies: the fear of female sexuality as a potential destabiliser of ways of life and social hierarchies — not least those governing men and women. The fear is an old and familiar one and is especially associated with unattached women...."
It got me thinking. What, really, is it about short skirts and culture?
Have we forgotten our own culture so completely? Are we really so out of tune the reality of what comprises India? I'm thinking of the adivasi women in Bastar, right now. They wear one short piece of cloth round the waist and another thrown round the shoulder. When they work in the fields, the upper cloth is thrown off entirely. When they carry babies, another bit of cloth is added, as a sort of sling.
Not that I didn't look at them. In all honesty, I did notice their bodies - the deep-brown skin, the bare breast, the stringy calves. But I found myself looking at them in a more whole, a more integral, sort of way. I looked at withered wrinkled skin. I looked at young, supply skin. I saw grey hair. I saw toothy smile. I saw a breast. I saw swollen stomach. And I found I could not look at them as objects - I could not longer look at parts of the body without looking at the whole woman.
Or man. Because the men also wore only a single short piece of cloth round the waist. And after a while, you stopped looking at the fact that so much skin was visible. You only saw the worry in the eyes, the lines on the forehead.
Of course, it is also true that they more they are exposed to life outside the forests, the more ashamed they seem to be of their bodies. The women have begun to wear blouses under their two bits of cloth. Some even wear full-length sarees. Nylon, invariably - cheap and entirely unsuitable for the weather. As you drive closer to urban centres, you find the women covering up more and more, some of them even covering their heads and hinding their faces when they talk to you.
The sight always leaves me incredibly sad.
How is it that we can undo, or try to, everything that represents colonial slavishness, except when it comes to our minds and our ideas of morality?
We change street names, city names, institution names. Why can we not go back to dressing the way we did in pre-british times? Why is it that we never, ever, hear a politician stand up and demand that women stop wearing petticoats under their sarees, since that is what 'Indian' culture dictated? How is it that school uniforms are never cotton kurtas, especially for boys? Why are we so afraid of being, and appearing, 'native'?
--------
On the other hand, I'm not feeling too sympathetic towards Khushboo either. Who asked the silly woman to go crying and apologizing on television? If she has the guts to feel something, she should have the guts to stand by it. If she - with her money, her police protection and her ability to get people to listen - gets cowed down this once, so will all those other Tamil women who agree with her. And I can bet there are a whole lot of them out there.
Speak up, you!
-----------
Speaking of tarnished images, here's some more furrowed brows on that account.
Stupid, stupid people. Did they think the dance-bar-ban would really settle down quietly, like so much dust?
It got me thinking. What, really, is it about short skirts and culture?
Have we forgotten our own culture so completely? Are we really so out of tune the reality of what comprises India? I'm thinking of the adivasi women in Bastar, right now. They wear one short piece of cloth round the waist and another thrown round the shoulder. When they work in the fields, the upper cloth is thrown off entirely. When they carry babies, another bit of cloth is added, as a sort of sling.
Not that I didn't look at them. In all honesty, I did notice their bodies - the deep-brown skin, the bare breast, the stringy calves. But I found myself looking at them in a more whole, a more integral, sort of way. I looked at withered wrinkled skin. I looked at young, supply skin. I saw grey hair. I saw toothy smile. I saw a breast. I saw swollen stomach. And I found I could not look at them as objects - I could not longer look at parts of the body without looking at the whole woman.
Or man. Because the men also wore only a single short piece of cloth round the waist. And after a while, you stopped looking at the fact that so much skin was visible. You only saw the worry in the eyes, the lines on the forehead.
Of course, it is also true that they more they are exposed to life outside the forests, the more ashamed they seem to be of their bodies. The women have begun to wear blouses under their two bits of cloth. Some even wear full-length sarees. Nylon, invariably - cheap and entirely unsuitable for the weather. As you drive closer to urban centres, you find the women covering up more and more, some of them even covering their heads and hinding their faces when they talk to you.
The sight always leaves me incredibly sad.
How is it that we can undo, or try to, everything that represents colonial slavishness, except when it comes to our minds and our ideas of morality?
We change street names, city names, institution names. Why can we not go back to dressing the way we did in pre-british times? Why is it that we never, ever, hear a politician stand up and demand that women stop wearing petticoats under their sarees, since that is what 'Indian' culture dictated? How is it that school uniforms are never cotton kurtas, especially for boys? Why are we so afraid of being, and appearing, 'native'?
--------
And just when I'd fimished fuming about Sania Mirza and her silly talk of forgiveness for short skirts (I could tell her that 'Allah' doesn't care. He/She made her pretty much nude, and didn't blindfold Himself, while doing so... like the song goes, "Pardah nahin jab koi khudaa se, bando.n se pardah karna kya?"), I come across this Khushboo controversy.
Poor Woman.
All she did was say (according to reports) that pre-marital sex was okay 'provided safety measures are followed to prevent pregnancy and sexually-transmitted diseases' and that 'No educated man today would expect his wife to be a virgin.'
And for this, they burn effigies, and file lawsuits?
According to the report, "The women's wing of PMK, an ally of the United Progressive Alliance (UPA) government, filed a civil suit in a metropolitan magistrate's court seeking action against the actress under sections 499 and 500 of the Indian Penal Code.... 'Khushboo has tarnished the image of Tamil women, making them hang their heads in shame,' the wing's central Chennai district leader Deepam Jaikumar said."
Right now, it is I who am hanging my head in shame on behalf of all the women of this country who are watching this happen and not daring to say "But of course! We agree with Khushboo".On the other hand, I'm not feeling too sympathetic towards Khushboo either. Who asked the silly woman to go crying and apologizing on television? If she has the guts to feel something, she should have the guts to stand by it. If she - with her money, her police protection and her ability to get people to listen - gets cowed down this once, so will all those other Tamil women who agree with her. And I can bet there are a whole lot of them out there.
Speak up, you!
-----------
Speaking of tarnished images, here's some more furrowed brows on that account.
Stupid, stupid people. Did they think the dance-bar-ban would really settle down quietly, like so much dust?
Morena and the modi*
On our way to the villages in Morena's rural regions, I muse, "Six lakhs each, eh? Multiplied by seven. Are the stakes that high in this sonography game? And how much more must the doctors be making? I mean, the village people can't afford that much, can they?"
"They can't. Not any more. But earlier, the sheer volumes made up for low prices. Rs 2000 was the going rate for revealing the sex of the foetus. The landed farmers could afford that much."
"And now?"
"Now, the business is shifting towards Agra, Gwalior, even Bhind. But the rates are higher there. Maybe Rs 5000. Maybe more. At least, rural folk think twice about gettign a test done - the travel, lodging and boarding expenses to and fro, the tests, the bribes... often, they get a sonography done in bigger cities and come back to Morena's small government hospitals to get an abortion. It works out cheaper."
"And those who can't afford it?"
"The very poor anyway don't bother. Also, the poorer ones are often lower caste or tribal. They don't mind having daughters."
"Why?"
She explains, "Some of the lower castes here are not so much into dowry. And even if they are, marriage is not sacrosanct, nor a one-time affair. If, for instance, the bride's parents find out that the girl is being mistreated, they will bring her back home, and soon set her up with someone else. That way, the girl's got more of a chance at surviving, even after birth."
"And dowry rates? For the average person, not very highly educated, let's say."
She says, "Guess."
I can't imagine, but I venture a number, anyway. "10 lakhs?"
"Haha! No, more like 35 lakhs in the city. For the average guy. For an IAS, or a doctor, don't even ask."
I don't ask. I don't want to know.
But the math begins to fall into place.
Later, in the village, I ask a woman why she is not educating all her daughters. She is barely forty, has seven daughters, of whom one has been given up for adoption. There would have been ten, but three girls were aborted.
She says, "5 lakhs, if the girl is illiterate. But if you educate her, you have to give more. How much can I give?"
I look at six of her seven daughters. The youngest is a newborn babe, flies buzzing around an open eye-wound. The eldest is about sixteen, combing out her hair because I'm going to take photographs. If she were a boy, she'd have been out with her father, handling the bullocks, managing the fields. I ask her if she will become a farmer, and spare her mother any future attempts to have boys. She lowers her head and does not reply.
Dowry means she will not study. Which means she cannot manage her own land easily. Which means she must be married off to somebody else. Which means she needs a dowry. Which means she had better stay uneducated. Which means...
I look at her little sister, who is about ten, and still attends school. I mumur, "At least, one... you will study, won't you? At least, one of you?"
She grins, not understanding.
I tell myself, maybe she will, after all.
[* Modi, in the Morena dialect, means girl]
"They can't. Not any more. But earlier, the sheer volumes made up for low prices. Rs 2000 was the going rate for revealing the sex of the foetus. The landed farmers could afford that much."
"And now?"
"Now, the business is shifting towards Agra, Gwalior, even Bhind. But the rates are higher there. Maybe Rs 5000. Maybe more. At least, rural folk think twice about gettign a test done - the travel, lodging and boarding expenses to and fro, the tests, the bribes... often, they get a sonography done in bigger cities and come back to Morena's small government hospitals to get an abortion. It works out cheaper."
"And those who can't afford it?"
"The very poor anyway don't bother. Also, the poorer ones are often lower caste or tribal. They don't mind having daughters."
"Why?"
She explains, "Some of the lower castes here are not so much into dowry. And even if they are, marriage is not sacrosanct, nor a one-time affair. If, for instance, the bride's parents find out that the girl is being mistreated, they will bring her back home, and soon set her up with someone else. That way, the girl's got more of a chance at surviving, even after birth."
"And dowry rates? For the average person, not very highly educated, let's say."
She says, "Guess."
I can't imagine, but I venture a number, anyway. "10 lakhs?"
"Haha! No, more like 35 lakhs in the city. For the average guy. For an IAS, or a doctor, don't even ask."
I don't ask. I don't want to know.
But the math begins to fall into place.
Later, in the village, I ask a woman why she is not educating all her daughters. She is barely forty, has seven daughters, of whom one has been given up for adoption. There would have been ten, but three girls were aborted.
She says, "5 lakhs, if the girl is illiterate. But if you educate her, you have to give more. How much can I give?"
I look at six of her seven daughters. The youngest is a newborn babe, flies buzzing around an open eye-wound. The eldest is about sixteen, combing out her hair because I'm going to take photographs. If she were a boy, she'd have been out with her father, handling the bullocks, managing the fields. I ask her if she will become a farmer, and spare her mother any future attempts to have boys. She lowers her head and does not reply.
Dowry means she will not study. Which means she cannot manage her own land easily. Which means she must be married off to somebody else. Which means she needs a dowry. Which means she had better stay uneducated. Which means...
I look at her little sister, who is about ten, and still attends school. I mumur, "At least, one... you will study, won't you? At least, one of you?"
She grins, not understanding.
I tell myself, maybe she will, after all.
[* Modi, in the Morena dialect, means girl]
The honourable Rustom Singh-ji of Morena
Did I ever mention my pursuit of the honourable Mr Rustom Singh, MLA, state minister for health, ex-cop and self-acknowledged polygot - or at least, bi-got (I really didn't intend the pun... no really, I swear), wearer of berets and moustaches?
So, there I was, at about 6 pm, in Morena, waiting for a chance to speak to the honourable state (cabinet) minister of public health, who happens to be in the town, which is also his constituency.
He is sitting in the front row of the pandal, waiting to ascend to the stage, along with some fifteen other gentlemen - local heavyweights all - at a function organised by the Nav Yug Manhar Gware Vaishya Maharaj Mahasen Samaj (okay, so I might have got the order of the words wrong, but I swear all these words stood, juxtaposed with themselves, up on the banner above Mr Rustam Singh's head).
And I am listening to the doyens of the Gware samaj buzz about business against a backdrop of hit-filmi sangeet, while watching the little cherubs of the Gware samaj dancing to win prizes in a freestyle, pop-sy dance competition, to an audience of semi-silk rustles of the semi-ghoonghat-bearing matrons of the Gware samaj, trying to ignore the persistently-consistently booming voice of the Gware Samaj emcee.
Just below the stage, four men stood with long wooden poles on their shoulders, strung with hundreds of marigold garlands.
The emcee invites, one by heavyweighted-named one representative of the Gware Samaj, up on the 'stayz' , to garland the honorable Rustom Singh-ji, MLA. (He broke the monotony by ordering some others to honour the slightly-less-honourable-but-equally-garland-worthy Gajaraj Singh Sikarwal-ji, rival politician from the same constituency).
First, Mr ABC-ji, local doctor, was invited, to marigold-garland Rustom Singh-ji. Then Mr BCD-ji, local marble-quarry owner, was invited, to marigold-garland Gajaraj Singh Sikarwal-ji. Then Mr CDE-ji, local independent-candidate-who-lost-the-election, was invited to garland both Rustom Singh-ji and Gajaraj singh Sikarwal-ji. Then Mr DEF-ji was invited.....
This went on. And on. And on.
The emcee enthusiastically goaded spectators - mostly restless children wearing lipstick and rustling mothers impatient to watch their children perform - to 'Hands Together!' for ABC or PQR personage, and "Swaagat kariye".
The emcee took a two-minute break from coordinating the 'swagat' brigade, to allow a lamp to be lit in front of the photograph of Maharaj Mahasen, who was also garlanded in marigold, incidentally. Then, everyone went back to their seats, and the marigolden-swaagat recommenced.
A sole note of confusion crept into the proceedings, when Mr GHI who was supposed to garland an old freedom fighter also sitting on the stage, ended up garlanding Rustam Singh-ji instead. Poor Mr emcee could only mutter, between the marathon garlanding: "Oh? Er... yes, yes. Aap bhi stayz pe aaiye. Swaagat! (you're also welcome.)"
With a morbid kind of fascination, I stayed tuned in.
I have never seen so much marigold, barring weddings. I never never seen 'swaagat' on this scale. Such endurance, such enthusiasm for garlanding political necks, such a lengthy list of 'community-leaders', I have never seen!
When the Mr A-Zs of the Gware samaj were run through, the emcee began inviting the Mrs ABCs of the community. However, there were much fewer women being invited up on the 'stayz'.
Then, it was the turn of the local boys - 'the youngster generation' - to take up the baton of this marigold marathon.
Finally, the emcee invited honorable mantri-ji to speak, thus: "Not a sound. I tell you, not a sound out of you all! The honourable mantri-ji will speak now."
The mantri-ji returned his compliments, by beginning his speech, thus:
"First of all, I want to admire the compere. He is truly, really, totally charming. His voice is so attractive. He is so natural. His English is wonderful... and I am impressed; you see, I speak both English and Hindi myself. I am impressed at his English. So wonderful. He is a truly attractive compere... what is your name, young man? Ah! I must congratulate the Gware community for having produced such wonderful younger generation...."
I was rather impressed myself, but I began to tune out.
Another, much more interesting conversation is happening at my shoulder. A young boy is shaking hands with my companion, a local activist working to counter female foeticide in the region.
He tells her, "Didi, you're doing good work. These people... they deserved it."
He is referring to the local campaign against doctors who perform sonography tests, without finishing the accompanying legalities. I discover that the boy is a cousin of a local radiologist, one whose clinic was on the blacklist, and whose license had been temporarily suspended, that is, until honourable Rustam Singh-ji took over the state public health portfolio. (My report, here and here).
The activist asks, "Is it true that the clinics had to pay up to get their licenses back?"
The boy shrugged, "6 lakhs. Pakki baat hai (it's a certainty)."
"All pooled in?"
"Hah! 6 lakhs each!"
"And it went to?"
The boy smiled a slow smile and nodded at the stage, where the honorable minister was poking public fun at his fellow-garlanded heavyweights, the ones who lost the last election, at any rate.
------------------
I wait to meet the honourable minister.
He has told me that he will speak to me after the Gware samaj function. After the function, he tells me he will speak to me after the dinner. After his dinner, he tells me he will speak to me after he has visited a colleague.
I wait for him at the circuit-house, hoping that he will eventually return here., before going back to Bhopal.
9 pm. I wait. 9.30 pm, I wait. 10 pm. I wait. 10.30 pm, I wait.
And then, a flash of whirring red-light topped ambassadors and the screech of tyres. Armed bodyguards and circuit-house karmchaaris rushing to put on their white caps, and bend their heads, by way of swaagat.
He doesn't arrive alone. There are at least 30-35 men with him. I sit my ground. I mean, a white-linen covered sofa. I'm not going away, I firmly decide.
After bantering with half the crowd, accepting compliments and flowers, turning down a marriage invitation and blessing those who touch his feet with a half-wave of the hand, he turns to me.
"Yes, madam?"
The honourable Ruston Singh speaks to me in English (sort of), throughout, despite my attempts at switching to Hindi, to spare both of us our individual linguistic pains.
When I ask a particularly uncomfortable question, he says, "I am only speaking to you in English because you're from Delhi. You Delhi people - you are all English. You see, I am equally comfortable in both languages. English and Hindi. I can even speak in our Morena-dialect. But you will not understand our moda-modi language."
I assure him, I will. Then, I add, "Actually, I'd prefer it if you speak in Hindi."
He leans back into the sofa, sighs with relief and promptly does so.
I promptly ask him more uncomfortable questions. Like how it was that the sonography-equipped clinics got back their licenses after he took over the public health portfolio in the state.
He denies it. "As a matter of fact, the licenses were suspended only when I took over. I master-minded the raids you see. You think the administration could do anything without my wanting it to?"
The activist accompanying me points out that the dates don't quite correspond - the raids happened, the licenses got cancelled, he took over as state health minister, pleas were filed, the directorate of health reinstated the licenses.... in that order.
At this point, the honourable Rustam Singh-ji lost his temper and raised his voice, all the while continuing to bless, with a half-wave, those who continued to touch his feet. "You know nothing! What do you know about Morena?....... But I have given you enough time. I have other things to do."
While another devotee dived towards his feet, the mantri-ji stood up, adjusted his beret, and stalked off into the cool recesses of the circuit-house.
I remain seated on the white-linen covered sofa, taking notes furiously. Taking down every single word.
[Cont, in the next post]
---------------------
So, there I was, at about 6 pm, in Morena, waiting for a chance to speak to the honourable state (cabinet) minister of public health, who happens to be in the town, which is also his constituency.
He is sitting in the front row of the pandal, waiting to ascend to the stage, along with some fifteen other gentlemen - local heavyweights all - at a function organised by the Nav Yug Manhar Gware Vaishya Maharaj Mahasen Samaj (okay, so I might have got the order of the words wrong, but I swear all these words stood, juxtaposed with themselves, up on the banner above Mr Rustam Singh's head).
And I am listening to the doyens of the Gware samaj buzz about business against a backdrop of hit-filmi sangeet, while watching the little cherubs of the Gware samaj dancing to win prizes in a freestyle, pop-sy dance competition, to an audience of semi-silk rustles of the semi-ghoonghat-bearing matrons of the Gware samaj, trying to ignore the persistently-consistently booming voice of the Gware Samaj emcee.
Just below the stage, four men stood with long wooden poles on their shoulders, strung with hundreds of marigold garlands.
The emcee invites, one by heavyweighted-named one representative of the Gware Samaj, up on the 'stayz' , to garland the honorable Rustom Singh-ji, MLA. (He broke the monotony by ordering some others to honour the slightly-less-honourable-but-equally-garland-worthy Gajaraj Singh Sikarwal-ji, rival politician from the same constituency).
First, Mr ABC-ji, local doctor, was invited, to marigold-garland Rustom Singh-ji. Then Mr BCD-ji, local marble-quarry owner, was invited, to marigold-garland Gajaraj Singh Sikarwal-ji. Then Mr CDE-ji, local independent-candidate-who-lost-the-election, was invited to garland both Rustom Singh-ji and Gajaraj singh Sikarwal-ji. Then Mr DEF-ji was invited.....
This went on. And on. And on.
The emcee enthusiastically goaded spectators - mostly restless children wearing lipstick and rustling mothers impatient to watch their children perform - to 'Hands Together!' for ABC or PQR personage, and "Swaagat kariye".
The emcee took a two-minute break from coordinating the 'swagat' brigade, to allow a lamp to be lit in front of the photograph of Maharaj Mahasen, who was also garlanded in marigold, incidentally. Then, everyone went back to their seats, and the marigolden-swaagat recommenced.
A sole note of confusion crept into the proceedings, when Mr GHI who was supposed to garland an old freedom fighter also sitting on the stage, ended up garlanding Rustam Singh-ji instead. Poor Mr emcee could only mutter, between the marathon garlanding: "Oh? Er... yes, yes. Aap bhi stayz pe aaiye. Swaagat! (you're also welcome.)"
With a morbid kind of fascination, I stayed tuned in.
I have never seen so much marigold, barring weddings. I never never seen 'swaagat' on this scale. Such endurance, such enthusiasm for garlanding political necks, such a lengthy list of 'community-leaders', I have never seen!
When the Mr A-Zs of the Gware samaj were run through, the emcee began inviting the Mrs ABCs of the community. However, there were much fewer women being invited up on the 'stayz'.
Then, it was the turn of the local boys - 'the youngster generation' - to take up the baton of this marigold marathon.
Finally, the emcee invited honorable mantri-ji to speak, thus: "Not a sound. I tell you, not a sound out of you all! The honourable mantri-ji will speak now."
The mantri-ji returned his compliments, by beginning his speech, thus:
"First of all, I want to admire the compere. He is truly, really, totally charming. His voice is so attractive. He is so natural. His English is wonderful... and I am impressed; you see, I speak both English and Hindi myself. I am impressed at his English. So wonderful. He is a truly attractive compere... what is your name, young man? Ah! I must congratulate the Gware community for having produced such wonderful younger generation...."
I was rather impressed myself, but I began to tune out.
Another, much more interesting conversation is happening at my shoulder. A young boy is shaking hands with my companion, a local activist working to counter female foeticide in the region.
He tells her, "Didi, you're doing good work. These people... they deserved it."
He is referring to the local campaign against doctors who perform sonography tests, without finishing the accompanying legalities. I discover that the boy is a cousin of a local radiologist, one whose clinic was on the blacklist, and whose license had been temporarily suspended, that is, until honourable Rustam Singh-ji took over the state public health portfolio. (My report, here and here).
The activist asks, "Is it true that the clinics had to pay up to get their licenses back?"
The boy shrugged, "6 lakhs. Pakki baat hai (it's a certainty)."
"All pooled in?"
"Hah! 6 lakhs each!"
"And it went to?"
The boy smiled a slow smile and nodded at the stage, where the honorable minister was poking public fun at his fellow-garlanded heavyweights, the ones who lost the last election, at any rate.
------------------
I wait to meet the honourable minister.
He has told me that he will speak to me after the Gware samaj function. After the function, he tells me he will speak to me after the dinner. After his dinner, he tells me he will speak to me after he has visited a colleague.
I wait for him at the circuit-house, hoping that he will eventually return here., before going back to Bhopal.
9 pm. I wait. 9.30 pm, I wait. 10 pm. I wait. 10.30 pm, I wait.
And then, a flash of whirring red-light topped ambassadors and the screech of tyres. Armed bodyguards and circuit-house karmchaaris rushing to put on their white caps, and bend their heads, by way of swaagat.
He doesn't arrive alone. There are at least 30-35 men with him. I sit my ground. I mean, a white-linen covered sofa. I'm not going away, I firmly decide.
After bantering with half the crowd, accepting compliments and flowers, turning down a marriage invitation and blessing those who touch his feet with a half-wave of the hand, he turns to me.
"Yes, madam?"
The honourable Ruston Singh speaks to me in English (sort of), throughout, despite my attempts at switching to Hindi, to spare both of us our individual linguistic pains.
When I ask a particularly uncomfortable question, he says, "I am only speaking to you in English because you're from Delhi. You Delhi people - you are all English. You see, I am equally comfortable in both languages. English and Hindi. I can even speak in our Morena-dialect. But you will not understand our moda-modi language."
I assure him, I will. Then, I add, "Actually, I'd prefer it if you speak in Hindi."
He leans back into the sofa, sighs with relief and promptly does so.
I promptly ask him more uncomfortable questions. Like how it was that the sonography-equipped clinics got back their licenses after he took over the public health portfolio in the state.
He denies it. "As a matter of fact, the licenses were suspended only when I took over. I master-minded the raids you see. You think the administration could do anything without my wanting it to?"
The activist accompanying me points out that the dates don't quite correspond - the raids happened, the licenses got cancelled, he took over as state health minister, pleas were filed, the directorate of health reinstated the licenses.... in that order.
At this point, the honourable Rustam Singh-ji lost his temper and raised his voice, all the while continuing to bless, with a half-wave, those who continued to touch his feet. "You know nothing! What do you know about Morena?....... But I have given you enough time. I have other things to do."
While another devotee dived towards his feet, the mantri-ji stood up, adjusted his beret, and stalked off into the cool recesses of the circuit-house.
I remain seated on the white-linen covered sofa, taking notes furiously. Taking down every single word.
[Cont, in the next post]
---------------------
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
New
I have new links (see right panel).
Suhail, Quizman, R. and Anand were long overdue.
V and R are new bloggers, but old friends. Biddin' ye welcome, Ladies.
And I have bloglines.
Finally!
Though I like visiting each blogger's url individually, as a sort of profound ritual, there are finally too many blogs and too little time.
Suhail, Quizman, R. and Anand were long overdue.
V and R are new bloggers, but old friends. Biddin' ye welcome, Ladies.
And I have bloglines.
Finally!
Though I like visiting each blogger's url individually, as a sort of profound ritual, there are finally too many blogs and too little time.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Sleepy, sleepy Noida
It is a hot Sunday afternoon in Noida's Sector 62.
I am dropping off, in a cab, while my friend J waits for a real-estate broker to turn up and show us some rented accomodation.
The ATM, the lone one visible for miles around - a mildly disconcerting phenomena in modern ATM-every-100-yards-cities - is sleepy.
The dusty road is sleepy.
The half-constructed buildings are sleepy.
The play-school - daringly painted in blues, reds, yellows (?) and whites - is a sleepy reminder of where our country's future architects and dress designers acquire their unforgiveable aesthetics.
The homes across the half-mile wide roads look more dead than sleepy. Not a child plays. Not a bird sings. A leaf moves, reluctantly, goaded by a sleepy breeze. No cabs, no autos zip past. One cycle-rickshaw trundles past, on an average, every half hour. A zigzagging row of sleepy buffaloes trudges past.
I am, understandably, sleepy.
J is, understandably, depressed.
"You could commute...?"
"Need a car."
"Could buy."
"Need money... have loans."
"Hmm."
Now, I'm mildly depressed too.
No car, no money. No broker in sight and no access to the happening malls we'd heard so much about.
Suddenly, J begins to count - '2, 4, 6, 8... that's 50 grand.'
I say, "What?"
"50,000 rupees... on the road."
I stare, then roll down the windows and stare harder. "Where?"
She nods at the row of ambling buffaloes, "Amit Varm'a post on the cost of buffaloes, remember?" (For the life of me, I cannot locate that link, despite an hour of googling. Amit, help?)
As I try to picture us - stealing buffaloes, a young cowherd, brandishing a lathi, in hot pursuit, while we try dragging the beasts to the nearest car showroom, attempting to exchange our loot for a second-hand Maruti....
we collapse into giggles.
Two of the buffaloes turn to us and amble over. J squeals, "roll up the window, roll up the window."
I don't. "Maybe they overheard, and are coming over to negotiate a deal."
We giggle louder.
If I wasn't giggling, I'd have described the vision in my mind - in glassy, air-conditioned splendour, these dark beauties regally wallowing in a specially-crafted mud-pond. But we couldn't stop giggling.
And then, the sleepy Sunday afternoon in Noida is not so sleepy after all.
I am dropping off, in a cab, while my friend J waits for a real-estate broker to turn up and show us some rented accomodation.
The ATM, the lone one visible for miles around - a mildly disconcerting phenomena in modern ATM-every-100-yards-cities - is sleepy.
The dusty road is sleepy.
The half-constructed buildings are sleepy.
The play-school - daringly painted in blues, reds, yellows (?) and whites - is a sleepy reminder of where our country's future architects and dress designers acquire their unforgiveable aesthetics.
The homes across the half-mile wide roads look more dead than sleepy. Not a child plays. Not a bird sings. A leaf moves, reluctantly, goaded by a sleepy breeze. No cabs, no autos zip past. One cycle-rickshaw trundles past, on an average, every half hour. A zigzagging row of sleepy buffaloes trudges past.
I am, understandably, sleepy.
J is, understandably, depressed.
"You could commute...?"
"Need a car."
"Could buy."
"Need money... have loans."
"Hmm."
Now, I'm mildly depressed too.
No car, no money. No broker in sight and no access to the happening malls we'd heard so much about.
Suddenly, J begins to count - '2, 4, 6, 8... that's 50 grand.'
I say, "What?"
"50,000 rupees... on the road."
I stare, then roll down the windows and stare harder. "Where?"
She nods at the row of ambling buffaloes, "Amit Varm'a post on the cost of buffaloes, remember?" (For the life of me, I cannot locate that link, despite an hour of googling. Amit, help?)
As I try to picture us - stealing buffaloes, a young cowherd, brandishing a lathi, in hot pursuit, while we try dragging the beasts to the nearest car showroom, attempting to exchange our loot for a second-hand Maruti....
we collapse into giggles.
Two of the buffaloes turn to us and amble over. J squeals, "roll up the window, roll up the window."
I don't. "Maybe they overheard, and are coming over to negotiate a deal."
We giggle louder.
If I wasn't giggling, I'd have described the vision in my mind - in glassy, air-conditioned splendour, these dark beauties regally wallowing in a specially-crafted mud-pond. But we couldn't stop giggling.
And then, the sleepy Sunday afternoon in Noida is not so sleepy after all.
Monday, September 19, 2005
'Other persuations' and the girl child
I was doing some background research for an article, and came up with the following snippet from First Report on Religion Data (collected during the 2001 Census):
Of India 's total population, seven years old and above, 64.8% are literate... Christians, at 80.3%, and Buddhists, at 72.7%, follow the Jains in literacy rates. The lowest literacy rates are among people of 'other religions and persuasions', at 47%.
States such as Punjab , Haryana and Gujarat depict a distinct bias against the girl-child regardless of religious affiliation.
Similarly, religion seems to have little effect on attitudes towards women. Christians down south have a better sex ratio - so do Hindus and Muslims. But the Christians in Punjab have a shamefully low child sex ratio ratio of 870 girls /1,000 boys .
Surprisingly, this 'other persuations' category of people, i.e. those who don't want to report their religion, records the highest child sex ratio of 976/1,000 across the country....
Hmmm.
Interesting, no?
---------------------
And, on a related note, found this through a CJP press note -
The Citizens for Justice and Peace and Women’s Centre, Mumbai have in a joint intervention application sought to become party respondents to a petition filed in the Bombay High Court challenging the constitutionality of the Pre-natal Diagnostic Techniques (Regulation and Prevention of Misuse) Amendment Act, 2002 (14 of 2003) along with The Pre-conception and Pre-natal Diagnostic Techniques (Prohibition of Sec Selection) Rules, 1996.
The petition filed by one Shri Vinod Soni and his wife in early 2005, is on the grounds that as father of boys they have the fundamental right to a balanced family and therefore choose to select and conceive a female baby.
Recent media reports however have shown that the petitioner couple have admitted to not having much knowledge of the petition but had actually been asked to become petitioners by medical practioneers interested in the continuance of practices that result in the select elimination of girl babies.
Oh fie! Aren't you ashamed of yourselves, Mr and Mrs Soni!?
Of India 's total population, seven years old and above, 64.8% are literate... Christians, at 80.3%, and Buddhists, at 72.7%, follow the Jains in literacy rates. The lowest literacy rates are among people of 'other religions and persuasions', at 47%.
States such as Punjab , Haryana and Gujarat depict a distinct bias against the girl-child regardless of religious affiliation.
Similarly, religion seems to have little effect on attitudes towards women. Christians down south have a better sex ratio - so do Hindus and Muslims. But the Christians in Punjab have a shamefully low child sex ratio ratio of 870 girls /1,000 boys .
Surprisingly, this 'other persuations' category of people, i.e. those who don't want to report their religion, records the highest child sex ratio of 976/1,000 across the country....
Hmmm.
Interesting, no?
---------------------
And, on a related note, found this through a CJP press note -
The Citizens for Justice and Peace and Women’s Centre, Mumbai have in a joint intervention application sought to become party respondents to a petition filed in the Bombay High Court challenging the constitutionality of the Pre-natal Diagnostic Techniques (Regulation and Prevention of Misuse) Amendment Act, 2002 (14 of 2003) along with The Pre-conception and Pre-natal Diagnostic Techniques (Prohibition of Sec Selection) Rules, 1996.
The petition filed by one Shri Vinod Soni and his wife in early 2005, is on the grounds that as father of boys they have the fundamental right to a balanced family and therefore choose to select and conceive a female baby.
Recent media reports however have shown that the petitioner couple have admitted to not having much knowledge of the petition but had actually been asked to become petitioners by medical practioneers interested in the continuance of practices that result in the select elimination of girl babies.
Oh fie! Aren't you ashamed of yourselves, Mr and Mrs Soni!?
Friday, September 16, 2005
Not all bad
A few months ago, I was added onto the mailing list of this network in Delhi, where members, apparently, are keen on changing the system. On lowering power tariffs, and lobbying for rollbacks. On wiping out corruption. On making us all think laterally.
Now, I don't know what their politics is but I'd take bets on the fact that they're largely middle-class, if not fairly well-off. They're educated and they have net access.
I am not particularly keen on jumping into this particular fray, but I read their mails now and then, in the hope that someone may have something really interesting to say. This is what one particular gentleman recommends:
"...let us take a oath that we will stop working for system right from today.
instead of garao (sic) of politicians we should concentrate on public servants.
See the following Irony
If you are public servants not only you are taked (sic) care in your life but also after life by taking care of your family and children as well and housing and foodany (sic) thing even in most cases telephone or free electricity or railway passes as well.
but you are free man and common citizen you are not even allowed to work freely or start a school or hospital or some other scocial cause work but only hointerences (sic) in form of rules and regulation, forget the loafty Slgans Like Roti Kapara Aur MAnkan (sic) but bebare (sic) if they kew (the public servants) will come and take that away as well.
hencee (sic) start
*Scrap the constitutiom
Garao of dishonest public servants and force them to resign..."
Etc.
The rest is probably an angry outburst. But 'scrap the constitution'? Where did that one come from?
Incidentally, I've found that going into a sarkaari office is not necessarily an unpleasant experience, even for the 'free man and common citizen'.
I had been postponing applying for a PAN card for some time now, and when I absolutely HAD to, I was carrying a little extra cash... I was so sure I'd have to bribe a little, or fight a little, or brandish a press card, or all three.
I got a form ready, which I stupidly filled with blue ink, though the instructions specifically mentioned 'black ink only'. The passport photograph I carried along was too large (again, stupidly ignoring instructions about getting a stamp-size). I wasn't carrying any glue, either. I didn't even know how to check the area code for my own Delhi region, and had left those sections blank.
In anticipation of stupid first-timers like me, they'd set up a desk where glue, a black pen and a razor-blade (to cut a passport photo, so it fits the relevant column) were available. A chart was pasted outside the door, to help us identify regional codes.
There were long queues; the officials accepting and stamping forms were harried and impatient, because EVERY third person would either mess up their forms, or leave them incomplete. But they kept working, and working fast, without screaming or asking for bribes.
I was sent back to fill a new form and I internally groaned, thinking the counter would shut down in fifteen minutes, since it was already 12 noon. But they officials kept working until the appointed lunch-hour, and even beyond.
To my enormous surprise, I finished the process in fifteen minutes flat. A couple of weeks later, the pan card arrived by post.... And when it did, I remember a distinct feeling of gratitude, and sheepishness, for assuming that every other sarkaari worker out there is lazy and corrupt. Mentally, I apologized.
Now, I don't know what their politics is but I'd take bets on the fact that they're largely middle-class, if not fairly well-off. They're educated and they have net access.
I am not particularly keen on jumping into this particular fray, but I read their mails now and then, in the hope that someone may have something really interesting to say. This is what one particular gentleman recommends:
"...let us take a oath that we will stop working for system right from today.
instead of garao (sic) of politicians we should concentrate on public servants.
See the following Irony
If you are public servants not only you are taked (sic) care in your life but also after life by taking care of your family and children as well and housing and foodany (sic) thing even in most cases telephone or free electricity or railway passes as well.
but you are free man and common citizen you are not even allowed to work freely or start a school or hospital or some other scocial cause work but only hointerences (sic) in form of rules and regulation, forget the loafty Slgans Like Roti Kapara Aur MAnkan (sic) but bebare (sic) if they kew (the public servants) will come and take that away as well.
hencee (sic) start
*Scrap the constitutiom
Garao of dishonest public servants and force them to resign..."
Etc.
The rest is probably an angry outburst. But 'scrap the constitution'? Where did that one come from?
Incidentally, I've found that going into a sarkaari office is not necessarily an unpleasant experience, even for the 'free man and common citizen'.
I had been postponing applying for a PAN card for some time now, and when I absolutely HAD to, I was carrying a little extra cash... I was so sure I'd have to bribe a little, or fight a little, or brandish a press card, or all three.
I got a form ready, which I stupidly filled with blue ink, though the instructions specifically mentioned 'black ink only'. The passport photograph I carried along was too large (again, stupidly ignoring instructions about getting a stamp-size). I wasn't carrying any glue, either. I didn't even know how to check the area code for my own Delhi region, and had left those sections blank.
In anticipation of stupid first-timers like me, they'd set up a desk where glue, a black pen and a razor-blade (to cut a passport photo, so it fits the relevant column) were available. A chart was pasted outside the door, to help us identify regional codes.
There were long queues; the officials accepting and stamping forms were harried and impatient, because EVERY third person would either mess up their forms, or leave them incomplete. But they kept working, and working fast, without screaming or asking for bribes.
I was sent back to fill a new form and I internally groaned, thinking the counter would shut down in fifteen minutes, since it was already 12 noon. But they officials kept working until the appointed lunch-hour, and even beyond.
To my enormous surprise, I finished the process in fifteen minutes flat. A couple of weeks later, the pan card arrived by post.... And when it did, I remember a distinct feeling of gratitude, and sheepishness, for assuming that every other sarkaari worker out there is lazy and corrupt. Mentally, I apologized.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Auto-maton 5.
There are auto-rickshaws available right outside my office building. But I am resigned to a five-minute walk before I find one that uses the meter. I refuse, barring emergencies (or when a movie is about to begin in exactly 30 minutes), to haggle with drivers.
The drivers outside office have begun to recognize me: meter-wali sawari.... I am, to them, the passenger who cannot be wooed without a meter.
Everyday, they'd ask me 'Madam, kahaan?' (madam, where?)
And everyday, I'd say, "Kahin bhi... jahannum bhi jaaon, meter se chaloongi' (Wherever I go, even if I go to hell, I'll insist on the meter)
Often, I'd lose my cool. They would say 'But we're only asking for ten rupees more.'
I'd say, 'Would you accept five rupees less? Why should I lose ten rupees, then?'
Very deliberately, I would march off, sulkily, waiting for a driver who used the meter without a fuss.
Imagine my surprise when, the day I was struggling to haggle with rick-drivers at CP, an auto brakes to a halt barely inches from my toes. A grinning driver leaned out and invited me to sit inside, while switching on his meter with a flourish. The pock-marked face (is that politically incorrect? Not meant as insensitive, but merely a description), the tiny eyes and leathery skin were familiar. It was the same man who refused to use the meter everyday, outside the office.
I smiled and thanked him.
A few days later, I found myself similarly stuck, near Mandi House. And there was Mr Grinny-Marked Face, again to my rescue. Since then, he's become like my commute-knight. I see him and I know I won't have to haggle.
Last week, I hailed him, but he was busy chatting up a friend, over chai. Nevertheless, he took me to another auto-driver and sternly told the latter, "Daily ki sawari hain. Meter se...' (She's a daily passenger. Use the meter.)
On Saturday, I was forced to haggle again. It was late at night and Mr Grinny-Marked Face was nowhere to be seen. So, I argued, I marched off, I came back, I haggled. But ultimately, I gave in, taking the only auto available. Just as the auto swung away, I noticed a very visibly angry Mr Grinny-Marked Face stamping behind us.
And I am hoping that my commute-knight will give his biradari-brethren a sound verbal lashing on behalf of the 'daily ki sawari'.
Auto-maton 1, 2, 3, 4
The drivers outside office have begun to recognize me: meter-wali sawari.... I am, to them, the passenger who cannot be wooed without a meter.
Everyday, they'd ask me 'Madam, kahaan?' (madam, where?)
And everyday, I'd say, "Kahin bhi... jahannum bhi jaaon, meter se chaloongi' (Wherever I go, even if I go to hell, I'll insist on the meter)
Often, I'd lose my cool. They would say 'But we're only asking for ten rupees more.'
I'd say, 'Would you accept five rupees less? Why should I lose ten rupees, then?'
Very deliberately, I would march off, sulkily, waiting for a driver who used the meter without a fuss.
Imagine my surprise when, the day I was struggling to haggle with rick-drivers at CP, an auto brakes to a halt barely inches from my toes. A grinning driver leaned out and invited me to sit inside, while switching on his meter with a flourish. The pock-marked face (is that politically incorrect? Not meant as insensitive, but merely a description), the tiny eyes and leathery skin were familiar. It was the same man who refused to use the meter everyday, outside the office.
I smiled and thanked him.
A few days later, I found myself similarly stuck, near Mandi House. And there was Mr Grinny-Marked Face, again to my rescue. Since then, he's become like my commute-knight. I see him and I know I won't have to haggle.
Last week, I hailed him, but he was busy chatting up a friend, over chai. Nevertheless, he took me to another auto-driver and sternly told the latter, "Daily ki sawari hain. Meter se...' (She's a daily passenger. Use the meter.)
On Saturday, I was forced to haggle again. It was late at night and Mr Grinny-Marked Face was nowhere to be seen. So, I argued, I marched off, I came back, I haggled. But ultimately, I gave in, taking the only auto available. Just as the auto swung away, I noticed a very visibly angry Mr Grinny-Marked Face stamping behind us.
And I am hoping that my commute-knight will give his biradari-brethren a sound verbal lashing on behalf of the 'daily ki sawari'.
Auto-maton 1, 2, 3, 4
Of darzis and the mohalla
Last week, for the first time since I arrived here, I saw why Bombayiites insist that Delhi is a small town gone crazy.
Never in Bombay, for instance, would a neighbourhood darzi (tailor) take the liberty of slapping my shoulder hard, lightly clouting me on the head and scolding, “You talk too much, girl!”
Yes, yes, such things still happen in Delhi.
Master-saab of Islam Master Tailors seems to have decided that, by virtue of having measured me, made me two kurtas, ruined one of them and lightened my purse by some six hundred rupees, he has acquired the right to treat me like a naughty niece, who might have played on his knee when she was in diapers.
The thing is, whenever he sees me, I am busy chatting on the phone. Anywhere else, he'd wait for me to finish my (rather long) conversation, like all polite, mind-their-own-business clothing-professionals in big cities.
But not Islam Master-Tailor’s master-saab.
He took the liberty of whacking the back of my head and scolding me for being glued to the phone like it were a lifesaver. Not once, not twice, but three times.
Then he took the liberty of asking me who I was, who my father was, where we belonged, where that town was, why I didn’t live there, why I lived away from the family and ‘Oh, that explains why you’re always on the phone, poor thing!’
This gentleman is an old guy with a big white beard, white cap, Aligarhi pajamas (the very loose kind that hover a safe six inches above the feet).
He is the ‘tailor-master’, as opposed to mere tailor; master-saabs in north India are the guys who cut your cloth, and thereby wield tremendous power: The power of the scissors over cloth – will it flatter, will it cling, or will it be destroyed beyond redemption?
The master-saabs are also the ones who decide if you will get your new dress on time for the party, or not, whether your blouse gets precedence over that of Mrs Khanna during the Diwali rush-season or not.
Right now, instead of being offended, I find myself getting wistful, and entirely forgiving him for ruining the blue-n-white kurta, blaming myself for insisting on a western-Indian fusion design that he’d probably never seen before.
My other darzi – a much younger man who will stitch a plain kurta for a blessed Rs 70, but needs the assistance of a sample fit, most likely - is a prude. I don’t know his name yet, so I just refer to him as the padosi-prude darzi.
[He reminds me of my tailor-master from the hostel-era. He would cut a perfect fit but would always pretend to forget the measurements for necklines and hemlines. Despite my telling him I wanted eight inches of neckline, he’d never allow me more than six-and-a-half inches of bare neck, until I kept sending it back for alterations...
And then there was my friend G’s old tailor in Allahabad, who would stand a respectful three feet away while measuring her, and would not press the inch-tape close to her well-endowed bosom, never allowing his hands to touch her. As a result, all her kurtas would hang loose round the bust.]
As for my padosi-prude darzi, he ably converted a pink saree into a salwar-kurta, but it was handed to me with an admonishment – “You didn’t get a slip attached to this one?”
I mumbled, “er… not needed.”
Very sternly, he told me, “This is very transparent. You need a slip.”
I sighed, “I’ve got one at home. I’ll wear that.”
“Hmm. Please do. You can’t wear this without a slip.”
I meekly nooded, “Of course” and fled, praying that when I did put on that kurta, he’s not keeping an eye out to check for the non-existent slip.
Now, I think of how much I miss that female darzi in Munirka.
True, she never slapped my shoulder, scolded me or told me to wear slips. All she did was giggle hysterically when she realized that she’d ruined a silken shirt. She ironed the ensuing mess, in front of my own eyes, handed it back to me, and asked for eighty rupees for the favour.
Now, this is the sort of stuff that cannot happen with boutiques, with small-time fashion designers, with high-end tailors in higher-end suburbs. Not even with the elite darzis of yore, who served the nawabzadis. They were always polite, always careful not to give offence.
This is the sort of stuff that defines our small towns; the mohalla that gives you the overbearing, familiar tailor who treats you like he's got some rights over you. It gives you your darzi.
And I have learnt to love the darzi.
Never in Bombay, for instance, would a neighbourhood darzi (tailor) take the liberty of slapping my shoulder hard, lightly clouting me on the head and scolding, “You talk too much, girl!”
Yes, yes, such things still happen in Delhi.
Master-saab of Islam Master Tailors seems to have decided that, by virtue of having measured me, made me two kurtas, ruined one of them and lightened my purse by some six hundred rupees, he has acquired the right to treat me like a naughty niece, who might have played on his knee when she was in diapers.
The thing is, whenever he sees me, I am busy chatting on the phone. Anywhere else, he'd wait for me to finish my (rather long) conversation, like all polite, mind-their-own-business clothing-professionals in big cities.
But not Islam Master-Tailor’s master-saab.
He took the liberty of whacking the back of my head and scolding me for being glued to the phone like it were a lifesaver. Not once, not twice, but three times.
Then he took the liberty of asking me who I was, who my father was, where we belonged, where that town was, why I didn’t live there, why I lived away from the family and ‘Oh, that explains why you’re always on the phone, poor thing!’
This gentleman is an old guy with a big white beard, white cap, Aligarhi pajamas (the very loose kind that hover a safe six inches above the feet).
He is the ‘tailor-master’, as opposed to mere tailor; master-saabs in north India are the guys who cut your cloth, and thereby wield tremendous power: The power of the scissors over cloth – will it flatter, will it cling, or will it be destroyed beyond redemption?
The master-saabs are also the ones who decide if you will get your new dress on time for the party, or not, whether your blouse gets precedence over that of Mrs Khanna during the Diwali rush-season or not.
Right now, instead of being offended, I find myself getting wistful, and entirely forgiving him for ruining the blue-n-white kurta, blaming myself for insisting on a western-Indian fusion design that he’d probably never seen before.
My other darzi – a much younger man who will stitch a plain kurta for a blessed Rs 70, but needs the assistance of a sample fit, most likely - is a prude. I don’t know his name yet, so I just refer to him as the padosi-prude darzi.
[He reminds me of my tailor-master from the hostel-era. He would cut a perfect fit but would always pretend to forget the measurements for necklines and hemlines. Despite my telling him I wanted eight inches of neckline, he’d never allow me more than six-and-a-half inches of bare neck, until I kept sending it back for alterations...
And then there was my friend G’s old tailor in Allahabad, who would stand a respectful three feet away while measuring her, and would not press the inch-tape close to her well-endowed bosom, never allowing his hands to touch her. As a result, all her kurtas would hang loose round the bust.]
As for my padosi-prude darzi, he ably converted a pink saree into a salwar-kurta, but it was handed to me with an admonishment – “You didn’t get a slip attached to this one?”
I mumbled, “er… not needed.”
Very sternly, he told me, “This is very transparent. You need a slip.”
I sighed, “I’ve got one at home. I’ll wear that.”
“Hmm. Please do. You can’t wear this without a slip.”
I meekly nooded, “Of course” and fled, praying that when I did put on that kurta, he’s not keeping an eye out to check for the non-existent slip.
Now, I think of how much I miss that female darzi in Munirka.
True, she never slapped my shoulder, scolded me or told me to wear slips. All she did was giggle hysterically when she realized that she’d ruined a silken shirt. She ironed the ensuing mess, in front of my own eyes, handed it back to me, and asked for eighty rupees for the favour.
Now, this is the sort of stuff that cannot happen with boutiques, with small-time fashion designers, with high-end tailors in higher-end suburbs. Not even with the elite darzis of yore, who served the nawabzadis. They were always polite, always careful not to give offence.
This is the sort of stuff that defines our small towns; the mohalla that gives you the overbearing, familiar tailor who treats you like he's got some rights over you. It gives you your darzi.
And I have learnt to love the darzi.
Friday, September 02, 2005
Empathy is about imagination.
The ability to put on someone else's shoes. The ability to be, in your own mind, somebody else. Somebody, perhaps, that you are lucky you're not.
I have been preoccupied with women. In particular, missing women. The reports of growing foeticide, especially in relatively prosperous districts, make me angry.
That it should be happen is bad enough, but what really bothers me is the thought that the mothers let it happen - that there are at least a million women out there who agreed to, if not actively opted to, kill their girls - born or unborn. Mothers who are not facing starvation-level poverty. Mothers who, possibly, were neither unmarried nor raped. Grandmothers who pushed their daughters-in-law into getting rid of granddaughters.
I fail to emphathize, because my imagination completely fails me.
I heard all the usual arguments - we're all products of a given social environment. We're all made by society. We're all blah-blah-blah. But we're all also women.
What happened?
In college, all of us - every single girl - wanted a baby girl. And I went to a very conservative college, all-girls, small-town, where we had many reasons to resent being born women. Yet, nobody wanted boys.
Some of us might have referred to baby boys as an afterthought, as something that might be nice because, well, the family/world, needed to be 'complete'... But in an either/or situation, whoever wanted boys?!
Not us!
All of us wanted somebody whose hair we could braid. Somebody who would wear little pink booties, and insist on trying out our lipsticks. Somebody who would use dupattas to play dress-up-as-mommy. Somebody who would be sassy and smart and would shake her hips to item numbers, exactly like we did. Brave replicas. Better replicas. Somebody who would give meaning to the bizarreness of human procreation.
In fact, even the men we knew wanted daughters. They wanted daughters who'd play football, wear baseball caps, drive race-cars and beat up all the boys. Nobody I have ever known really wanted anything but a daughter.
What happened?
So maybe not all women grew up like us. But I'm sure they too wanted baby-girls.
Girls who would cry if you didn't get them new party frocks. Wilful, ambitious girls who would bully, charm, weep, work their way to Head-Girl type glory.
What happened?
And I try to imagine...
Suppose you get married. Married to a man who might play happily enough with a little girl, but who don't necessarily respect the mother. Married into a family where your decisions are not your own. Married after your own family incurred huge debts. Married into fear and insecurity and the monster called 'ever after'. Married and not allowed to support your old parents.
Married and hating it.
And then, suppose, you think of a baby girl.
You think of pink booties and party frocks (but don't leave her alone with the uncle from Kanpur) and college ('but maybe she should take up home science'?) and first love ('If I see you with that boy again, I'll break both your legs'?) and the first job ('be back before dark'... 'no party-sharty after 8.'). You think of wedding costs, loans, match-makers. You think of you.
You read reports and watch television... Rape. Trafficking. Harassment. Mutilation. Acid-attacks. Honour. Bride burnings. Stoning. Veiling. Wailing.... everywhere, in every country. You think of how easily it could be your daughter's turn.
And then, perhaps, you don't want this world for her... but you don't have the courage or the means to build an alternative world where she will not live out a predestined tragedy.
And I begin to understand. I begin to see why - for all our claims of wanting baby girls so much that we've even thought of what names we're going to give them - we don't want daughters.
We don't have the courage to stand up to the 'baba-not-baby' pressure, because we don't have the courage to live our own lives... We'd rather live with the void. We'd rather stay scared, than run scared.
I understand our collective lack of courage.
For we're products of our limited-limiting environments.
We're terrified of what will happen to us if we break all the rules, and who will stand by us, and who will feed us, and who will hold us if everyone we ever knew disowns us...? We're petrified by the thought that we will not have the guts to stand by our daughters if we let them grow up as we wanted to. And we know we will not forgive ourselves if they live our lives.
I cannot yet empathize, but (God forgive me) I understand. Without forgiveness for being able to, I understand. Ridden with guilt at being able to, so easily, I understand.
The ability to put on someone else's shoes. The ability to be, in your own mind, somebody else. Somebody, perhaps, that you are lucky you're not.
I have been preoccupied with women. In particular, missing women. The reports of growing foeticide, especially in relatively prosperous districts, make me angry.
That it should be happen is bad enough, but what really bothers me is the thought that the mothers let it happen - that there are at least a million women out there who agreed to, if not actively opted to, kill their girls - born or unborn. Mothers who are not facing starvation-level poverty. Mothers who, possibly, were neither unmarried nor raped. Grandmothers who pushed their daughters-in-law into getting rid of granddaughters.
I fail to emphathize, because my imagination completely fails me.
I heard all the usual arguments - we're all products of a given social environment. We're all made by society. We're all blah-blah-blah. But we're all also women.
What happened?
In college, all of us - every single girl - wanted a baby girl. And I went to a very conservative college, all-girls, small-town, where we had many reasons to resent being born women. Yet, nobody wanted boys.
Some of us might have referred to baby boys as an afterthought, as something that might be nice because, well, the family/world, needed to be 'complete'... But in an either/or situation, whoever wanted boys?!
Not us!
All of us wanted somebody whose hair we could braid. Somebody who would wear little pink booties, and insist on trying out our lipsticks. Somebody who would use dupattas to play dress-up-as-mommy. Somebody who would be sassy and smart and would shake her hips to item numbers, exactly like we did. Brave replicas. Better replicas. Somebody who would give meaning to the bizarreness of human procreation.
In fact, even the men we knew wanted daughters. They wanted daughters who'd play football, wear baseball caps, drive race-cars and beat up all the boys. Nobody I have ever known really wanted anything but a daughter.
What happened?
So maybe not all women grew up like us. But I'm sure they too wanted baby-girls.
Girls who would cry if you didn't get them new party frocks. Wilful, ambitious girls who would bully, charm, weep, work their way to Head-Girl type glory.
What happened?
And I try to imagine...
Suppose you get married. Married to a man who might play happily enough with a little girl, but who don't necessarily respect the mother. Married into a family where your decisions are not your own. Married after your own family incurred huge debts. Married into fear and insecurity and the monster called 'ever after'. Married and not allowed to support your old parents.
Married and hating it.
And then, suppose, you think of a baby girl.
You think of pink booties and party frocks (but don't leave her alone with the uncle from Kanpur) and college ('but maybe she should take up home science'?) and first love ('If I see you with that boy again, I'll break both your legs'?) and the first job ('be back before dark'... 'no party-sharty after 8.'). You think of wedding costs, loans, match-makers. You think of you.
You read reports and watch television... Rape. Trafficking. Harassment. Mutilation. Acid-attacks. Honour. Bride burnings. Stoning. Veiling. Wailing.... everywhere, in every country. You think of how easily it could be your daughter's turn.
And then, perhaps, you don't want this world for her... but you don't have the courage or the means to build an alternative world where she will not live out a predestined tragedy.
And I begin to understand. I begin to see why - for all our claims of wanting baby girls so much that we've even thought of what names we're going to give them - we don't want daughters.
We don't have the courage to stand up to the 'baba-not-baby' pressure, because we don't have the courage to live our own lives... We'd rather live with the void. We'd rather stay scared, than run scared.
I understand our collective lack of courage.
For we're products of our limited-limiting environments.
We're terrified of what will happen to us if we break all the rules, and who will stand by us, and who will feed us, and who will hold us if everyone we ever knew disowns us...? We're petrified by the thought that we will not have the guts to stand by our daughters if we let them grow up as we wanted to. And we know we will not forgive ourselves if they live our lives.
I cannot yet empathize, but (God forgive me) I understand. Without forgiveness for being able to, I understand. Ridden with guilt at being able to, so easily, I understand.
Please meet...
...each other.
Those of you who are in Delhi, that is, and wish to meet each other.
There's a blogger meet happening in Delhi on Sunday, September 4, 2005.
Details available here.
I'm sure it will be a lot of fun. I may not be around myself, but will hear all about it, I hope, from those who do make it.
Those of you who are in Delhi, that is, and wish to meet each other.
There's a blogger meet happening in Delhi on Sunday, September 4, 2005.
Details available here.
I'm sure it will be a lot of fun. I may not be around myself, but will hear all about it, I hope, from those who do make it.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Updated links
In honour of Blog Day (or is it bloggers' day?), I finally got round to doing something I should've done months ago - I finally linked to more blogs that I do read every single day, almost (look right) but I'd simply stored them in my favourite-list, instead of doing the proper blogger thing, linking.
For no reason but that I was too lazy. Or too moody. Or something else, equally indefensible.
But now, I've been a good girl and finished pending blog updation.
For no reason but that I was too lazy. Or too moody. Or something else, equally indefensible.
But now, I've been a good girl and finished pending blog updation.
Monday, August 29, 2005
PS - IMHO, not fair
When I wrote out the last post, I waited three days before hitting the 'publish' button.
When I titled it 'provocation', I cringed at the ominous irony of it. I guessed that somebody was going to fail to understand and think- 'this amounts to defending rapists'.
That is not a nice thing for anyone to think, so I hesitated.
For the first time, since I started this blog, I stopped to think of how a post would be received and whether this was really what I wanted to say. Four times, I edited it - just to make sure I wasn't saying something I didn't mean to say.
And yet, a lot of people ended up mixing up everything I was trying to say.
I really, totally, am not justifying violation of any sort.
Right now, I am only justifying my having thought and said what I did think and say.
I agree - castrate rapists by all means.
Punch those who pinch you; make mince of those who touch you, by all means.
If you face the threat of pummelling, scalping, torching, then pummel, scalp, torch. By all means.
But where do you draw the line of justified pummelling and scalping?
What is your justification?
Where is the line?
Is rape the line?
Is touching without permission the line?
Is making lewd gestures the line?
Is whistling and singing a silly cinema song the line?
Is staring the line?
When is it okay to turn around and slap a guy?
I know my line: if I am physically threatened, I will react in self-defence. If I am touched, I will slap.
But I also believe that I have the right to retaliate in kind.... measure for measure. No more.
Even in the harshest form of judgement, you are granted an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. No more.
If someone says lewd things, I have the right to hurl abuse back at him.
If someones leches, I have the right to, perhaps, glare back. Or to lech back. Or to ignore.... but even if I think that he wants to insult me, I do not have the right to hit him. Or get him arrested, unless I have reason to believe that he is going to physically harm me.
If someone whistles, I do not have the right to hit him. Or even verbally abuse him. It is not fair.
And no, whadeheg, whistling is not the same thing as squeezing/pinching someone's butt.
A man, or woman, does have the right to say or do anything he/she likes as long as he/she is not physically harming you. Or touching you when you do not want it.
Your body is your fiefdom. The mohalla is not.
I understand that different people have different ideas of violation and of personal space. But hey, there have to be some basic rules that everyone recognizes. Every individual cannot go about setting their own rules, wrt 'doses and amounts' of admiration that are acceptable or not.
Some women get upset if someone enters a three-foot radius of space around them... When in public, they'll just have to live with their fears, and sense of violation. It's nobody's fault.
You may get very upset when a drunk stranger leans close, barely six inches away from your face... But you still do NOT have the right to slap him.
I may get very upset when I am followed home. But I do NOT have the right to hit the men concerned. I may get upset in crowded buses, but I do not have the right to hit the men standing next to me. If a man standing next to me tries to touch me, I do have the right to slap him, scream, ask him to get off the bus.
As far as expression of admiration is concerned, I know of women who follow men they find attractive. I know enough women who check out men in public places - pubs, malls, cinema complexes. They comment, they ogle, they giggle, they make blank calls, they say lewd things on the phone and send nasty emails....
I don't like to think of what would happen if the men slapped the women concerned... How do I know they don't feel harrassed? (I do know definitely of two different men who have felt harrassed by women who chased them all over town in cars.... I laughed, when I heard. But the men were not amused.)
Try and put yourself on the other side.
How would you (as a woman) feel if you're in a public space, and you're leching at a man/woman who is dressed to kill, and this person turns around and thrashes you to make you stop leching.
What do you think your reaction will be? Will you say - 'Oh, but he's right... I was insulting him.'
(I'd probably just thrash the person right back, be it man or woman.)
And, for the last time, I am not saying - 'dress like this; don't dress like that'.
I dress like both, this and that. I DON'T care how you dress.
But I do think it is a bit much when you want to control not only the way you dress, but also the ways in which people react to your dressing.
That, IMHO, is not fair.
When I titled it 'provocation', I cringed at the ominous irony of it. I guessed that somebody was going to fail to understand and think- 'this amounts to defending rapists'.
That is not a nice thing for anyone to think, so I hesitated.
For the first time, since I started this blog, I stopped to think of how a post would be received and whether this was really what I wanted to say. Four times, I edited it - just to make sure I wasn't saying something I didn't mean to say.
And yet, a lot of people ended up mixing up everything I was trying to say.
I really, totally, am not justifying violation of any sort.
Right now, I am only justifying my having thought and said what I did think and say.
I agree - castrate rapists by all means.
Punch those who pinch you; make mince of those who touch you, by all means.
If you face the threat of pummelling, scalping, torching, then pummel, scalp, torch. By all means.
But where do you draw the line of justified pummelling and scalping?
What is your justification?
Where is the line?
Is rape the line?
Is touching without permission the line?
Is making lewd gestures the line?
Is whistling and singing a silly cinema song the line?
Is staring the line?
When is it okay to turn around and slap a guy?
I know my line: if I am physically threatened, I will react in self-defence. If I am touched, I will slap.
But I also believe that I have the right to retaliate in kind.... measure for measure. No more.
Even in the harshest form of judgement, you are granted an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. No more.
If someone says lewd things, I have the right to hurl abuse back at him.
If someones leches, I have the right to, perhaps, glare back. Or to lech back. Or to ignore.... but even if I think that he wants to insult me, I do not have the right to hit him. Or get him arrested, unless I have reason to believe that he is going to physically harm me.
If someone whistles, I do not have the right to hit him. Or even verbally abuse him. It is not fair.
And no, whadeheg, whistling is not the same thing as squeezing/pinching someone's butt.
A man, or woman, does have the right to say or do anything he/she likes as long as he/she is not physically harming you. Or touching you when you do not want it.
Your body is your fiefdom. The mohalla is not.
I understand that different people have different ideas of violation and of personal space. But hey, there have to be some basic rules that everyone recognizes. Every individual cannot go about setting their own rules, wrt 'doses and amounts' of admiration that are acceptable or not.
Some women get upset if someone enters a three-foot radius of space around them... When in public, they'll just have to live with their fears, and sense of violation. It's nobody's fault.
You may get very upset when a drunk stranger leans close, barely six inches away from your face... But you still do NOT have the right to slap him.
I may get very upset when I am followed home. But I do NOT have the right to hit the men concerned. I may get upset in crowded buses, but I do not have the right to hit the men standing next to me. If a man standing next to me tries to touch me, I do have the right to slap him, scream, ask him to get off the bus.
As far as expression of admiration is concerned, I know of women who follow men they find attractive. I know enough women who check out men in public places - pubs, malls, cinema complexes. They comment, they ogle, they giggle, they make blank calls, they say lewd things on the phone and send nasty emails....
I don't like to think of what would happen if the men slapped the women concerned... How do I know they don't feel harrassed? (I do know definitely of two different men who have felt harrassed by women who chased them all over town in cars.... I laughed, when I heard. But the men were not amused.)
Try and put yourself on the other side.
How would you (as a woman) feel if you're in a public space, and you're leching at a man/woman who is dressed to kill, and this person turns around and thrashes you to make you stop leching.
What do you think your reaction will be? Will you say - 'Oh, but he's right... I was insulting him.'
(I'd probably just thrash the person right back, be it man or woman.)
And, for the last time, I am not saying - 'dress like this; don't dress like that'.
I dress like both, this and that. I DON'T care how you dress.
But I do think it is a bit much when you want to control not only the way you dress, but also the ways in which people react to your dressing.
That, IMHO, is not fair.
Thursday, August 25, 2005
Provocation
When it comes to women, I've been having a lot of arguments, lately. Arguments with women, about women. At a meeting of writers, recently, we ended up having that most delectable of arguments - women, clothes and 'provocation'.
The debate about dress codes is not new. What was new was that it was us, the women, who were in favour of exercising restraint.
What was really new, to me, was that I agreed.
It was strange because I'm not queasy about skin-shows.
I like daring tops... Skirts, straps, transparent fabric... Tube tops and low-waist jeans, sometimes. But I also exercise restraint, depending on time and place. Partly, it is because of my work, because I am often out in buses, rickshaws or walking across a crowded street. Partly, because I respect the sensibilites of the people I'm visiting (based on my idea of their sensibilities).
Frankly, if I could afford to, I'd dress in skimpy, diaphanous clothes all the time.
With brevity, my wardrobe has a more lasting relationship, than has the soul of my wit (as the length of this post is witness).
But I have learnt that bare skin is going to attract attention.
Nudity, or the visible shape of a figure, draws our attention. It doesn't have to be a great shape. Like another good lady said, the sight of curves, of flesh, of a live, warm body - that is exciting!
And by 'our', I mean all of us. Men AND women.
A shirtless man will be looked at, too. A tight tee will make women focus on a man's body more specifically than an expensive jacket. (Salman Khan is a case in point.)
Everybody gawks when there's skin on show.
That is a given. But a man who is not used to skin-on-show is just going to gawk a little harder, lech more obviously. It may not be polite, but hey... spitting isn't either. There's even a law against it; it happens anyway. And there's no law against leching...
Which is why I don't wearing a tube top too often. I may not worry if I'm at a club, but at a railway station, I worry.
Not because I'm afraid of molestation or abuse or verbal harassment (there are more opportunities for violence and violation in a club, rather than a train) but because I understand that I might attract so much attention that I'm not happy with it, any longer.
Is this elitist? I don't know.... I'm not elite; I don't think I can afford the elitism.
But I do know that the concept of 'invitation' and 'provocation' is very, very subjective and culture-specific.
In my village, a girl wearing a kneelength skirt would raise eyebrows.
In my under-grad days, a girl wearing 70s-style bell-bottoms raised eyebrows.
In my post-grad college, nothing much raised eyebrows... Ooh, yes, Sarees did. In this 'cool' college, people assumed that you wore a saree to attract attention.
At the other end of the spectrum, my grandma thought that only married women should wear sarees. It wasn't decent for unmarried sylphs to go baring their tempting tummies.
The problem with cities is, there are all colours of the clothing-provocation spectrum in each corner of each suburb.
Fine, so you won't find a rickshaw-wala in a swank pub - which is what you're really paying big bucks for, right? - but when you step outside the pub, and want to return to the safety of your home, he's there. And yes, you're going to shock him, attract him, make him want to touch you.
I know enough women who carry shawls and jackets for this reason - they come off for one set of people; they're put on for another set.
Elitist? I don't know.... maybe yes.
Practical? Yes!
There have been times when I've let out a low whistle when a really delicious body walks past. And my argument was the same as that of men - you don't want to attract attention, don't look so good. Your body, you dress as you please. My mouth, I whistle....
Like the good lady who initiated this discussion pointed out, even women can feel the palpable attraction of a real body, in clothes that allow you to see it. It doesn't matter whether it's a guy or a girl....
You automatically want to reach out and touch this piece of heaven.
Some men will not impinge on this piece of heaven's state of heavenly unattainability.... some of us have been trained to exercise restraint.
One man, who was arguing against restraint (in clothing), said that the only way to tackle this problem was to train men. To teach them not to violate a woman's personal space.
But we all agree that violation, in any case, has little to do with clothes. Most women can vouch for the fact that harassment or abuse often happens when you're dressed in demure salwaar-kameez-with-dupatta. When you look suitably non-threatening and accessible? When you least expected it?
Mini-skirts do not provoke rape. We know that.
The spoilt brat who's learnt that he can have anything he wants, with or without permission, will not wait to seek permission. He may not even wait to notice whether you're in a mini-skirt or a salwaar. You could be covered head-to-toe, and he could still have decided to commit what he knows is a violation, and a crime.
Another guy, who does not kidnap or rape, will take his chances and brush against you, or sing a song from some Hindi film.... A man who is possibly neither rich nor poor, but simply can't keep his hands to himself will pinch your bottom, or punch you in the bosom, or rub against you in a crowded bus.
And it's not just women. Men violate other men too, without waiting to seek permission. Men, in general, don't wear mini-skirts in public, do they? What provokes their getting felt-up? What about the little boys who get raped? Who can you blame?
Not the mini-skirts... Not the tube tops...
But this post is not about rape or even about violation. It is not even about men Vs women.
You can dismiss the 'violator' guys as frustrated desperate wierdos.
But a lot of women are also frustrated and desperate. I strongly suspect that the only reason we don't jump a man is that we aren't really strong enough to overpower him, and even if we did, it wouldn't help if he wasn't willing.
This post is about the impact of women's clothes, about skimpy clothes...
So what is one to do? I can hear people scream already - should we all disappear into the burqa?
No.
My problem is not women who wear skimpy clothes- I am one of them!
My problem is, women refusing to acknowledge that their clothes, and the wonderful bodies barely restrained by the clothes, will turn men on... even the men we wish didn't exist.
My problem is, women who aren't honest with themselves. That they refuse to recognize that bare legs and exposed navels are very attractive.
Women often say that they dress to please themselves, because it is just a style statement, and has nothing to do with men. There was a time I said so too...
I see women in no-men-allowed situations - at home, in hostels - they dress differently. Comfortably. Not in really tight stuff. Not in plunging necklines. And when they do so, on special days, even in girls' hostels, they attract attention. And they enjoy this attention.
So, let's face it: There's this instinct to dress up and, consciously or sub, we want to be looked at. By women, by men too. By whoever we are drawn towards. We want their approval. We want their admiration.
We do not like the way this admiration is expressed.
But that is something we have no control over. There will be whistling, song-singing, comment-passing, the works...
And yes, I don't think we have a right to stop this expression of admiration.
If I have the freedom to wear what I like, I have no business getting offended by a man's reaction, as long as he is not hurting me.
My mother says that dressing skimpily in public is like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey. Well, then, we're dangling the carrots, and some of the donkeys are bound to get restive and start braying....
And before there comes some reader's slipper, smacking my face, let me add: I don't agree. Donkeys eat carrots and carrots don't go report them to the police. But as a metaphor for attraction, it holds true.
Very likely, we have nothing to fear. Very likely, we won't provoke anyone into violence.
But we've got stay aware that every time we step out in public, we run the risk of exciting admiration from people who are not necessarily desirable to us. We run the risk of getting attention we don't want. The more skin we show, the more people we attract.
There are two ways of dealing with this the awareness of the impact you're creating - One, let your wardrobe be dictated by the variations in all sections of the provocation spectrum.
Two, if you can afford it, move from home to car-with-tinted-windows to the bunglow of a friend whom you DO wish to attract, to car to home to.... don't see the sunshine; don't see people you don't want; don't be seen by people you don't want to attract.
If you can't afford it, too bad...
The debate about dress codes is not new. What was new was that it was us, the women, who were in favour of exercising restraint.
What was really new, to me, was that I agreed.
It was strange because I'm not queasy about skin-shows.
I like daring tops... Skirts, straps, transparent fabric... Tube tops and low-waist jeans, sometimes. But I also exercise restraint, depending on time and place. Partly, it is because of my work, because I am often out in buses, rickshaws or walking across a crowded street. Partly, because I respect the sensibilites of the people I'm visiting (based on my idea of their sensibilities).
Frankly, if I could afford to, I'd dress in skimpy, diaphanous clothes all the time.
With brevity, my wardrobe has a more lasting relationship, than has the soul of my wit (as the length of this post is witness).
But I have learnt that bare skin is going to attract attention.
Nudity, or the visible shape of a figure, draws our attention. It doesn't have to be a great shape. Like another good lady said, the sight of curves, of flesh, of a live, warm body - that is exciting!
And by 'our', I mean all of us. Men AND women.
A shirtless man will be looked at, too. A tight tee will make women focus on a man's body more specifically than an expensive jacket. (Salman Khan is a case in point.)
Everybody gawks when there's skin on show.
That is a given. But a man who is not used to skin-on-show is just going to gawk a little harder, lech more obviously. It may not be polite, but hey... spitting isn't either. There's even a law against it; it happens anyway. And there's no law against leching...
Which is why I don't wearing a tube top too often. I may not worry if I'm at a club, but at a railway station, I worry.
Not because I'm afraid of molestation or abuse or verbal harassment (there are more opportunities for violence and violation in a club, rather than a train) but because I understand that I might attract so much attention that I'm not happy with it, any longer.
Is this elitist? I don't know.... I'm not elite; I don't think I can afford the elitism.
But I do know that the concept of 'invitation' and 'provocation' is very, very subjective and culture-specific.
In my village, a girl wearing a kneelength skirt would raise eyebrows.
In my under-grad days, a girl wearing 70s-style bell-bottoms raised eyebrows.
In my post-grad college, nothing much raised eyebrows... Ooh, yes, Sarees did. In this 'cool' college, people assumed that you wore a saree to attract attention.
At the other end of the spectrum, my grandma thought that only married women should wear sarees. It wasn't decent for unmarried sylphs to go baring their tempting tummies.
The problem with cities is, there are all colours of the clothing-provocation spectrum in each corner of each suburb.
Fine, so you won't find a rickshaw-wala in a swank pub - which is what you're really paying big bucks for, right? - but when you step outside the pub, and want to return to the safety of your home, he's there. And yes, you're going to shock him, attract him, make him want to touch you.
I know enough women who carry shawls and jackets for this reason - they come off for one set of people; they're put on for another set.
Elitist? I don't know.... maybe yes.
Practical? Yes!
There have been times when I've let out a low whistle when a really delicious body walks past. And my argument was the same as that of men - you don't want to attract attention, don't look so good. Your body, you dress as you please. My mouth, I whistle....
Like the good lady who initiated this discussion pointed out, even women can feel the palpable attraction of a real body, in clothes that allow you to see it. It doesn't matter whether it's a guy or a girl....
You automatically want to reach out and touch this piece of heaven.
Some men will not impinge on this piece of heaven's state of heavenly unattainability.... some of us have been trained to exercise restraint.
One man, who was arguing against restraint (in clothing), said that the only way to tackle this problem was to train men. To teach them not to violate a woman's personal space.
But we all agree that violation, in any case, has little to do with clothes. Most women can vouch for the fact that harassment or abuse often happens when you're dressed in demure salwaar-kameez-with-dupatta. When you look suitably non-threatening and accessible? When you least expected it?
Mini-skirts do not provoke rape. We know that.
The spoilt brat who's learnt that he can have anything he wants, with or without permission, will not wait to seek permission. He may not even wait to notice whether you're in a mini-skirt or a salwaar. You could be covered head-to-toe, and he could still have decided to commit what he knows is a violation, and a crime.
Another guy, who does not kidnap or rape, will take his chances and brush against you, or sing a song from some Hindi film.... A man who is possibly neither rich nor poor, but simply can't keep his hands to himself will pinch your bottom, or punch you in the bosom, or rub against you in a crowded bus.
And it's not just women. Men violate other men too, without waiting to seek permission. Men, in general, don't wear mini-skirts in public, do they? What provokes their getting felt-up? What about the little boys who get raped? Who can you blame?
Not the mini-skirts... Not the tube tops...
But this post is not about rape or even about violation. It is not even about men Vs women.
You can dismiss the 'violator' guys as frustrated desperate wierdos.
But a lot of women are also frustrated and desperate. I strongly suspect that the only reason we don't jump a man is that we aren't really strong enough to overpower him, and even if we did, it wouldn't help if he wasn't willing.
This post is about the impact of women's clothes, about skimpy clothes...
So what is one to do? I can hear people scream already - should we all disappear into the burqa?
No.
My problem is not women who wear skimpy clothes- I am one of them!
My problem is, women refusing to acknowledge that their clothes, and the wonderful bodies barely restrained by the clothes, will turn men on... even the men we wish didn't exist.
My problem is, women who aren't honest with themselves. That they refuse to recognize that bare legs and exposed navels are very attractive.
Women often say that they dress to please themselves, because it is just a style statement, and has nothing to do with men. There was a time I said so too...
I see women in no-men-allowed situations - at home, in hostels - they dress differently. Comfortably. Not in really tight stuff. Not in plunging necklines. And when they do so, on special days, even in girls' hostels, they attract attention. And they enjoy this attention.
So, let's face it: There's this instinct to dress up and, consciously or sub, we want to be looked at. By women, by men too. By whoever we are drawn towards. We want their approval. We want their admiration.
We do not like the way this admiration is expressed.
But that is something we have no control over. There will be whistling, song-singing, comment-passing, the works...
And yes, I don't think we have a right to stop this expression of admiration.
If I have the freedom to wear what I like, I have no business getting offended by a man's reaction, as long as he is not hurting me.
My mother says that dressing skimpily in public is like dangling a carrot in front of a donkey. Well, then, we're dangling the carrots, and some of the donkeys are bound to get restive and start braying....
And before there comes some reader's slipper, smacking my face, let me add: I don't agree. Donkeys eat carrots and carrots don't go report them to the police. But as a metaphor for attraction, it holds true.
Very likely, we have nothing to fear. Very likely, we won't provoke anyone into violence.
But we've got stay aware that every time we step out in public, we run the risk of exciting admiration from people who are not necessarily desirable to us. We run the risk of getting attention we don't want. The more skin we show, the more people we attract.
There are two ways of dealing with this the awareness of the impact you're creating - One, let your wardrobe be dictated by the variations in all sections of the provocation spectrum.
Two, if you can afford it, move from home to car-with-tinted-windows to the bunglow of a friend whom you DO wish to attract, to car to home to.... don't see the sunshine; don't see people you don't want; don't be seen by people you don't want to attract.
If you can't afford it, too bad...
like... wow!
Just came across this (via Jaygee), and was reminded of a recent conversation.
I was looking for the unidentifiable 'something' in leather that might define the indefinable something that is me; all women do, when they go bargain-basement shopping.
Two women entered the shop. One was large, wearing a tight black top that slid off her shoulders and exposed a large expanse of cleavage.
My companion blurted out, meaningfully loud, "How can people dress like this?"
I walked out of the shop.
Fifteen minutes later, she was still thinking about the woman-in-the-off-shoulder-top.
"But how? How do they go about like that? Doesn't anyone tell them?"
I finally countered, "Tell them what?"
"That they can't wear such stuff."
"Says who? She looked happy enough, wearing it."
"But she can't carry it off... she's too big for that kind of dressing... if she was slim and wanted to show off her figure, I'd understand."
"How does it matter? The point is - she was happy. She thought she looked nice."
"But still..."
I changed the subject. I knew my companion would not understand - she's been on a strict diet for weeks. Eats soup for dinner, fruit for breakfast, and tells me to watch my weight.
I remember that woman - or at least, I remember her bare, rounded shoulders. I remember her flashy make-up, her bare smooth skin. I do not remember being disgusted. I remember thinking out an expression my aunt uses often, to great effect - 'Like...WOW!'
I remember thinking 'Wish I had the guts to carry off something like that'.
I envy her her confidence, her desire to flaunt what she has. I envy her the dare-bare act (in a bargain basement! In Delhi!). And yes, I even envy her so much cleavage that it fairly runneth over the edges of her blouse.
Corollary: I see many bare-shouldered women near my office - tall, blonde, skinny girls wearing strappy blouses and short skirts. The funny thing is - I don't remember their faces; I don't envy them.
I was looking for the unidentifiable 'something' in leather that might define the indefinable something that is me; all women do, when they go bargain-basement shopping.
Two women entered the shop. One was large, wearing a tight black top that slid off her shoulders and exposed a large expanse of cleavage.
My companion blurted out, meaningfully loud, "How can people dress like this?"
I walked out of the shop.
Fifteen minutes later, she was still thinking about the woman-in-the-off-shoulder-top.
"But how? How do they go about like that? Doesn't anyone tell them?"
I finally countered, "Tell them what?"
"That they can't wear such stuff."
"Says who? She looked happy enough, wearing it."
"But she can't carry it off... she's too big for that kind of dressing... if she was slim and wanted to show off her figure, I'd understand."
"How does it matter? The point is - she was happy. She thought she looked nice."
"But still..."
I changed the subject. I knew my companion would not understand - she's been on a strict diet for weeks. Eats soup for dinner, fruit for breakfast, and tells me to watch my weight.
I remember that woman - or at least, I remember her bare, rounded shoulders. I remember her flashy make-up, her bare smooth skin. I do not remember being disgusted. I remember thinking out an expression my aunt uses often, to great effect - 'Like...WOW!'
I remember thinking 'Wish I had the guts to carry off something like that'.
I envy her her confidence, her desire to flaunt what she has. I envy her the dare-bare act (in a bargain basement! In Delhi!). And yes, I even envy her so much cleavage that it fairly runneth over the edges of her blouse.
Corollary: I see many bare-shouldered women near my office - tall, blonde, skinny girls wearing strappy blouses and short skirts. The funny thing is - I don't remember their faces; I don't envy them.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
sharing amongst the shoe-less
When I last mentioned the mists and mountains of Chakrata, I didn't tell the story I most wanted to tell.
Some fifty years ago, no one wore shoes, around here.
Partly, this could be because footwear of a certain kind has got cheaper (also less sturdy; besides, most people can only buy cheap plastic slippers, which are just NOT right for climbing hills or farming in).
The other reason is that now, everyone MUST have their own shoes. Even if they didn't want, or couldn't afford, shoes... they don't have an option.
Fifty years ago, they did have an option.
Fifty years ago, each village (let's say hamlet, as opposed to revenue village or panchayat) owned only one pair of shoes. It was, more or less, communal property. Just as land or cattle is sometimes shared by the whole tribe, one good leather pair of shoes was acquired.
Mind you, this was not necessarily a joint venture. Very likely, one person, who was slightly better off than the rest, would buy a pair of shoes. Nevertheless, the whole village would have access to it.
Nobody actually wore this pair. It used to be saved up for special occassions.
So, let's say you have this beautiful girl in the next hamlet and want to marry her. You'd borrow this pair of shoes and set out to meet her family.
Often, there would be only one good coat and one new umbrella, also shared by the hamlet.
On the way to the beloved's home, you would not wear these shoes. You would carry them in your hands - over misty cliffs, through streams and rain-dripping forests, you would be very careful with them.
Just outside the hamlet, you would put on the shoes and enter your beloved's home with due pomp and footwear-show. The would-be in-laws would be duly impressed. You'd be able to cut a dashing figure... a match would be possible.
On your way back, you'd take off the shoes, dust them, wipe them carefully and carry them back home. Ready, for the next person who needs to make an impression, or perhaps, for your own wedding.
Today, the system has vanished.
Every family might own a pair of cheap slippers. Few wear them. They'd need very sturdy, very expensive shoes, up here. And there's nobody to borrow from, on special occassions.
I don't know if this is significant, in any way. I don't know what it means for the economy. I don't even know if it's important to wear shoes in the hills. But I know that it makes me sad - this story. It makes me sad, that it is just a nostalgic story now.
And judging from the faces of the people who told me this story, I'd say it makes them sad too.
Some fifty years ago, no one wore shoes, around here.
Partly, this could be because footwear of a certain kind has got cheaper (also less sturdy; besides, most people can only buy cheap plastic slippers, which are just NOT right for climbing hills or farming in).
The other reason is that now, everyone MUST have their own shoes. Even if they didn't want, or couldn't afford, shoes... they don't have an option.
Fifty years ago, they did have an option.
Fifty years ago, each village (let's say hamlet, as opposed to revenue village or panchayat) owned only one pair of shoes. It was, more or less, communal property. Just as land or cattle is sometimes shared by the whole tribe, one good leather pair of shoes was acquired.
Mind you, this was not necessarily a joint venture. Very likely, one person, who was slightly better off than the rest, would buy a pair of shoes. Nevertheless, the whole village would have access to it.
Nobody actually wore this pair. It used to be saved up for special occassions.
So, let's say you have this beautiful girl in the next hamlet and want to marry her. You'd borrow this pair of shoes and set out to meet her family.
Often, there would be only one good coat and one new umbrella, also shared by the hamlet.
On the way to the beloved's home, you would not wear these shoes. You would carry them in your hands - over misty cliffs, through streams and rain-dripping forests, you would be very careful with them.
Just outside the hamlet, you would put on the shoes and enter your beloved's home with due pomp and footwear-show. The would-be in-laws would be duly impressed. You'd be able to cut a dashing figure... a match would be possible.
On your way back, you'd take off the shoes, dust them, wipe them carefully and carry them back home. Ready, for the next person who needs to make an impression, or perhaps, for your own wedding.
Today, the system has vanished.
Every family might own a pair of cheap slippers. Few wear them. They'd need very sturdy, very expensive shoes, up here. And there's nobody to borrow from, on special occassions.
I don't know if this is significant, in any way. I don't know what it means for the economy. I don't even know if it's important to wear shoes in the hills. But I know that it makes me sad - this story. It makes me sad, that it is just a nostalgic story now.
And judging from the faces of the people who told me this story, I'd say it makes them sad too.
A rare 'ugh'
(As anyone who knows me will tell anyone who cares to know) I'm not a food person.
I will eat stale roti with sour curd. I will eat daal and bread for dinner, or glucose biscuits for lunch. I will eat on streets, off highways... Punjabi-style chow-chow and tandoori-style pizza and greasy halwa off stalls in the narrow gallies, flies abuzz... anything goes.
I will not whisper a word of complaint.
I do not rant about unpleasant food experiences, but!
Wimpy's has tested the absolute limit of my gastronomic tolerance.
I've eaten a lot in my time, but!
I've never eaten lamb burgers that taste like chewed-up Hawai Chappals.
Either that 'lamb' was sacrificed at the altar of muscular depolarization... or else, they tried to cross a rubber duck with a frigid goat, and fed me the result.
For the first time in my life, I have been grateful that Pepsi existed!
My friend was served a squishily yellow drink that passed for cold coffee. It reminded me too much of Bombay's gutters; didn't dare sample it.
Despite all this, I wouldn't have complained so much if it wasn't for the damn copycat attitude in that place. They've tried to model it exactly on MacDonalds faux-cheery countenance.... The counters. The queues. The menu. The prices. The tables. The uniforms. The trays and wrappers and dustbins.... Then why, oh why, was it so difficult to produce something edible?
And why, oh why, would anyone come to Wimpy's, for the joy of eating chewed-up hawai chappals, when MacDs is exactly a sixty second walk away?
When was the last time the owner sat down and ate at the eatery? If anyone knows him/her/them, please do communicate my sentiments: Ugh!
I will eat stale roti with sour curd. I will eat daal and bread for dinner, or glucose biscuits for lunch. I will eat on streets, off highways... Punjabi-style chow-chow and tandoori-style pizza and greasy halwa off stalls in the narrow gallies, flies abuzz... anything goes.
I will not whisper a word of complaint.
I do not rant about unpleasant food experiences, but!
Wimpy's has tested the absolute limit of my gastronomic tolerance.
I've eaten a lot in my time, but!
I've never eaten lamb burgers that taste like chewed-up Hawai Chappals.
Either that 'lamb' was sacrificed at the altar of muscular depolarization... or else, they tried to cross a rubber duck with a frigid goat, and fed me the result.
For the first time in my life, I have been grateful that Pepsi existed!
My friend was served a squishily yellow drink that passed for cold coffee. It reminded me too much of Bombay's gutters; didn't dare sample it.
Despite all this, I wouldn't have complained so much if it wasn't for the damn copycat attitude in that place. They've tried to model it exactly on MacDonalds faux-cheery countenance.... The counters. The queues. The menu. The prices. The tables. The uniforms. The trays and wrappers and dustbins.... Then why, oh why, was it so difficult to produce something edible?
And why, oh why, would anyone come to Wimpy's, for the joy of eating chewed-up hawai chappals, when MacDs is exactly a sixty second walk away?
When was the last time the owner sat down and ate at the eatery? If anyone knows him/her/them, please do communicate my sentiments: Ugh!
Friday, August 19, 2005
Independence Day unvisited
There's been something I've been wanting to say about independence for a week now. But I could not put it into words. Perhaps, because for me, patriotism has always been about music.
I could not explain what it was that made me want to turn off the radio when they played the same songs about this wonderful cuntery and our unbending, unending, unrelenting love for our 'Mother'land.
This year, the high-pitched squeal of 'Nanha munna rahi hoon; desh ka sipahi hoon' on the radio, made me want to throw up my daal-chawal, achaar and all.
Each chest-thumping melody was played no fewer than three times, on every radio station.
When they ran out of 'mere desh ki dharti', and 'Maa tujhe salaam', they resorted to digging up the tombs of long-buried raggedly tunes about villages, culture and soldiers.
Independence Day 'culture' and 'soldier' don't do anything for me.
And I don't suppose it's okay to say so, but I don't particularly think there's much of a difference between 'the' army and a hired group of mercenaries - ours or anyone else's.
I've been wanting to say that I don't feel jubilant about August 15th any more.
That, finally, the ogre of cynicism has eaten up that little scurrying mouse of patriotism, which used to feed off the memories of boondi-in-brown-paper-packets-in-marigold-layered-bamboo-baskets.
That loudspeaker-ed filmi songs and the reluctantly unfurling sunrise of the Tiranga no longer make my heart swell up with that undefinable soaring mixture of identity and adventure.
I'd been wanting to say why.
I hadn't been able to explain that this country - somewhere, somehow, over the last year, especially - has lost claims on my pride. Lost claim to being the best, ever.
I really believed that, you know... I believed in 'saare jahaan se achha'. I believed in '...parbat vo sabse ooncha, hamsaya aasmaan ka'
Until I realised what an idiotic claim it was - Mt Everest is in Nepal!
And Nepal is not India, though many of my countrymen like to think it is, potentially... I've heard 'why don't we just march in and take over?' from perfectly well-intentioned people. I've even heard, 'It's a Hindu country; they wouldn't have any problems with us.'
In fact, Nepal's biggest fear is that one day, India will decide to open her mouth really wide and swallow up the tiny kingdom - mountains, maoists, mists and all.
I really believed in that nonsense about unity in diversity. About hindu-muslim-sikh-isaai-bhai-bhai.
I've seen enough bhaichaara.
'Bhaiyya-Bihari bhagao' in Bombay; the 'Saale, Madrasi... kaale' in Delhi; I'd heard too many men refer to north-eastern girls are whores; I'd heard too many Bengalis say that the rest of the population is a moron, and deserved to be cheated of all the money that could be siphoned off them; too many south-Indians say 'the South should cede and become another country: the real India; the cow-belt is a strain on us.'
Bhaichaara, eh?
I've read too many reports about our bhaichaara - 1965. 1984. 1992. 1993. 2002....
we like manifesting our unity by employing more or less the same tactics when it comes to organised rioting.
I really liked to think that our men were the bravest, our women the most beautiful... remember, 'yahaan chaudi chhaati veeron ki; yahaan bholi shaklein Heeron ki; yahaan gaate hain Ranjhe masti mein...'.
But then, I remember what they did to the lovely Heer... andto Raanjha
'yahaan hansta hai sawaan baalon mein; khilti hain kaliyaan gaalon mein...' -
Here, we have too many innocent faces splashed with acid. Too many lovers killed for honour. Too many old women burnt as witches. Too many paraded naked; too many gang-raped....
not one; not two... year after year, after 58th year.
They tell me we're free.
I wonder - what am I free from? What did we win - midnight, August 15, 1947?
What did I gain? The ability to say I am a subject of India, and not a subject of Queen Elizabeth II? Was that all?
Or did I win the right to walk into a club that wasn't marked 'whites only'?
What about Goa, then? What about the whites-only parties there? What about the 'rights of admission reserved' joints. What about clubs where you get thrown out for wearing salwars?
What about the pubs I can't walk into, because there will still be violence of a certain kind? What about the places I can't get admission into, unless I have a 'domicile' certificate? Which 'soil' am I the daughter of? Or does that not matter... is it only about sons, whatever the soil?
Did we win a whole country, or did we only win a corner in a flat in a city in a state?
-----
Yesterday, I attended a dharna by a group of people campaigning for a full-fleged employment guarantee law in this country - possibly the only one of it's kind in the 'third world', at least.
The government has sneaked in a clause, in this yet-to-be-passed bill: if corruption is revealed in any project funded through this law, the government will stop sending funds to the village.
Which means, for instance, that if a village panchayat does manage to expose irregularities, they will be punished by the government, who will stop funding the project that is supposed to provide a livelihood to the poor.
Fancy, eh?
I can't think of a more effective way of undermining the Right to Information Act.
Who will bother to expose irregularities if the first head to roll is your own - the corrupt officials will be thrown out later, if at all - inquiries will be held... suspensions will happen, though the suspended officials will continue to draw a salary... paperwork will happen, cases will be filed...
and you?
You will sit on your bony haunches, in your (possibly drought-hit) village, twiddling your thumbs, waiting for the law to take it's course.
Yet, strangely enough, it was at this dharna, that I found music, once again, to define my attitude to Independence Day - a deep mistrust.
A simmering anger. An impatience. A need to appeal to the long-dead Father of the Nation, to come and take a look at the mess we've got ourselves into...
I heard them sing 'Gandhi, tere desh mein'
"Gali-gali mein phailaa danga; Gandhi, tere desh mein
har koi bhooka, har koi nanga; Gandhi tere desh mein
.... har daftar mein chor, o bhaiyya; ye dil maange more...
jaisa-taisa, aisa-vaisa; paisa-paisa-paisa-paisa...
ye dil maange more, bhaiyya, ye dil maange more."
A deep mistrust.... That, was my definitive 58th Independence Day song.
I could not explain what it was that made me want to turn off the radio when they played the same songs about this wonderful cuntery and our unbending, unending, unrelenting love for our 'Mother'land.
This year, the high-pitched squeal of 'Nanha munna rahi hoon; desh ka sipahi hoon' on the radio, made me want to throw up my daal-chawal, achaar and all.
Each chest-thumping melody was played no fewer than three times, on every radio station.
When they ran out of 'mere desh ki dharti', and 'Maa tujhe salaam', they resorted to digging up the tombs of long-buried raggedly tunes about villages, culture and soldiers.
Independence Day 'culture' and 'soldier' don't do anything for me.
And I don't suppose it's okay to say so, but I don't particularly think there's much of a difference between 'the' army and a hired group of mercenaries - ours or anyone else's.
I've been wanting to say that I don't feel jubilant about August 15th any more.
That, finally, the ogre of cynicism has eaten up that little scurrying mouse of patriotism, which used to feed off the memories of boondi-in-brown-paper-packets-in-marigold-layered-bamboo-baskets.
That loudspeaker-ed filmi songs and the reluctantly unfurling sunrise of the Tiranga no longer make my heart swell up with that undefinable soaring mixture of identity and adventure.
I'd been wanting to say why.
I hadn't been able to explain that this country - somewhere, somehow, over the last year, especially - has lost claims on my pride. Lost claim to being the best, ever.
I really believed that, you know... I believed in 'saare jahaan se achha'. I believed in '...parbat vo sabse ooncha, hamsaya aasmaan ka'
Until I realised what an idiotic claim it was - Mt Everest is in Nepal!
And Nepal is not India, though many of my countrymen like to think it is, potentially... I've heard 'why don't we just march in and take over?' from perfectly well-intentioned people. I've even heard, 'It's a Hindu country; they wouldn't have any problems with us.'
In fact, Nepal's biggest fear is that one day, India will decide to open her mouth really wide and swallow up the tiny kingdom - mountains, maoists, mists and all.
I really believed in that nonsense about unity in diversity. About hindu-muslim-sikh-isaai-bhai-bhai.
I've seen enough bhaichaara.
'Bhaiyya-Bihari bhagao' in Bombay; the 'Saale, Madrasi... kaale' in Delhi; I'd heard too many men refer to north-eastern girls are whores; I'd heard too many Bengalis say that the rest of the population is a moron, and deserved to be cheated of all the money that could be siphoned off them; too many south-Indians say 'the South should cede and become another country: the real India; the cow-belt is a strain on us.'
Bhaichaara, eh?
I've read too many reports about our bhaichaara - 1965. 1984. 1992. 1993. 2002....
we like manifesting our unity by employing more or less the same tactics when it comes to organised rioting.
I really liked to think that our men were the bravest, our women the most beautiful... remember, 'yahaan chaudi chhaati veeron ki; yahaan bholi shaklein Heeron ki; yahaan gaate hain Ranjhe masti mein...'.
But then, I remember what they did to the lovely Heer... andto Raanjha
'yahaan hansta hai sawaan baalon mein; khilti hain kaliyaan gaalon mein...' -
Here, we have too many innocent faces splashed with acid. Too many lovers killed for honour. Too many old women burnt as witches. Too many paraded naked; too many gang-raped....
not one; not two... year after year, after 58th year.
They tell me we're free.
I wonder - what am I free from? What did we win - midnight, August 15, 1947?
What did I gain? The ability to say I am a subject of India, and not a subject of Queen Elizabeth II? Was that all?
Or did I win the right to walk into a club that wasn't marked 'whites only'?
What about Goa, then? What about the whites-only parties there? What about the 'rights of admission reserved' joints. What about clubs where you get thrown out for wearing salwars?
What about the pubs I can't walk into, because there will still be violence of a certain kind? What about the places I can't get admission into, unless I have a 'domicile' certificate? Which 'soil' am I the daughter of? Or does that not matter... is it only about sons, whatever the soil?
Did we win a whole country, or did we only win a corner in a flat in a city in a state?
-----
Yesterday, I attended a dharna by a group of people campaigning for a full-fleged employment guarantee law in this country - possibly the only one of it's kind in the 'third world', at least.
The government has sneaked in a clause, in this yet-to-be-passed bill: if corruption is revealed in any project funded through this law, the government will stop sending funds to the village.
Which means, for instance, that if a village panchayat does manage to expose irregularities, they will be punished by the government, who will stop funding the project that is supposed to provide a livelihood to the poor.
Fancy, eh?
I can't think of a more effective way of undermining the Right to Information Act.
Who will bother to expose irregularities if the first head to roll is your own - the corrupt officials will be thrown out later, if at all - inquiries will be held... suspensions will happen, though the suspended officials will continue to draw a salary... paperwork will happen, cases will be filed...
and you?
You will sit on your bony haunches, in your (possibly drought-hit) village, twiddling your thumbs, waiting for the law to take it's course.
Yet, strangely enough, it was at this dharna, that I found music, once again, to define my attitude to Independence Day - a deep mistrust.
A simmering anger. An impatience. A need to appeal to the long-dead Father of the Nation, to come and take a look at the mess we've got ourselves into...
I heard them sing 'Gandhi, tere desh mein'
"Gali-gali mein phailaa danga; Gandhi, tere desh mein
har koi bhooka, har koi nanga; Gandhi tere desh mein
.... har daftar mein chor, o bhaiyya; ye dil maange more...
jaisa-taisa, aisa-vaisa; paisa-paisa-paisa-paisa...
ye dil maange more, bhaiyya, ye dil maange more."
A deep mistrust.... That, was my definitive 58th Independence Day song.
Tuesday, August 16, 2005
wee bits from the weekend
Cafe Turtle, in Khan Market, is a nice-ish place to hang out.
For one, it's inside a bookstore and any cafe that's inside a bookstore scores over a cafe that is ... not inside a bookstore (though it does seem like the menu has been designed for the firangs, or the aunty-on-a-perenniel-diet... I had to eat leaves inside my sandwich! And no matter how much mustard you douse it with, a raw leaf is still a raw leaf).
So, I ate my sandwiched raw leaves and was just beginning to absorb the atmosphere - the pictures lining the walls, two little blonde sisters with thick spectacles, grey hair, rumpled cottons, the old photographs... all very romantic in a bookish sort of way...
then we noticed the black felt-pen notations on the paintings:
"Rs 30,000
+ VAT."
You know, what really killed it was that '+ VAT'.
For one, it's inside a bookstore and any cafe that's inside a bookstore scores over a cafe that is ... not inside a bookstore (though it does seem like the menu has been designed for the firangs, or the aunty-on-a-perenniel-diet... I had to eat leaves inside my sandwich! And no matter how much mustard you douse it with, a raw leaf is still a raw leaf).
So, I ate my sandwiched raw leaves and was just beginning to absorb the atmosphere - the pictures lining the walls, two little blonde sisters with thick spectacles, grey hair, rumpled cottons, the old photographs... all very romantic in a bookish sort of way...
then we noticed the black felt-pen notations on the paintings:
"Rs 30,000
+ VAT."
You know, what really killed it was that '+ VAT'.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)