Wednesday 18 December 2013

The problems of asking questions.

I have often been told I look a lot like my father. Of late, I think I am becoming more like my father in some habits. Like going through the newspaper headlines in the morning as dismissing everyone and everything with "Ghora'r dim. Bunch of idiots." (Apologies, but an English translation of these two Bengali words is beyond my capacity) But having added to the Gupta genes with a few decades of social change and rural development, I cannot be so dismissive, though I am so often tempted to be. So I will explain myself. Patiently.

In the true traditions of my family, I always have A Theory. This one is on the process of social change. And this is: “We have forgotten to ask the correct questions.” And in the true tradition of my family, I am tempted to dismiss everyone else except us as having any clue to effective questioning, but we no longer live in times of good old harmless adda. Today, everyone has a question, never mind that the question is irrelevant. Like Alice’s, when she asks the Cheshire Cat which is the way. The Cheshire Cat asks her if she knows where she is going. Alice replies she does not. The Cheshire Cat very helpfully tells her that if she does not know where she is going then the choice of road does not matter – any road will get her there. The idea is to first want to know where to go.

To help you along this line of thinking, please find outlined below a few examples. Do not complain about me being high handed. This is decidedly less hazardous than a Sunday morning discussion between my father’s brothers and their families. So here goes……

1.      Circumstance: A man enters an ATM while a lady is using it. He proceeds to rob her, and then to assault her in the most brutal manner.
Questions posed by media: Why did the security system of the banks fail? What are the lapses in such systems? Why are banks not more careful?
Questions that should have been asked: Why did the control of the assaulting man fail? What were the lapses in his sanity? Why are men not more careful?
2.     
Circumstance: A young female employee accuses her influential, established boss of sexual harassment.
Question asked by influential, established politician: Why employ female staff? They would always bring with them the accusations of sexual harassment.
Question that should have been asked: Why employ men?

3.      Circumstance: The Supreme Court withholds its potential to give its support to the rights of homosexual people.
Questions asked: Is the Supreme Court not pushing us back to the middle ages?
Questions that I wanted to ask: The Middle Ages for India was actually a good time. Good emperors and no wars and all that. The Middle Ages were regressive only in Europe. And once you have got your history right, and still want to follow Europe, there’s a lot more you would need to do, besides diversity. May I suggest that we start with driving and road rules?

4.      Circumstance: An Indian diplomat is caught in an uncomfortable spotlight for her treatment of her domestic help.
Questions in an ear numbing debate on TV: How could the US do this to a diplomat?
Questions I want to ask: Why, in a country where domestic help (the way we Indians know it) is practically non existent, would you want to take along from your homeland one person as your servant? And worse, - is this domestic help is being paid with the money I give as tax?

A very dear friend of mine had a favourite reply to uncomfortable questions. When asked one such question, she would raise an eyebrow, look virtuous and decimate you with her answer, “Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no lies.” Very relevant, don’t you think? With the asking of a question also comes the responsibility of dealing with the answer. Which is possibly the reason none of us ever ask others,“Am I a bore?” Which may also be the reason that we shirk from asking the real questions.
Maybe we should start risking the replies and asking the questions anyway. Even though we may, deep down, already know the answers. Like the answer to my questions on the use of my tax money. Sigh.








Sunday 3 November 2013

A Kick In Time.

A young Indian film maker, known for his angst driven and violence ridden films has made a short film on violence against women. This film, set in what is possibly meant to be a typical urban space shows what is possibly meant to be, or at least the film maker assumes to be the typical violence women face.

Very briefly, the film shows two young women, both preparing to go to work being lectured to by their family not do so. In the background ghastly instances of rape and violence against women are being played out. The 2 women meet, collect a third woman friend and leave their housing compound only to be met with more harassment, both verbal and physical by a bunch of goons hanging about near the gate. One of the girls gets caught up in the harassment while the other 2 escape. The two escapees get on to a bus where they are again subject to abuse by a loutish co passenger. One of the girls decides to hit him below the belt and the man meekly leaves them alone after being winded. The girl left behind reaches her office where she appears to be the only girl again subject to all the unwanted and ugly attentions of the men in her office.

The girls meet in the evening and share how one of them hit one of the men in the bus. They seem to find it interesting. The next scene shows them at a self defence class. It is already dark and the shirt clad, cigarette smoking female self defence instructor tells the girls she will escort them home. And they should call her once they reach their flats. On the way they are waylaid by the first set of goons and finally decide to hit back, with their instructor standing on the fringes and looking on impassively. A crowd collects to see the 3 girls fighting back but no one helps them. Or even says anything.

The next shot shows the brother of one of the girls making tea for a change and telling his sister that he had been thinking of giving these boys a beating and he was very glad that she had done it. The End.

Having been subjected to all 24 minutes of this film, I felt very very sorry for the director. And very upset about how society has failed him. And how, as a feminist, we have failed to reach out to the young leaders of our country. And so I have decided to write him a letter to console him that all is not lost – he is young, he may still find the Truth. Here is the letter:

“Dear Anurag,
I take the liberty of addressing you thus because of your age. If I had a son, he would have been your age. But if I had a son, he would have probably been more sensitive to a few issues that I’d like to talk to you about. My daughters are.

I guess you have understood by now that I am not talking about the Gangs of Wasseypur. Now about this short film genre that you have decided to venture into, I would like to point out a few things and give you some advice.

1.     1. Your teachers have failed you. I see they have not been very successful in convincing you about one of the fundamentals of communication. And this is to be successful in conveying the one single core message very clearly. In spite of 2 decades of work on women’s rights I stand completely confused after seeing this film. What was your point, young man? What did you want your audience to understand? This remains as dark as the feel of your film.

2.    2.  You have also not been taught to do any research! This is an unforgiveable lapse in your higher studies. And so, you have also not been talking to anyone about men and women. And therefore your film shows this unidimensional, stereotypical paradigm of ugly men and unhappy women living in a relentlessly dark world. You poor child! In the world that we inhabit, Anurag, we do many more things. If you had spoken to some women who survived violence, you would find that they tend to have energy, determination, - a sense of purpose. And they are tough. That’s why they are called survivors. If you had broken a few stereotypes yourself, you would have been able to portray the high that comes from winning a battle fought without guns and armies – the high that most survivors will invariably project. And oh, these women laugh, alright? I met a woman in rural Bangladesh who keeps a length of rope beneath her bed. It looks old and unused. When I asked her what it was, she laughed out loud and told me that she kept it as a reminder of the days in which she was contemplating suicide as she could not bear the abuse of her husband. She would go around with this rope tucked into her saree surveying which tree in her village would be the most suitable to die on. She then realised that she was not the one who should go and decided to fight back. She now lives a more peaceful life, but kept the rope to remind her how silly she had once been. And this woman wasn’t giggling coyly. She had a laugh that could be heard in the next mohalla.

3.    3. While you definitely haven’t understood women, what I am saddened more about is your complete inability to understand your own gender, young man. Such poor social skills in one so young. And that is such a sad thing. I am trying to imagine how difficult it must be for you to go about life seeing all men as wimps and/or perpetrators and having to accept your self as one such. As we would say in Bengali, “Aha, ki koshto!” But if your life would have been different, you would have known men as good fathers, loving brothers, dutiful sons, understanding husbands and great friends. Granted there aren’t too many of them around, but there are some. Why, with the power of cinema in your hands would you choose to portray the very worst? Go back to Point 1 – what was your point in the first place?

4.   4.  Also, I see your life is very restricted. For example, you have not met too many female self defence instructors. The one I work with is furious with the one you have portrayed in your short film. The lady I work with wears bright salwar suits,  black nail polish, does her long hair in a French braid, wears red lipstick, drives a fluorescent pink scooty, arrives at school for her hour long session with her 3 year old child in tow and is always smiling. Not only do her students want to be a black belt like their Ma’m, they also want black nail polish and a pink scooty when they grow up.

5.    5.  And further in this list of how we have failed you is not being able to show you that violence can never be cured with more violence. Have you ever seen our country go to war with any other country? Even when we are pushed into a corner, we dither. In spite of a massive sense of outrage that women feel when subjected to the numerous discriminations and harassments, they know instinctively that slapping and kicking and punching is not the final answer. It will help deal with an immediate circumstance of possible violence, but what is needed to prevent and deal with violence against women is dialogue, negotiations, solidarity, public awareness, building alliances – all with some help from the law. And where unspeakable violence has already happen, as it unfortunately does from time to time – the very strictest and immediate punishments. Here I can add my own experience – as a woman I have had my share of discrimination and violence and have often felt deeply compelled to throw bricks at some men. But I have also always known that brick throwing would never be adequate getting back at them. This doesn’t mean we are a gentle, sweet, all forgiving lot. It just means we are tougher than you think – Gandhi ji did get the British out, didn’t he?

6.    6.  Further – in spite of the education and exposure you have apparently had, you have also not understood the main arena of violence faced by women – their own homes. What happens to these women when the perpetrators are their own fathers, brothers, husbands? Would a well timed kick help then? Would the impassive cigarette smoking instructor be allowed in to their homes to stand by and observe?

7.     7. And then, coming to the crux of the issue: like all fundamental and universal Truths, the Truth about violence against women is also very simple. Unlike your belief, women do not face violence  because they do not protest against it. Women face violence because every social institution and relationship - including you and me - sanctions this violence. And hence, repeating these sanctions, as your film does, will not stop violence against women. To quote a favourite feminist quote of mine, “You cannot break the masters house with the master’s tools.” The only way to do so is to build new tools, build new relationships, explore alternatives, create role models, learn new ways of doing things together – build new systems and institutions of strength, support and solidarity. Hundreds and thousands of people – both men and women are doing so. Why haven’t you been able to keep up with things? And while we are on the subject, why haven’t you read any feminist literature before making this film? Point #2 again…..

As someone who is very concerned about the quality of the next generation (having contributed 2 individuals to it myself) I shall be very happy indeed to help you out with all these problems that you face. As the generation signing out on the register, it is my duty to do so. I also have a deep and abiding faith in the next generation’s ability to build a more equal world than ours. So I am sure you will do your bit. Do not agonise about the past. The future is still yours for the taking. All you have to do is work a little harder. 

You can start with seeing the film Phata Poster Nikla Hero. Yes, yes, I know that may be below what you assume your intellectual status to be. But the mother's role int he film can be of serious educative value to you. See it. You might also benefit from the singing and dancing.....

Till then, I remain,
Sincerely yours,

MG  

Monday 14 October 2013

The slaying of demons and other important guidelines

This is a simple and practical guide to prevent violence against women – and thus, a guide to the slaying of demons, amongst other things. Being a firm believer in equality, I believe that both men and women play an equal role here. And this being the festival season (in India), I also believe there is much wisdom in our traditions and myths that we can learn from what we are celebrating right now. As Ram – the manifestation of the perfect masculine defeats the ten headed demon king and Durga – the manifestation of the ultimate feminine conquers and kills the buffalo headed demon, read on as to what we lesser men and women can learn from their stories.

Ladies first:

1.    Choose your associations with care: The Goddess is incomparably beautiful, but she is known more for her ten armed prowess, her riding of a lion or for her power. Since we do not possess Her beauty, I do insist that we take care of what we have. Do buying the new CC cream if you must. And if you are fully committed to contributing to the wealth of BB, CC and DD cream makers (I have it on good authority that there is a DD cream being readied for the market.) But do not let this deter you from being known more for your intellect and strength. Be beautiful, yes. But be also powerful.  Or actually, be powerful. And also beautiful.

2.     Learn to be independently mobile: All those centuries ago, in spite of having her nose cut off, Surpanakha made it back to Sri Lanka from the jungles of Central India. Sita didn’t know even the jungles she lived in, so she couldn’t be left alone even in her own home. And once abducted,  had to wait about for her husband to come rescue her. And of course we know what happened to Sita after she was rescued by her husband. So, get out the maps, get that driving license and learn some good, soul satisfying swear words. Walk. Cycle. Buy your own tickets. Travel your own road.

3.     Learn to negotiate: Look how Kaikeyi stored away her boon and at what time of strategic importance she put it out on the table. No, I am not advising that we become heartless like Kaikeyi (though that is only public opinion – I do not think she was heartless – she only wanted the best for her child.) but I am advising that we stop  willingly sacrificing ourselves to all and sundry. Self-sacrifice is detrimental to self-esteem. In case you are having doubts, return to Sita’s story.

4.     Make peace with your mother: She’s most often your safest refuge. Sita did and she got to go back home when she’d had enough. Draupadi wasn’t so sagacious and she had to satisfy herself with a rather bloodied revenge.

5.     Do not be afraid of destruction: Durga is the Mother Goddess, but in all her 10 arms, she carries a symbol of destruction. And each of us who is willing to admit, we all know that mothering involves immense discipline and hardness of heart. And so does being a woman. So don’t be fooled into believing being a woman is only about nurturing and caring. Your demons are meant to be cared for. They are meant to be slayed. So if they pay you a visit, slay them. Don’t dither. Don’t whine. Do not procrastinate. Slay.

And now for the gentlemen:

1.     Apply the Lakshman Rekha to self: Keep a check on yourself. Only demons stand outside the limits of greed and want. It has been said that if it had been Lehman Sisters the global economy would have been different today.

2.     Set better examples of masculinity: For example, find a better way of saying ‘no’. If you cut off noses of women who express their desire for you - they will stop desiring you and worse, may decide to do the very same to you when you express your desire for them. You can decide which one is worse. I am a little confused by now.

3.     Work hard, very hard: Money and a fast car aren’t going to slay your demons. You will need the power of Durga to do so. But each of you will have to call forth your own Durga. And do remember even the gods had to enter into deep, universe stopping meditation to bring forth a Durga powerful enough to kill Mahishasura.  So get down to some serious work. And for each of us who is willing to admit, the soul is a harder taskmaster than the bank balance.

4.     Refrain from long absences: Follow your dharma and stick around to do what you are meant to do. Do not wander about in jungles and leave your subjects/wives/parents/children/kingdoms in the lurch. If you are a king, then rule. Do not listen to step mothers or worse, do not gamble. We all know what happens when you do.

5.     Skip the ego trip: I cannot stress the importance of this one. Just as I could not find a single character in these myths that did not take this trip. Perhaps you could be the first one to break the stereotype. Not a bad idea, that one. Who knows, 3000 years later, you could be at the centre of a Very Different Epic. A little bit of waiting yes, but worth it.

The author of this blog is convinced that by following such simple measures, women will be happier women and men happier men. And the the world will no longer be welcoming to any demons - in your mind or mine.


Wednesday 2 October 2013

Fear and taboo in Pishimoni's time....

“The lady turned and hurried up the deserted road. In the moonlight, the narrow village lanes stood peaceful and deserted. An odd lamp glowed in a house or two, but on the whole, Kanakbari slept quietly in the cool autumn night. The silver moonshine shimmered over the sleeping village and a star splattered sky.
In his large sprawling home, the master of the house sat reading over a thick sheaf of papers. A well established lawyer, Sudhin Sengupta was one of the leading figures of Kanakbari in present day Bangladesh. He presided over a large household typical to the early 1900s – his widower father, 3 younger brothers, their families and his own wife, 3 sons and 2 daughters.
That night, he sat immersed in his studies. His large household had retired for the day. The night lay calm and silent around the house. Suddenly a servant knocked on the door with the impossible sounding news that his younger daughter had just arrived.
“Just arrived? What do you mean just arrived? She lives in Sonargaon and that’s across the river – how can –“, here he heard other doors open, muffled voices, agitated, a hushed scream. Unable to distinguish if that was one of joy or otherwise, he had heard enough to realize that something untoward had happened. Putting down his papers, he marched into the courtyard to find the women of his household huddled around, and yes, goodness, this really was his younger daughter.
She saw him before the others and ran to him, bending down to touch his feet. Putting his hand on her head, he asked calmly for he was not easily frazzled, “And where is my son in law?”
His daughter stood straight, looked at him in the eye and said she had come alone. This was too much for the household and for Mr. Sengupta. While the others stood transfixed, Mr. Sengupta sat down on the parapet heavily. His wife stared at their daughter as if turned to stone. The others stared in horror as did the new arrivals to this late night scene.
With a deep breath, as if already knowing the answer, Mr. Sengupta asked – had she been asked to leave by her in-laws? His daughter seemed surprised – why would she be asked to leave? She had left of her own accord – it was not possible for her to stay with her husband.
“And now,” said the just returned daughter, “If you do not mind, I have had a long day and I need to sleep. Is my old room still open?” While saying so, Mrinalini Devi, or Minnie, as she was lovingly nicknamed, floated away from the speechless, thunderstruck crowd and disappearing into her room, firmly shut the door.
As her door shut, there was a knock on the outside door and all the courtyard spectators looked from Minnie’s door to the outside one in trepidation. A servant opened a door and after a whispered discussion, came in to say that the boatman, Majid Bhai was insisting on meeting Karta Babu. Mr. Sengupta rose heavily and came to the door, “Majid, so late? What is it?” he asked sternly.
Majid Bhai stood on the doorstep, holding out a gold bangle. Softly and with some hesitation, Majid bhai said, “Babu, this evening Minnie moni crossed over on my boat. She was in purdah but I recognized her.”  Mr. Sengupta listened impassively.
Taking his silence to be disapproval, Majid Bhai took a deep breath, as if to gather courage and said more firmly but pleadingly, “Babu, she was alone. And she came in the night. My heart has been torn apart in thinking of how terrible must be the circumstances that drove her to come away from her marital home – oh the little child! Babu, please don’t be harsh with her! Please let her stay and at least listen to her. Ask her what sorrow pushes her to take the risk of travelling alone. Know that she is a good girl, that she comes to her own home to seek refuge! Here is the bangle she gave me as the price of the crossing. I have come to return it and plead with you to be kind with her. Oh, how my heart broke when I saw her sitting alone on my boat!”
There were a few sobs from the huddled group of women in reply to Majid Bhai’s impassioned plea. Mr. Sengupta gave the bangle back to Majid and said, “Keep it Majid. She cannot pay you for what you have done for her, but keep this as her token of appreciation.”
Majid protested, but Mr. Sengupta was adamant and since it was not in Majid Bhai’s capacity to argue with one of the most influential men in Kanakbari, Majid Bhai took the bangle. Tucking into his clothing, he walked back slowly to the jetty. Change was afoot, he thought to himself.
And no one in the Sengupta household that night, not even Karta Babu himself, realized the extent of this change. Minnie remained in her room for the next 7 days, opening her door only to receive food and give away used plates and glasses. She spoke to no one and seemed to sleep a great deal. All the women of the household tried talking to her, but no avail. They found much to their disbelief that Minnie actually seemed peaceful and happy – the only happy person in an otherwise stunned and traumatised household.  Neither did she seem ill - her appetite was commendable. Even her mother was unsuccessful in talking to her. Minnie gave the vaguest possible answers about her marital home. Her mother did not have the heart to repeat to Minnie’s worried father how irreverent these answers often were. The interaction between Minnie’s elder sister and Minnie went a little further than irreverence. But the gaggle of Minnie’s nieces and nephews who almost lived on her doorstep in excitement had by then learnt by heart every irreverent answer, to be repeated correct to the last word and intonation for generations afterwards.
Minnie’s response to all questions – wasn’t she afraid? Did she not think of what people would say? – was a placid and happy silence – like the eye of a hurricane as the storm raged about her.
Finally one day Mr. Sengupta himself came to Minnie’s door.
“You have to tell me what has happened. I have to send word to your marital home, Minnie.”
The door did not open, but after some time Minnie replied, “Why send word? Have they sent word?”
Mr. Sengupta remained silent.
“Well?” asked Minnie, “Since they haven’t bothered to know where I am, why waste your time to tell them?”
“But have you asked them? Or even told them that you are coming away? For that matter, have you taken my permission either – to come back home?” asked Mr. Sengupta sternly.
The door opened a crack and Minnie’s eyes appeared in the crack, eyebrows raised. “Take your permission? Did you take my permission when you sent me away from this house? No. You did not. So why should I take your permission if I want to come back?”

Minnie never went back to her marital home. What transpired between the two households or Minnie and her parents are not known to us. What is known is that once Minnie’s door opened, it quickly turned into the favourite room for all the children of the household. Minnie remained their much beloved Pishimoni. She passed on her love of stories, melodrama, reading, fearlessness and breaking boundaries to these children, of which my maternal grandmother was one. Minnie also quickly won back her place as the darling of the Sengupta household and lived happily ever after with her parents and brothers’ families.”

This is a slightly fictionalized account of a true story - one of my favourite stories about my grandmother’s Pishimoni – Minnie in the above account. I had heard these stories from my grandmother’s brothers and sisters – her own as well as her cousins. While each of the sisters were true followers of their Pishimoni,  the best story tellers among them were my own grandmother and her first cousin - Dr. Vina Mazumdar. In true Majumdar family style, both would almost act out the conversation between their aunt and grandfather about permissions being taken and given. Then, in stage whispers, they’d bring up some more irreverent and obviously unprintable conversation between Minnie and her elder sister, the latter brought in to convince the former on the benefits of a husband, and both my grandmother and Vinadi would collapse with laughter. Vina di gives her own account of her aunt in her autobiography – The Memories of A Rolling Stone.


Often Vina di, whom I had the privilege of knowing both as grand niece as well as a younger and admiring feminist and development worker, would tell us that our choices had multiple levels of impact. And that this was especially true for women, who were often afraid of making choices. And then she would tell us about her much loved Pishimoni, and of how her natal home adjusted to her choice at a time when it was unthinkable - and thus showed the impressionable young children that it was alright for women to be fearless, to break taboo, for men to support them, for women to be happy and eccentric and for families to leave behind a legacy of laughter, courage and deep camaraderie.

Tuesday 30 April 2013

The Naturalness of Strange Things.



Someone once made this stellar observation, “Youth is when your mind is expanding and your waistline is narrow. Middle age is when your waistline starts expanding and your mind starts narrowing.” Having determined myself, that my mind must accompany the expansion of my waistline, I have kept myself abreast in the process of stretching my mind. (Many people I know seem to think that the opposite is an option – that their waistlines must match the narrowing of their minds. But I find getting into a gym and going on a diet incredibly exhausting and expensive. Sitting in my easy chair and expanding my mind is also exhausting, but at least it’s not expensive) And for me, this has an additional benefit. My profession is that of changing things – not bulbs and switches exactly but ideas and beliefs. Imagining change is core to the work I do. Imagine different ways of doing things, believe that strange new things are possible. And if you do not do such mind stretching on a regular basis, you get used to the naturalness of strange things – like believing that middle age and narrow waistlines can co-exist in the same individual.


Do we really stretch our minds? Of course we do. Every human society, right from prehistoric times has imagined a man on the moon. Lawrence Durrell imagined 5 sexes instead of 2.  The Queen of Hearts in Alice in Wonderland admitted to imagining 18 impossible things every day before breakfast. Nabanita Deb Sen imagined a different Ramayan. As does this post.

But before I start - there is quite a bit of borrowing on this post. The title for one thing is borrowed. Andre Gide said of the travel writer Henri Michaux’s writing that he, “excels in making us feel intuitively both the naturalness of strange things and the strangeness of natural things.” What a beautiful and incredibly accurate way of putting it. In my field of work, whenever I have tried to say the same thing, I have got stuck with “how discriminatory social behaviour is accepted because it is normative….”

The second thing that is borrowed is the concept of the fiction/fantasy below. It is deeply influenced and inspired by an author I admire greatly – Ms. Nabanita Deb Sen. I sincerely hope she will forgive me for plagiarising her thinking in her collection – “Sita’r Thekey Shuru”

For those of you who are not familiar with the Ramayana, - one of India’s greatest epics - here is the story in brief. Dasarath is the king of the north Indian kingdom of Ayodhya. His 3 wives bear him 4 sons – Ram, Lakshman, Bharat and Shatrughan.
Janak, the king of Maithil – a neighbouring kingdom has a daughter – Sita. Though she is his daughter, she is born of the earth – she was found when the king was ploughing the earth. (Since epics are part myth, I cannot provide you with logical explanations for such happenings) Janak arranged a ‘swayamvar’ for her when she came of age. A swayamvar was where all eligible men were invited by the bride’s father, who would usually set some difficult tasks for the potential bridegroom. The person who succeeded, married the daughter. The handsome Ram wins the hand of the fair Sita by stringing the famous Gandiv bow. Ram – the heir apparent to the throne of Ayodhya, with his beautiful wife Sita live in Ayodhya happily – but not ever after.
One of Dasarath’s wives – Kaikeyi wishes her own son Bharat (who does not so wish though) to be the heir apparent and takes a promise from Dasarath to banish Ram to the forest for 14 years. Ram, the dutiful son, agrees without demur. His faithful wife Sita and his devoted brother Lakshman follow him to the jungles. To cut a long story short, their forest idyll is cut short by the arrival of the Lankan princess Surpanakha who, finding Ram an attractive man, proposes to him. He laughs at her, saying he is already committed, but she could ask Lakshman instead. Lakhsman is also attractive, but he too spurns her. The furious Surpanakha threatens Sita, the women for whom she was spurned. Angered at this, Lakshman’s  response is to cut off her nose. Thwarted, wounded and furious, she returns to Lanka to her brother – King Ravan. The immensely powerful Ravan is stung by this slight and in revenge abducts Sita, keeping her captive in Lanka till Ram, aided by an army of monkeys and bears, invades Lanka, kills Ravan and all his sons and brothers save one – Vibhishan who betrays Ravan to Ram. Ram rescues Sita, returns victorious to Ayodhya. However, Sita’s virtue is questioned by the people of Ayodhya as she had stayed in Lanka for many days without her husband. Ram, the dutiful king, listens to his people and banishes Sita, who is then 5 months pregnant.
Years later, Sita returns to Ayodhya with her twin sons, only to be questioned again. Finding this unacceptable, she requests her mother – the Earth, to take her back. The Earth opens and Sita sinks into the Earth, never to appear again. Ram leaves the city life,  abdicates his kingship and goes away to the forests leaving his twin sons to rule.
The arbitrariness of the morality in this story I always found puzzling. But it was the women in the story that really intrigued me – Sita, Kaikeyi, Surpanakha. They were one sided figures who appeared in the story just to create enough momentum to take the story to the next step. Then they’d disappear into the background and wait for the men. But they all had other women around them – what did they think? What did they talk about? What made them angry? What made them sorrowful? What were there dreams? What men did they love? What if things had been different? Read on -
“Change was in the air. I could feel it. And I knew Monkey could feel it too. She was more restless, more irritable. Not that she was easy to live with otherwise either. But she’d lived on my branches since she was a baby. A strange solitary monkey she was, refusing to be named. She’d disappear for a day or two sometimes and come back on her own. Sometimes other solitary monkeys would come by, chat and leave.
“Why are you still lounging around? Why don’t you do any work? Join a pack. Learn some skill. Do Something?” I asked Monkey for the hundredth time.
Not budging from examining her toenails, she replied, “ One: I don’t lounge. Two: I do work. Three: I work solo. Solo. Hanging about in packs and grovelling is not cool. I have a skill. And I know much more than other monkeys, Old Tree. So stop fussing. And things are changing now from your times.”
“Well, why don’t you get a name then. What kind of a name is Monkey anyway?” I persisted, shaking the branch she was lying on. She slipped, but unperturbed, hung on by a leg and swinging on it she said silkily, “Really? Well, what do you suggest I call myself? Jaguar? Elephant? Oh wait – how about Cobra?!” she giggled as she dropped off the branch and scampered off into the forest.
She stayed with me. Alone, tough, fearless. But as she slept soundly at night, I’d see her – a tiny bundle of fur, tucked into my branches. I’d pull my leaves over her to make her a little more comfortable and pray that the coming changes would be good for the little one. Then the moon would rise majestically over the deep forests to our north. I would sigh and hope that our world would always stay this way – tranquil, beautiful, undisturbed.
Then one day, she came back from one of her forest visits, all excited.
“It’s happening! It’s happening!” And then I saw it and screamed, “You are wounded! Oh my little baby!”
She jumped off my branches indignantly, “I am not your little baby!” she cried, “And what are you screaming about?” I waved my closest branch at her shoulder in alarm.
“Oh that!” she showed it to me and I watched in horror. “That is not a wound – that is my tattoo – see! It’s a banyan leaf. It means now I am The Monkey of the Banyan Tree!”
Before we could say anything further, we realised something was coming through the forests and Monkey jumped back into my branches.
She came stumbling and moaning in agony through the undergrowth into the clearing in which I stood. As she tripped over one of my roots and fell, I saw that her nose was bleeding and she was desperately trying to stem the flow of blood. She was obviously foreign to these parts. And she was very, very lovely. She looked like a beautiful exotic bird in her shimmering silk robes and glittering jewels. Monkey sat on my branches as still as a rock. And before anything else could happen, another lady, dressed in the simple robes of a forest dweller walked into the clearing, humming to herself and examining a basket full of flowers, leaves, bits of bark. She immediately saw the foreign looking lady. “Oh! You are hurt! Let me see, here, let me see –“ The foreign lady was wont to dismiss her, but seemed too weak. The other lady fussed about in her basket and with a set of leaves and a bit of cloth torn from her clothing made a sort of bandage for the bleeding nose. Once the bleeding stopped, she asked the foreign lady, her voice soft with concern and sympathy, “Who are you my dear? You seem to be far from home. Who has done this terrible thing to you? Tell me. I shall tell my husband and my brother in law. They will protect you – you need not be afraid.”
The foreign lady looked keenly at forest dweller for a while in silence and said quietly, “I am Surpanakha, the Princess of Lanka. And I believe it is you who needs to be afraid, because the men who you believe will protect you and me are the men who have done this to me. And perhaps you should be afraid of me too – I have just threatened to do terrible things to you.”
The forest dweller stood up haughtily, “Never! I am Sita. My husband Ram and his brother are kings of the Suryavanshi clan. They would never raise their hand on a woman! How dare you make such an accusation! And why would you want to threaten me – I don’t even know you,-” and regaining her composure, she said more calmly, “I am sure there has been a misunderstanding.”
Now there was sympathy in Surpanakha’s query, “What if my accusation is right? What then?”
The inflection in her voice reached Sita. For a split second, she looked unsure. Then Sita said, “ I am the daughter of the Earth. And the future queen of Ayodhya. I give you my word that if what you say is true, I will bring you justice.” Her voice was calm and determined as the two women faced each other in silence. But I seemed to hear and enormous sigh all around me as she said this. The sun slipped behind the trees and cast a cool green shadow all around us. The winds slowed and everything became very still for that moment.
Surpanakha said, “You say you are the daughter of this powerful Earth and a future queen. Yet you know naught about the men in your life. Not very queen like, are you?” Sita started as if to speak. But Surpanakha held up her hand imperiously – “But never mind that. I believe you mean what you say. I will wait for you here for 2 days. When you find out who did this to me, come back here. I will be waiting.” She added with a faint smile, “For justice.”
“Here?” said Sita, “In the forest? Hurt and alone?”
Surpanakha burst into a deep, melodious laughter,” Alone?! What do they teach you women up north these days! If you cannot take care of yourself, how will you be a queen to Ayodhya’s people – they will make mincemeat of you! I will take care of myself – here – “ and she closed her eyes and went still and silent. Sita stood silently staring at Surpanakha as she emerged from this deep meditative state and removed the plaster of leaves from her nose. And lo! Her nose was healed.
Sita stirred and said in a slightly dazed voice, “It’s a bit crooked, though.”
“Drat!” said Surpanakha, “I waited too long – all this argument with you –“
“Sorry about that,” said Sita hurriedly gathering her basket, “But I have to go now. I have to talk to my husband. Wait for me here. I will come back.” And she hurried off into the darkness. “Pity about your nose though!” she called out as she disappeared.
Surpanakha sat for a long time leaning against my trunk, looking at the direction in which Sita disappeared. After a while she got up and looked around, stopping as she saw me. She looked at me for a long time again. Then she came back to me and almost directly under Monkey went into a deep sleep.
That night Monkey remained awake all night, but unlike her restless self, she lay still and absolutely silent. She did not move even as the sun rose.
Before Surpanakha awoke, we heard the rustling further up the path and Sita walked into the clearing. As I saw her, I knew what she had found out. She sat down heavily next to Surpanakha, waking up the sleeping princess. They looked at each other for a while, then both stared at the dense impassable forest ahead of them.
Finally, Surpanakha spoke, “What now?’
“I am thinking, I am thinking,” said Sita, some what irritably “It isn’t easy, you know to deal with all this nose cutting business – that’s not the kind of family I want to belong to. How do I deal with it?”
Surpanakha said, “How would I know, dear Queen in waiting, I am just a mere princess whose nose has been –“
Sita, immediately contrite, reached out and held Surpanakha’s hands in her own, “Oh, how terrible of me. I am so sorry, my dear, and that too you have now a crooked nose! We must not be against each other – I have a promise to keep to you, and keep it I will,” and growing more determined she continued, “ Let’s get down to business. First things first – what are you doing here? So far from home? Are you lost? Or have you run away? Are you looking for something? How did you find Ram and Lakshman? Were you…..err…were you then….umm…looking –“
Surpanakha stood up, looked scornfully at Sita and said, “ If you think I am looking for men in a dense forest full of wild animals, you must think of me as being exceedingly silly. That is not  usually what people think me to be.”
Sita nodded seriously, “No, that was silly on my part – but my first question is not silly – what ARE you doing here?”
Surpanakha beckoned and Sita stood up. She beckoned Sita closer and whispered into her ear, “I am here on a mission.”
Now Sita lifted an eyebrow, “Here?”
“Yes! Well, let me explain – my brothers are not very different from your husband and his brother. All they think of is war. Then war and then some more war. There have been Predictions of an impending war, you know, and the Predictions also say that Ravan, my brother and the King of Lanka, will be killed in this war. So he has gone into a frenzy of preparing for battle. The whole country has been plunged headlong into beefing up. People are doing nothing else. No studies, no music, no dancing, no prayers, no beauty, no trade – only war. And then, my spies brought me some unbelieveable news. I told them that if they were found to be lying, I’d cut off their tongues.” Sita winced.
But Supranakha was now very excited, “But they said it was the truth. Things were happening up north. Women were ruling countries. Countries which were wealthy and wise, but did not fight any wars. Where people lived in peace and prosperity!” Sita’s shoulders sagged.
“No, no, it must be true!” cried Surpanakha.
“And this is where the wonderful lands are?” said Sita, spreading her hands, “You have been tricked, Sister. I have lived in these forests for 13 years – we are the only 3 humans here.”
“Tch, tch!” Surpanakha dismissed Sita, “Listen to the best part!” she said, her eyes shining, “These countries are linked by a network of monkeys –“ I felt Monkey tensing her muscles -
Sita cut her short, “I just might rethink about your being silly –“
“Oh drat, listen to my full story –“ said Surpanakha, “A network of monkeys all across the land! They work with information – news from here to there. They will carry rumours, they will carry the Truth – but only for peace, not war. Fully reliable, fully guaranteed!” They are known by the names of the trees they live on and are tattooed with those leaves – like Monkey of the Coconut Tree, Monkey of the Mango Tree. And I am here to find the first link – the Monkey –“
Monkey slid down completing the sentence for Surpanakha,”of the Banyan Tree.”
“AAAAaaaaaarghhh!!!!” Surpanakha and Sita screamed, clutching each other and staring at Monkey in horror. Monkey looked at them, cocked her head and said,” Not very queen like are you?”
“The Monkey speaks our language!” quavered Sita.
“Shame!” said Monkey. The two stared at Monkey in disbelief, “I am speaking in my own tongue. But because of Sita you understand what I say,” explained Monkey patiently.
“Me?” whispered Sita, “What did I do?”
“Do? Nothing. It’s who you are – didn’t you say some time back, all proud and head held high,” Monkey mimicked Sita perfectly, “ – I am the daughter of the Earth! You have the power to do bring together all the children of Mother Earth. Like me.”
I decided it was time, “And me,” I said in my best voice. But since it possibly sounded to them like a ghostly rustling of leaves, they cringed a little and looked worriedly at my branches.
“That’s right,” said Monkey, “Sit down, both of you. Old Banyan Tree has something to tell you.”
I nodded wisely, waving my branches as they sat down looking warily at Monkey and me, “You are right, O Princess of Lanka, about the Predictions,”
“You are right about The Network also,” Monkey added.
Surpanakha found her voice, “And the news about women ruling countries? Am I right about that too?” said Surpanakha in a voice hoarse with anxiety.
“Yes, you have heard right,” Monkey and I said together.
She jumped up again, “Yes! Yes! It will work! I know it will!” she said excitedly.
“We are the only two women in the middle of a dense forest. You’ve just had your nose cut off. I’ve just had my faith cut off. We are sitting here listening to a talking Monkey and  a Tree. I cannot imagine what you think will work, dear Sister –“ said Sita glumly.
“Perhaps you should listen to the Predictions,” I said.
“Pray, tell us, Banyan Tree – maybe that will be a good place to start?” said Sita bitterly.
Monkey, Sita and Surpanakha sat under the tranquil shadows of my branches as I told them the Predictions that the winds and stars and all wise things knew. It grew late in the afternoon as I finished and my audience sat still for a while afterwards.
Then Sita said, seemingly to herself, “Obedient. Faithful. Devoted. Hmmm…..interesting.”
Surpanakha stood up and stamping her foot said, “Unbelievable! One appearance only! Only one scene!”
Monkey glared at both of them, “ Hanuman at your feet. How typically human. If you want me to work for you, I sit on your shoulder. If you don’t agree, there’ll be no deal. No grovelling for me, ladies, no tearing open of my chest, please. I work with you and for you, as an equal.”
“Work?” Sita looked at Surpanakha, “Do you have a deal? To do what? Am I part of the deal?”
Surpanakha said, “ If you had listened carefully you’d remember I came in search of the Monkey of the Banyan Tree. I have no plans as yet, and no deals. But I know that I am not going to sit quiet after listening to those Predictions.”
Sita said, “ No, I agree. I have no intentions of going down in history as obedient and devoted,” with a shiver, “But what are we going to do? How can we challenge the Predictions?”
I said, “That has been done more often than you think, O Daughter of the Earth. Why should you not be able to do it?” I said.
“ But How can we stop a war? Who will help us? Monkey?” said Sita.
“Well, if your husband can work with Monkeys to win a war, why cant you work with monkeys to build peace?” said Surpanakha.
Monkey made a noise in her throat and Surpanakha stopped in her tracks, “Monkey,” she said ominiously, “Was that, by any chance, a snort? I will have –“
Monkey cut her short, mimicking her gesture perfectly and holding up an imperious paw,” Cease and desist, Princess. That very definitely was a snort.”
“And don’t look so miffed – I snorted because you are so exactly like the men you seem to despise,” Sita put out her hand and prevented Surpanakha from interrupting Monkey. “Go on,” said Sita.
“Like the men, you too think that peace is easier than war.”
“And you think it isn’t?” asked Sita.
“No. You need courage, responsibility, justice and an immense amount of hard work, amongst other things to build peace. You need things like equality and consideration, dignity and respect – all things for which no one trains you like the men are trained in war. You up to it? You think you can believe in the impossible? You think you can walk a lonely road? Because if your answer is yes, this,” Monkey pointed to the ground at her feet, “Is where you start.” And she sat down, patting the ground next to her.
Sita looked at Monkey and then and Surpanakha and went to sit down next to Monkey. Surpanakha joined them immediately, muttering, “Disgusting. Just one appearance.”
The three of them spent hours talking, disagreeing, sometimes on the verge of fighting, and often laughing. Their laughter echoed through the forests, an unusual sound that the forest absorbed with joy. And then, finally, they all stopped. Looking at each other, they nodded. They looked at me and nodded. I nodded back and as a result a few leaves floated down. Both Sita and Surpanakha picked up a leaf each and smiled at each other as they tucked it into their hair braids. In silence, they stood up, hugged each other. Sita said, her voice full of emotion and eyes full of tears,” Goodbye my dear Sisters. Stay well and take care.” She then turned and walked away north, calling out to Surpanakha as she entered the forest, “Pity about your nose, though.”
Surpanakha cocked her head and Monkey jumped up on her shoulder. They walked away to the South and Monkey looked back once or twice. I think she waved to me once, but I may be mistaken.
And so started the campaign. Monkey was a changed monkey now, always alert, always busy with messages that flew across the land with great speed and regularity. Many monkeys passed by, all equally busy. I would fold my branches over the little creatures as they slept – my soul full of admiration for those fragile souls that fought such terrifying battles. And I nodded in hearty approval at the messages that passed by –
Surpanakha to Sita – Rumour Campaign 1 successful. Army General given false information about impending foreign army. Everyone ready for war. No invading army arrives. Army General sacked.
Sita to Surpanakha – Information sent to Ayodhya that Lakhsman is behaving strangely.
Surpanakha to Sita: Rumour Campaign 2 successful. Again no invading army arrives. Rumour campaign 3 initiated and people beginning to protest against Ravan’s war mongering.
Sita to Surpanakha – Definite news reaches Ayodhya that Lakshman has attacked a foreign national who came in peace. Much dissatisfaction noted.
Surpanakha to Sita: Army refuses to ready for war. Rumour spread that Ravan will not be paying them at the next festival. Unrest starts within the army.
Sita to Surpanakha: The three mothers now informed about how difficult it is for their dear Sita to live in dense jungles with a man given to unexplained bouts of violence against women. Mothers tense and angry. They have sent a minister to enquire about the safety of Sita.
Surpanakha to Sita: Rumour Campaign 3 successful. Army told of their King’s intention to fight an army of monkeys and bears. Army goes on strike, telling Ravan he can start recruiting monkeys and bears from now.
Sita to Surpanakha: We have returned to Ayodhya. Ram has been informed of the people of Ayodhya’s questioning of Lakshman assaulting a woman. Lakshman is asked to publicly prove his innocence. He surrendered and Ram has banished him. Urmila, his wife has refused to go with him.
Surpanakha to Sita: Campaign with citizens successful. Ravan has had to publicly share expenses and made to commit to education, health, the fine arts, craftsmanship and international trade. And Mandodari is now my dearest friend and ally!
Sita to Surpanakha: Ram is unable to live without Lakshman. He has followed his brother into the unknown. Urmila and I are now the Queens Regent. I am expecting my child in two months from now!
Surpanakha to Sita: That is wonderful news! Oh, dear Sister, I have asked Monkey of the Banyan Tree to personally take my gifts of jewels and spices for you! Here, as planned, the Network has been sending more and more ships to trade at our harbours and Ravan, his brothers and sons are busy with more and more foreign visitors, more and more income and more and more trade.
Sita to Surpanakha: I am the mother of twin daughters! How I wish you were here to celebrate with me. But our craftsmen here are building a new kind of ship, that will cover large distances in a short while. I shall soon come to your lovely land to visit you.
Surpanakha to Sita: And when you come to Lanka, you shall meet me as the Queen of Lanka. Mandodari and I are the Queens Regent now, as all the men are busy with foreign trips. A splendid welcome will await you and every honour due to a comrade in arms. Come soon.
Sita to Surpanakha: Hail Surpanakha, beautiful Queen of Lanka! We shall meet soon.
Sita to Surpanakha: Pity about your nose though.
And while this messages flew past, I stood at the edge of the Dandakaranya, as I always had done, spreading my branches, and giving shade to all who passed by. Happy I was for my Monkey, now older, wiser and acclaimed as a wise old monkey who gave good advice to all who came to her, as generously as I gave my shade. And now, when Monkey slept on my branches and a huge yellow moon rose over the Dandakaranya, I felt the beauty and tranquillity of my land and sighed with a deep contentment that I had never felt before.”
How about it? Dream a new dream. Imagine a new world. And following Fox Mulder’s advice to his X-Files partner, “Push the boundaries, Scully, and bring the implausible into the realm of the possible.”
All you need is an easy chair and a mind ready to expand. You up to it?


















































Friday 22 March 2013

Learning to question


Three days of workshops, presentations, reviews on women’s rights and the development agenda. And I could not help feeling that change has been slow in the coming. People were discussing the same issues and asking the same questions that were being asked 20 years ago, when I started work. And like we were doing 20 years ago, everyone was blaming everyone else. The women blamed the men, the parents blamed their children, the government blamed the politicians, the politicians blamed the insurgencies, the states blamed the Centre, the Dalits blamed the upper castes, the SGSY blamed the MNREGA, the BPFA blamed the MDGs (Don’t worry about the abbreviations, all the blaming, abbreviations notwithstanding, is irrelevant) Not being the depressive sort by nature, I am unwilling to give up hope or criticise myself and the millions of others (men and women) who have worked on a better world for women. But I do think we should sit ourselves down and renew some of the pledges we made. And here, my definition of ‘we’ is you and I. I cannot tell you what to do, but, in the spirit of this (remarkably erratic) blog, I hope to share with you some of my experiences in this pledging, promising, changing and other immensely impossible things we set out to do. To start with, as I sat through the 3 days of discussions on women’s rights last week, I made myself a list. A list of things I would do more of. To start with, I told myself, I must challenge more, question more.

One of the most fascinating and initial aspects of change is the challenging of the existing order – though this took me a long time to understand. It is an unbeatable exercise of the mind – examining the structures that define my life and ask, why should it be so? Why not that way? Or this way? Friere, in his seminal treatises on oppression and liberation says, “Any situation in which some individuals prevent others from engaging in the process of inquiry is one of violence. The means used are not important; to alienate human beings from their own decision making is to change them into objects.”

To challenge effectively and provide compelling arguments for your challenging is a fine art. I realised much later in life that what I took for a particularly unfair argument when I was younger was actually wonderful exercise in my mid life skills of trumping an argument. A particularly useful skill when the argument was patriarchal. Friere and patriarchy came to me later in life. Yet, I had my own experiences of challenging and questioning, despite having no Friere or de Beauvoir to explain it to me. Growing up in the kind of family I did, one was always being asked what I thought in those days were unnecessary and uncomfortable questions. Like -

“You want to go back home because you forgot your what?”

“My dupatta, I forgot my dupatta,” I said louder than before.

“But this bus is full – the next one is an hour later and if we go back, we’ll miss the bus,” said my cousin, “and its only your scarf, so forget it, let’s stay on the bus.” 

“It’s not a scarf, its called a dupatta, Dada, and I want it,” I continued stubbornly, not knowing what I was inviting, “I can’t go about without a dupatta – that makes me half dressed.”

“Half dressed, is it? You seem pretty well covered to me,” my cousin said, giving me the look over.

“Not really, -“ but he cut me off – “Which part of you is not covered, tell me?”

I glared at him. “Well?” he pushed, eyebrows raised, “Which part?” he said a little loudly than before. Like an idiot I walked into the trap and indicated my neck and below with my fingers, still glaring at him angrily but not wanting to say what he wanted me to say.

By now, we had many interested listeners, the bus had started and I was fighting a losing battle. He raised his voice a little more, “Oh, you mean your chest is not covered.” The stress on the word ‘chest’ was unmistakeable, but at that time, knowing my cousin, I was glad he had not been more specific. But the respite was brief - I was not to be spared.

“I don’t see why that is a problem, Rupa, you have a pretty decent bustline and besides, bustline or not, you should be confident about your body – its your’s after all.”  Most people around us had given up all pretence of doing anything else and had settled down to watch our argument with great interest. My cousin continued, 
“You know, I wouldn’t really have a problem showing my chest, or leaving it uncovered,” here he paused to look down at his chest. Every girl in the bus was smiling at my ridiculously handsome cousin, or more exactly, at his chest. 

“But you all attract more attention to your bust line by covering it all up and convincing yourselves that all men only want to look at your busts,” he said, “Have you thought why you wear a scarf? Only because others wear it – not because you really need it. Have you ever thought about it for yourself? Does it have any use? Would you wear it of you had a choice? I can’t imagine you would, would you? You see, I think you don’t ask yourself a fundamental question – do I want to wear this?”

By now I had thrown caution to the winds and was ready to enter the fray, but the rest of the bus beat me to it. And the debate about what women think and men do raged about us, as 3B trundled along its path. In the true spirit of a Kolkata bus based argument, everyone got involved. My cousin, generous in victory, stayed at the centre of the discussions. I sat sulking, silent, unhappy in my defeat, and dealing with the slow but sure realisation that one of my cousin’s accusations was probably right – that I wear a dupatta (not a scarf) only because others wear it. I considered myself a rebel and this accusation hurt more than the others. The more I thought about it, the less use the dupatta seemed to have.

But we were out shopping and I put away all these difficult thoughts. My cousin had very generously offered to buy me a good pair of shoes, we were in New Market and I had a lovely time trying out a whole lot of shoes, the morning’s grumpiness and loss of face all but forgotten. But it was not for long.

I settled for a brown pair and my cousin had almost paid for it when he said in the passing that he actually felt the beige ones with higher heels were better. Without thinking I said I agreed. The ones that I was not buying were better.

“Then why are you buying these?” he asked, pointing to the chosen flat brown ones. I must have been really silly all those years ago, because once again I put my foot into my mouth. Trying out the beige shoes with high heels, I admired my feet in the mirror and said, “Because these have high heels, too high!”

“Is there a problem in walking in them?” asked my cousin. Still admiring myself in the high heeled shoes, I said, “Oh no, they are very comfortable. But I’ll wear these to the dances and jam sessions  - and I am already as tall as most of the boys. If I wear these I’ll be taller than them and most boys don’t like dancing with girls who are taller than them.”

“Then you shouldn’t like such boys,”  was my cousin’s reply. I recognized the challenge in my cousin’s voice and turned hurriedly to him. He actually seemed angry. The shop attendants stood fidgeting at their possible loss of sale and I stood with my heart sinking at not only another argument but a possible loss of my first pair of good leather shoes.

“Now you explain this to me, Rupa,” he said,  “ Why do you always seem to do things for others?  You want to wear a scarf because others do. You want to wear a pair of shoes so that you fit into other people’s scheme of things. How odd! You should buy shoes that you like. Not shoes that the boys will like. I’m buying you the shoes because I’d like to buy you something you want. Not what your dancing partners want. And if they don’t want to dance with a girl like you, tall or not, I think they are a bunch of silly boys anyway.” I shall spare you my reaction to this outburst, but shall not keep you from the happy ending.

That afternoon, the flat brown shoes were discarded. The high heeled beige ones were bought. They were worn to every dance. The ‘bunch of silly boys’ continued to dance with me and remain my friends till today. The chic beige shoes brought me many compliments. My cousin evolved from a much admired big brother into a much adored friend, philosopher and guide. I never forgot the importance of asking – why am I doing what I am doing – is it because everyone else does it? Or is it because this is something that I really want to do. I never forgot that if I do things because I really want to do them, even if it meant doing things differently from others, I’d be a happier person.

This question has stood the test of time. For me. And so I’d recommend it to everyone. The answer is often tougher than buying high heeled shoes instead of flat ones, but its worth a try.