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.
