A World With No Money

Some time back, a ‘private wealth management company’ connected with me on LinkedIn. After my usual irritation at such unsolicited enquiries I told them sternly that in the event of having any wealth, I would be private about it.  But more important: I hadn’t any wealth in the first place.

But they were good, hiding their insistence with a great deal of charm, politeness and giving me a  ‘senior level professional and achiever in the sector’ treatement. I was intrigued and  agreed to a video call. The call was a disaster from the start. Two men in pink shirts and faux western accents came on the call. I ploughed through a mire of assumptions, stereotypes, iron headed insensitivity and rapidly growing disinterest. But all of these I had encountered before. What rendered me speechless was the amount the Pink Shirts  quoted as the ‘entry level’ to their services. I asked in all my disbelief and naivete – “And do professionals in my position regularly have this level of resources?”

Charm gone, and digging their hole deeper with each comment, Pink Shirt 1 suggested that perhaps I did not make the grade due to my many years in the not for profits sector. And Pink Shirt 2 added that had impacted the way I thought about money too, perhaps? Deciding that this was the end of the doomed conversation I announced that my cat was yowling and I needed to go.

I heard many incorrect, unfounded, in-accurate and pig headed remarks during the conversation, and wrote it off as the usual capitalist patriarchal ego baulking at anything that sat outside their carefully constructed grids. But the astonishment on both sides kept creeping back into my thoughts – their astonishment that only Y was the sum total of my worth. And my astonishment that all of X was the sum total of other peoples worth. And as many conversations had done in the past, it sent me ruminating on my relationship with money.

A relationship fraught with angst. And one, that was, despite a number of similarly fraught conversations, sometimes extreme obstacles, and my near complete inability to comprehend its nature, fundamental in my final understandings of freedom. The one conversation that was my watershed from non participation to an active engagement with my money, happened at the most unexpected location. And with the most severe of critics. 

Some years ago, in one of the training centres I worked with rural Haryana, there was a tree planting event. It was organised by the members of the local womens self help group - Usha Jyoti Mahila Swayam Sahayta Samuh. Having planted a tree, I was complimented by some of the organising  embers of the Usha Jyoti MSSS. on how well I had done the planting. I happily accepted the compliment, sharing that I had a little plot at home too and was very fond of gardening. 

“Ah! So you grow your wheat?” one of them asked.

I thought of my little garden in south Delhi. It was generous by south Delhi standards but definitely not on the wheat growing scale.

“Wheat? No no it’s not the wheat growing kind of ……” I said and was cut short by another member. Who said, “You grow the vegetables then?”

Again I said no, I didn’t.

Did I buy vegetables then, I was asked. 

I said I did. 

They asked what I did with the land.

“I grow flowers,” I said.

“Good, good, we hear flowers sell at very good prices these days! Do you get a good price?”

I began to get an idea of where this was going, and said thoughtfully, “Actually I don’t sell the flowers.”

The women paused. And one of them asked somewhat suspiciously, “You have land. But don’t grow vegetables. You buy them. You grow flowers but don’t sell them. Tell us do you buy flowers also?”

I looked carefully at them and said I did. 

The conversation faded from then on. And I thought I overheard them say to another group, looking at me from the corner of their eyes - “ That’s why she has to come to the factory to work every day, poor thing. She can’t manage her land and knows nothing about the markets or managing any money.”

I was the manager of the project that engaged with this womens group. And the manager of quite a few other projects in an enviable body of work on corporate social responsibility for a large manufacturing company. Returning to my desk that afternoon, I kept thinking of this discussion. The logic of the SHG women was irrefutable. And I came away thoughtful and humbled. 

I returned home that evening and spent some time in my garden. The next day I went out and bought vegetable seeds and saplings of the season and planted them. The flowers stayed. But I added vegetables. And found to my joy that adding variety made the garden greener than it had been in a very long time. I also spent a long time looking at my bank balance. And doing similar things with it. Here too, the results were unexpected and exciting. Since then, its been a road of happy discoveries. Including the Pink Shirts who did hold up a mirror of sorts. 

The alienation of women from their own money is a systemic aspect of patriarchy. It sits deep within our psyches. Years ago, I moved jobs from a feminist resource centre to a womens micro finance project. I firmly believed that I was, without doubt, a feminist. And yet, I neither questioned or challenged or even understood money and wealth. This was in spite of the fact that I successfully managed the micro finance project dealing with lakhs and soon a few crores, and mobilised hundreds of poor rural women into financial independence. But remained unmobilised myself.

At the macro level, this means that many banks and economic institutions have women leading them, yet when you ask women what they want in life, their responses are more ideological, even spiritual. In another milestone conversations on money, the late Kamala Bhasin rued, “Whenever I ask women what they want to be or what they want from life, they have the longest answers, yet not one has told me that she simply wants to be rich. Why is that so? Why don’t women want to be rich?” She had looked at me and asked, “Well, don’t you young things dream of being rich?” 

But patriarchy and capitalism could not the only contributors to my delayed financial emancipation. My politics leant to the left and I was a Bengali to boot. In money terms, anything beyond a salary (preferably earned through intellectual means) was viewed with suspicion if not outright dismissal. There was also the family to consider. My parents’ families had survived Partition better than most.  Both sides of the family were able overcome the trauma, settle into respectable jobs and stable families. We lived comfortable middle class lives.  And yet, even in families like ours, where arguments, opinions and political debates were part of our lives, I do not remember any discussions on money. These were families of academic achievers and that was the role to follow. We heard stories of financial difficulties post Partition, but what seemed to matter was that they had been overcome. Making more money was not a necessary outcome. And I grew up not thinking about money.

The effectiveness of this alienation and cultural construct is proved by the fact that a conversation with a feminist of Kamala Bhasin’s power did nothing much to change the way I thought of money. I came away admiring her, as always and thinking how good it would be for me to have some more money. I always remembered what Kamala had said, but never learnt anything to make it happen for me. Many conversations on money and wealth over the years would trigger a sense of unease. Many meetings with women already well along their way to better financial health or well behind me in the journey would get me thinking. But it was finally that conversation at the tree planting event that was my tipping point. 

Never mind that today my net worth is Y. It is better than minus Y.  I am also wiser (pun intended) Am I saving large sums of money, now that I eat home grown vegetables? Not necessarily. But viewing my garden and my money as resources which I should optimise has given me far greater self confidence and stability than before. Am I no longer a leftist or a feminist? No, I still am. To quote one of my favourite feminist beliefs - “You cannot use the masters tools to destroy the masters house.” True. We can’t. And the first step to creating our own tools is the understanding of the masters tools and what they do for his house. 

As of now, according to Niall Ferguson, the list of people who imagine a world without money includes “ …communists and anarchists - not to mention some extreme reactionaries, religious fundamentalists and hippies…” perhaps one day this list will be different. Perhaps one day we will find an alternative to money. But while we look for alternatives, I will earn my salary and pay my taxes. 

I may never make it to the entry level of the Pink Shirts’ expert services, but I do hope I can now hold my own with the Usha Jyoti womens group. And who knows we both may find our own tools. And Kamala’s questions may live on in her absence, seeking, challenging, questioning, changing………

The Single Female Traveller: Of freebies and angst.

I travel extensively for work. When I do, I rarely loiter, laze or absorb things around me. As I am told, when I travel, I either am reading intently or frowning at anyone who is preventing me from reading.

But there are times when the Universe has Other Plans for us: during a recent tour late last month, the Universe caught me firmly by the arm. Thus propelled by the Universe, I looked up from my book at a traffic signal and saw a large advertisement for the ‘Himmat’ app.

For the reader without knowledge of Urdu, ‘himmat’ translates into ‘courage.’ I knew this was targeted at women users and initiated by the Delhi Police. Intrigued, I closed my book. And Googled the app.

To start with, most women I knew, met or came across were already courageous. Daily life for women in our country requires courage. It may not be of the 18 days in the war front kind of courage, but it is courage nevertheless. And courage more so because women are not trained like soldiers are, they receive no salaries to put their lives in the line of fire, their lives are not subsidised by the taxpayers monies, they do not get national awards for being women. But they do get up every morning, go about being who they are, working at home, at offices, factories, farms, giving birth along the way, often suffering crippling discrimination and violence on a daily basis. So yes, courage it surely is.

These women clearly had not waited for this Himmat app to gather the kind of courage and resilience I knew them to possess.

What was also intriguing was that the app worked to set off an alarm at the nearest Police Station or mobile van from the user. Would anyone with an intention to harass, stalk, attack, maul or rape a woman do so within shouting distance of a police station?

It would then be common sense that such acts were being diagnosed by the app user at a certain distance from the police. And it would require the police a certain amount of time to get to the spot. By when anything could happen.

To me, as a woman travelling often alone, often at odd hours, often in unknown areas, this would hardly give me any further courage. And it seemed to me that this app was clearly designed by a man. Or to be fair, by a person who had not experienced life as a woman.

The reader may take a look at the reviews on Google Play Store – almost all the women users were specifying practical reasons why it didn’t work while all the men said

“This app is amazing” or

“It is too best app for safety of womans is app se sabhko madad mili I hope it will be a protective app for all womans”

Or my favourite:

“Very good aap maine galti se sos ho Gaya sorry or quick response nice.”

I will return to this issue later in this post. But the ideology and praxis of the Himmat app started a long list of questions in my head about why we need an app of this kind. 

Musing on this, I entered the airport and went through the rituals getting to the flight.

The Universe was very determined that evening and as I stood in line at the security check, I heard an animated discussion nearby on the newly available car rentals for the woman traveller.

Acknowledging the intention of the Universe, I put away my book and googled this service. Interestingly called ‘Sakha’ this was a taxi service that could be used by women only or men travelling with their families. All their taxi drivers were women.

The app went on to provide a list of competencies that the women drivers had. This included self-defence training. Yet, it was called ‘Sakha’ which translates into ‘male friend/companion.’ What did that mean - that in being drivers, the women would be equivalent to men? Become men? Isn’t that what we wanted? Or is that what we wanted?

Through the flight I was unable to return to my book or sleep. Women had obviously progressed. Here I was, a single, female traveller, willing and able to travel for work across the country and abroad.

This one identity itself had to be backed by an immense body of work by hundreds and millions of people across the world in breaking stereotypes and establishing new norms. But what were these new norms? Were they, merely in disguise, the old norms?

These thoughts stayed with me – all in a confused state, till I arrived at my destination and my accommodation for the next 2 days. While still ruminating on them and checking in at the hotel, I was proudly informed by the (male) receptionist that I had been upgraded to facilities that were designed especially for people like me. Before I could ask who people like me were, he said triumphantly – the Single Female Traveller!

I knew I should be have been grateful for the promised upgrade but this Himmat and Sakha thing was already raising uncomfortable questions at the back of my head.

I went up the elevator more curious than grateful. Imagine how many more questions sprang up, argued, hauled in Patriarchy and Capitalism and created a lot of noise inside my head, when I counted these ‘facilities’ as

·        A CCTV camera set up privy to the room

·        2 sanitary napkins in the bathroom (not a full packet, not the more luxurious ones, not the covered ones that have a peel off cover, not even the large sized ones, just 2 separate sanitary napkins looking forlorn in the spangly kind of pouch one uses to keep earrings)

That was it. A succinct summary then, of every threshold I had crossed, every stereotype I had broken, every achievement I had made. My entire existence as a Single Female Traveller summed up in these two parameters – a CCTV arrangement and 2 sanitary napkins.

Once again, I felt that these ‘facilities’ were designed by a man/person who does not have lived experiences as a woman. Very telling it was. Very stark. Like marking two ends of a spectrum of what women’s lives were perceived to be – menstruation – that relentless marker of my womanhood. And the fear of everything terrible that could happen to me because I menstruate – to be kept at bay by the kind and generous hotel management, by that ominous looking TV screen in the room.

By now, all my queries and confusions had begun to coalesce into one area of enquiry – why was nothing targeted at men? If they were the perpetrators (to be fair, women may definitely be harassed and attacked by women and even animals, but as far as statistics go, men were leading), why couldn’t we take a stand against men? Or question such behaviour? 

In all the three things I experienced that evening, it would have made the most sense if the remedies were targeted at the perpetrators.

Why did we not have an app for men to use when they felt the urge to harass a woman? Why did we not have a taxi service that segregated men of a certain age and predisposition? I am not in favour of segregation at all, but if we HAVE to segregate, why remove me? I haven’t done anything awful. I’m not even thinking about it, that’s not the way I work. Why not remove the person who is exploring the awful thoughts? Why teach women self-defence? Why not teach men non-violence? Why is non-violence such a great idea for men to espouse in politics but not for their relationship with women?

And in that hotel, why put me behind bars? And advertise it to boot! If this was standard practice, everyone would know that the rooms fitted with cameras had single women guests.

Why not put a gentle but firm reminder at the reception that the hotel had a zero tolerance policy on harassment of guests? I wouldn’t mind going a little further and have the hotel collect a discreet list of such problematic guests and politely decline to give them accommodation the next time they walk in. This is a well-established and respected national chain of hotels – share this list across their hotels, I would add. And I say keep it discreet and polite only because I am a nice person and do not believe in violence.

With the Himmat app, if you have to have it, why not have a set of services that focusses on the miscreants? For example, why not have the phone turned into an ambulance like alarm, a really loud one that everyone learns to recognise and respond to? Or turn into a blinding light that throws the perpetrator off balance? If we go a step further – why not the app turns the light on, takes an immediate set of photos of the miscreant(s) and sends it immediately to a whole network of police stations, women’s groups, Resident Welfare Associations – anything that’s nearby. And of course to the police station. This would also take into account that the Police Stations themselves are sometimes the location of such discriminatory and violent behaviour.

It seems odd to me that app development on such lines is limited – apps seem to be able to do almost anything these days. Why is all this about women and not men? Should it not be about men?

But wait – there was one more phenomenon that was waiting for me on this curve. The next day, I read in the papers that a very well-known music director was leading the task of setting up an all-women’s orchestra in a specific part of the world. The article went on to say that this would allow the very best of the talent to come together – amongst other things. Neither the music director, nor the geography is important – the thinking behind it is.

If we have an all-female orchestra, are they going to play to an all-female audience? If women are going to use an all-female taxi service to go be part of an all-female audience listening to an orchestra that is all female, or live in hotels that female only areas earmarked – how would this be any different from segregation? It wouldn’t. Only it would be mobile. Like our phones. Earlier, when we needed to use the phone, we had to be in one place and stay there. But now we can move with the phone.

Similarly it seems to me with women – earlier if we were women, we would have to be in one place and stay there, surrounded only by other women. Now we can move about, but with the entire moving about similarly segregated. Segregation 2.0.

And worse, no one’s still talking to the men.

As feminists we did not, do not want a world without men. We want full ecological diversity. We want a world which is peaceful. One that by default then includes all the indicators of peace – justice, equality, well-being, harmony with Nature, laughter, love, emancipation, intellect, aesthetics – then we can be true human beings.

We want a world where our needs are not limited to sanitary napkins (a calm, quiet room with an excellent selection of films to watch, books to read, a pool to swim away the days exhaustion, throw in a spa session, a selection of international and national newspapers – a personal favourite – acknowledgement that in addition to our uterus we also had brains - and a good meal – I’d be very happy indeed. We are easy to please, us women).

Feminism is not a women-only ideology. Simply because women do not exist only for other women. They have a particular place in the fascinating and magical world we live in – they have a roles and responsibilities like every other living being on earth. Women and hence everything that is networked to them can attain their full potential only if they are in this particular place.

Feminism is about rearranging the existing structure – which is one that keeps women away from this place, at a detriment to everything connected to them – yes, including men. Feminism is about creating new structures which bring women where they are meant to be. It is not about a pink themed, freebie filled day that offers me one day specials (I’m still trying to get my head around the women’s day offer from the pest control company) or blurbs and messages about how incredible I am. It is, as we feminists have said for ever so long – making the personal political.

In strength, support and solidarity for a better world. And a body politic that is not separate from my personal lived experience as a woman.

A Mothers Day Reminder.

That thriving Ministry of Unending Advice, to plagiarize a recent phrase, works at its optimum when it comes to women. With motherhood, the giving of advice increases. It goes on to overtime if one is a working mother. By the time it reaches a single working mother it is on an overdrive. And since I belong to the last and final category, I am subject to much unsolicited advice on a regular basis. Come Mothers Day and I find all these happily forgotten, deserted pieces of advice revive themselves, coalesce into bright, fluffy, virtuous messages of felicitation and mushroom all around me. 

And I am beset with an ideal of motherhood that is linear, unidimensional, starts and ends with a smiling, self deprecating, self sacrificing vision of motherhood that has no resemblance to my lived experience of it, which is almost always the exact opposite. These are times then, that we need to stand in solidarity and proclaim to the world what our true experiences and perceptions are. 

I present to the reader today a few examples of my perceptions of such advice. And trust that these three descriptions will help you identify many more pitfalls and steer clear of them on that joy filled, unbound, wonderfilled, humbling journey of motherhood -

Advice: Children need their mother’s time. Hence she should be home and looking after them.

The actual fact: Children need a set of inputs. These include routine, stability, health, food, discipline, values, education, a clean and comfortable home, love, hugs, holidays, friends, family, hope, a belief in their abilities and a few hundred other things. 

It matters that they get these things. It matters less that these come only from their mother. Thing is if you are a lousy person, the advent of motherhood does not, by default turn you into a fabulous mother; you remain a lousy person. Having you at home to supervise an infant and assuming that your continuous presence is the best thing to happen to the child is a dangerous fallacy. It may quite possibly be the worst. 

Or you may be a nice person, but either unprepared or unwilling to be a mother. When this happens during examinations, we fail the exam. Similar things happen in motherhood. 

And so, when the world turns on the “Children need you” button, I listen politely (mostly) and then go ahead and un-listen. My children belong to the world. And the world is theirs. If I limit them to myself, I do them a great disservice.

I have been told so many times that parents do not wish to have care givers looking after their children. That I should not leave my children with maids and go off to work. Of course one must be lucky enough to find good care givers. But if you do find them, as I did, they have given so much love and care to my children, so unconditionally, with such commitment that my children and I have always held ourselves blessed to have them as part of the family. And no, I was not “lucky” to find them. I worked very hard to find them, and invested seriously in helping them stay with me. 

Advice: Women need to find their work life balance.

The actual fact: Work is part of life and vice versa. Actually if you don’t have life, you can’t work. Technically it’s called being dead. Now if both values are on the same side of the equal sign, what is there to balance? But, ah, there is so much pleasure to be found in guilt! And so we women run around in circles trying to balance 2 things on the same side, which is impossible, which is what the world wants. 

And so, when I am given the “Work Life balance” advice, my response has been “ But you see, I consider being a mother work and my work I consider an integral part of my life. What then do you suggest I balance against what?” In general an amount of angst is expected in answer to this advice.  But try answering it with a counter question. It usually turns off the advisor and one can go about one’s business undisturbed.

At the end of it both the work place and your children are relationships. Each can be negotiated to be sensitive to each other. Of course it’s not an easy thing to do. But then why did you ever imagine it was easy to be a mother?

Advice: Women should look after children because they are better at it. Because mothering comes naturally to them. 

The actual fact: The only thing women are better at is bearing the child and giving birth. One cannot deny instinct, but for human beings, mothering lies way beyond instinct. It requires incredible amounts of courage, patience, ingenuity, discipline, a powerful moral compass, love, and a few hundred other things. It has required a person like me to learn to cook, and cook well. Not once, not twice, as in a battle. But every minute, every hour, for a lifetime. Nature doesn’t give all of these to women  - we make the effort to find them. We choose, we prioritize and we learn to be good at them. And, unlike a battle, we get no knighthoods or medals or promotions for doing all of these. Our lives are not subsidized by the tax payers monies. We simply get up the next day and go on being a mother. 

And the other side of this argument has also fascinated me - if women should look after children because they are better at it, how about getting women to do all the things she is better at? Why only child rearing? And if this argument extends to the men, and if men are excelling at being chefs and tailors, why then, women should stop doing both these at home. Let the men do what they excel at, I say. We are a generous lot, us women.

I suppose one must thank such things like Mothers Day because it reminds us of battles that we sometimes forget to fight. I wish you all many battles well fought, many victories to savor, many cups of tea shared on sunlit verandahs with family and dear friends to celebrate motherhood. 

To Run and Not to Arrive

“The safest road to Hell is the gradual one – the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts……..” Though Mr. Lewis may not have intended so, it is a statement of eerie significance to the institution of Patriarchy (in keeping with present day explanation techniques, here is the Google link to Patriarchy _ https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Patriarchy) One of the reasons that Feminists have had great difficulty in walking their own road is that it is so difficult to articulate that we are walking on the wrong road to start with. There are no milestones that say “Discrimination crossed, violation 3 km ahead.” Or no signposts that say,  “Steep abuse ahead, use bypass, ” or “Equality under construction, inconvenience is regretted.” Or even, “Men at work, go slow.”

Hauling ourselves out of this Subjugation Road has not been an easy task. We still haven’t succeeded. And from time to time we arrive at a State of Crisis. Usually this means that like the Queen in Alice in Wonderland, us feminists are have to run very hard to remain in the same place. Worse, from time to time we slip backwards.

As the world seems to unspool itself into a myriad unforeseen and untoward roads in this last decade or so, we Feminists are as confused and confounded as others. As a country on the other side of the world prepares for its new leader, along with so many others, Feminists are unable to shake off that sense of foreboding. (Technically – the Pacific Ocean is on the other side of the world but it is presently not throwing up complications of feminist ideology.) While much is happening in the amazing United States, this post will focus on one aspect that its immediate circumstances has thrown up – that of the women we are seeing. Why the US, you may ask. And this is because the West and the US specially have led feminist thought and action and for long the east has looked admiringly and hopefully to this land of shining freedom. But there now appear patches of rust and the brightness somewhat dulled and we feminists are hard put to run even faster, and faster, and….

So the women then and how they make us run faster –

Michelle Obama: Some time ago, a post on social media on the Obamas went viral – one where the Obamas went out for a private dinner and Michelle Obama found that the owner of the restaurant was an admirer of hers from a long time ago. Barack Obama joked that if she had married the restauranteur instead of Barack, Michelle would be a hotel owner’s wife? Michelle replied, no, the hotel owner would have been the President of the US.
 
To my deepest disappointment, she did not reply that if she had not married Barack, she herself would have been the President of the United States. And so, pushing aside her obvious potential to lead, Michelle Obama firmly placed women as secondary to men - she clearly stated that women could only be wives. And as she moves on, with grace and dignity no doubt, she leaves behind yet another generation of her country women who will not aspire to be President. They will aspire to be wives, mothers, social workers. They will aspire to dress well, speak well, be a good hostess, be charming, well read, intelligent, well educated. And become wives to presidents.

And so the adulation of Michelle Obama on this statement marked yet another gentle, milestone less mile along Subjugation Road. And the narrow, unpredictable, violence spattered road women are running on, shrunk yet a little more and we kept running…

But wait! There is actually a woman in the US who wants to be President. The funny thing is, she also made us run.

Hilary Clinton then: 1999 and the United States faced its second, unbelievable presidential impeachment process (after Andrew Johnson’s in 1868) initiated by sexual misconduct and abuse of power by the President himself. Involving harassment and exploitation of a 20 year old White House intern, (the President was himself 53 years old at that time) the circumstance left the country and the world stunned. Disgraced, impeached and bringing the issue of sexual harassment at the workplace to a new low, the President left the White House, his silent, stoic wife and young daughter grimly by his side.

And that is where Hilary Clinton stayed - stoic and silent by a husband who betrayed her trust in the most public manner possible. And as she stood by him, we ran faster and faster, desperately afraid that if she won the race for presidency, a generation of women living in discrimination and violence would slip off this slippery road we ran on – back, back into the relationships that belittled and stunted them. And bend them a little more with the burden of what society handed to them - that the acceptance of violence and discrimination is the only road available to them.  Once again, a woman with obvious potential, with access to  the  best resources the country could provide, Hilary  chose to put all of this to work only to fit into the box and a white pant suit.

And now for the woman who will actually occupy the White House from next month – Melania Trump. An immigrant model who came to America as thousands have over the years, she did what the other thousands had done – she chose the easier road. And became a mute bystander to a husband who spoke openly and belittled her roots of being an immigrant and a model. While she is yet to enter the White House, it will be only a miracle if she changes this role.

Each of the above ladies – all powerful and influential in their own right, could have changed the world for women. Instead they seem to  send out the same message – that women are secondary to men. That women must accept that men have more power. That women must accept that men will abuse. That women must accept that she cannot protest. And in sending out this message, each of them have contributed to making the world an uglier place, to making homes and relationships unequal and dangerous. And when women in powerful positions send out such messages, it means A Lot of Running for us. One would think with all this exercise the least us feminists could achieve was an incredible level of fitness and health. But even that doesn’t seem to be happening.

In the America of my dreams, Michelle La Vaughn Robinson would be President. Monica Lewinsky (the only one of the women mentioned above who dared to take on an American President – and won) and Hilary Rodham  would evolve into leading feminist activists and lead path breaking gender policies in the country. And Melania  Knauss would be a billionaire model and entrepreneur in her own right. They could be partners in fulfilling relationships, caring and proud parents, but each would have walked their own paths. And we could slow down a bit and catch our breath and maybe a cup of tea. But these are dreams. Presently we are too busy running to dream. And if we are not running, we are planning and preparing for a march. And desperately hoping something works… 

Classrooms of Another Kind

We stared in stunned silence, our squabbles silenced by the building we were looking at. It was a large hall – if one could call four walls topped by a crumbling roof a hall. There were spaces for doors and windows, but no doors or windows. The tiles on the roof had fallen off with disuse. A fire in its indeterminate past had blackened the inside walls of the building and sent out wings of black soot from the gaping door and window spaces. No doors, no windows, no water, no electricity, no rooms, no furniture. And obviously, no bathrooms, definitely no. Lonely and neglected it stood a little away from the main village which stood  spread out on the slope below. We had walked 13 kilometres carrying our knapsacks, our kitchen utensils and provisions of food for the next 3 days to reach this crumbling, fire blasted solitary building on an isolated forgotten, forest covered hillside in Chhotanagpur. It was to be our home for the next 2 weeks. This was the first semester of my post graduate course in rural development. And in class, we had been told that these ‘rural camps’ would be the most intense and constructive learning experiences of our lives. That ordinary people and their lives were the best class rooms one could have. For the first few hours that October evening I may have made the mistake of thinking that this godforsaken  place and its people, could never serve as a classroom. But I never made this mistake again. ( I also redefined 'godforsaken'.)
In the years that followed, as I navigated the exciting and unruly world of rural development, I often returned to that building - in my imagination. Such wanderings of the mind were triggered by workshops and discussions on 'emerging frameworks' 'feminism and neoliberal govern mentality' and 'the intangibles of content'. My body would remain at the table as my mind returned to that abandoned building in Chhotanagpur. And I would remember how in the first 24 hours there, my life had changed forever. And how so much of what I knew including my feminism started from that building. Our professors had been right. The 4 rural camps (all of which included accommodation as mentioned above) changed my mind and vision for ever. Since this blog is about men and women, I shall focus on how this influenced my understanding and interpretation of feminism. Feminism was not part of my course on rural development and I began to read feminist literature only years later. But by then, the women that I worked with and for had already taught me much. And so, whenever theory, concepts, frameworks were argued about, what I would remember was what the women would say. And so, instead of sharing the round table discussions with you( you may wander away, as I did) let me tell you what the women said.
What women said: on the very first day of our rural camp, we were sent off individually to mingle with the villagers and establish a rapport with them. The morning having brought with it that special magic of Chhotanagpur, all our exhaustion and disapproval had vanished. I stepped out smartly and came up to a solitary women harvesting a field full of crop with a 'Hasua' (a locally made sickle) with a baby strapped to her back, Chhotanagpur style. She was friendly and  happy to talk till she discovered that I did not know what crop she was harvesting. At first she was incredulous, then sorry for my parents because they had a daughter as stupid as me, then summarily dismissive of me - Everyone repeat, Everyone knew this crop was Marua. The Hasua was waved in the direction of the waiting harvest. If I didn't know that, I had no hope in life and was not really worth her time. All this was delivered with one hand on hip, the other dangling the Hasua, pity and dismissal in her eyes and the happy baby beaming at me from behind the mothers back. Distraught, disbelieving, and all my pretensions of being intellectual and academic fully and effectively shattered on that half harvested Marua field, I climbed back up the hill, humbled and frantically re assessing myself.
What I learnt: The good fight is fought on fields of Marua, in household courtyards, under the neem trees, on the steps of the temple, on the local bus service and unfortunately behind the closed doors of our bedrooms. The more equal world we feminists seek is fought for and won and lost in front of and with our colleagues, friends, lovers, spouses, parents, relatives and very often with our children strapped to our backs. And what gives me knowledge and power is what I fight with. One feminists tool may be feminist ideology and theory. Another's  may be the knowledge of Marua and the skill to harvest it with smiling babies clinging to you. One needs to know which to use where and that each are powerful tools on their own.

What women said: A wonderfully articulate woman in the rural backwaters of Khulna, Bangladesh had once told me, “They say men are unimaginative. That they can't think of new things. They can't work hard.  I always remind such people – that is not true. See how creative they are - how many ways men devise to abuse their wives. See how much of hard work it is – every single day, getting up in the morning, having to decide – today how shall I harass my wife? How shall I beat her? How shall I create chaos at home? Shall I throw her out today? Or just shout at her? Shall I pull her hair? Or shall I just say nasty things to her? And even after all this, people think men are dull and lazy.” As an afterthought she added, “Tch, tch.” And spat out her ‘paan’ juice.
What I learnt: The perpetrator is consistently evolving, and working hard. Therefore the protestor must constantly evolve and work hard too. Hence - feminism is a movement, not a revolution.  Challenging and changing the system therefore happens slowly, brick by brick, through simple, mundane daily activity and behavior patterns.  It does not work on a one time upheaval, after which I can retire. And so I learnt that if I was to be a feminist, I could never to give up. Never stop. Is it exhausting? Yes. But you could always stop to rest awhile and at that caravanserai, meet interesting women like the Lady of Khulna....

What women said: A young woman leader in Jharkhand,  was a great believer of bringing separation, abandonment, divorce cases to the panchayat and resolving them in public. When I asked her why she did so, wasn't a divorce a private issue? She looked at me thoughtfully and said "Think."
Puzzled, I said, " Well it does appear to be what most people - "
She cut me off with a "hmmmph" and glared at me. "Don't talk about most people if you want things to change. Most people are donkeys. I say, divorce could be private yes, but only if a marriage is also private. Now, if a marriage sees the participation of the whole family and community, divorce also should, should it not? Divorce, after all is one of the logical extensions of marriage. If everyone was feasting with me in good times, they have bought their tickets and boarded the bus. They have to be part of my tough times. That responsibility is theirs as much as mine."
What I learnt: Feminism in practice is best based on arguments that are logical, rational and compelling. Weeping, wailing, raving, ranting, screeching, sympathy, acing the martyr act - all of these may work to attract attention. But once attention is attracted, we must have something relevant to say. Personally I would be happy only with the argument part of it, all the other things exhaust me. But how can I take away the joys of others? For myself, I stand in solidarity with a grass roots women's rights group in Jamtara (Jharkhand) who argued with their local mosque that if it allowed the system of triple talaaq, they should  rule that triple the contract price should be given to the divorced woman by her divorcing husband. What was the argument of this women's group? - That the rule of 3 should apply to everything. The local priesthood had been stumped by this gem of an argument, as was I. But they got their way, and in the end that's what matters.

What women said: A women's rights activist from the grass roots of my beloved Chhotanagpur was often offered alcoholism as an explanation of domestic violence. And told that her women's rights group should work on removing alcoholism, then domestic violence would easily disappear. And I was never tired of her response to this. First she would confuse them by asking he group how many of their freinds and family drank regularly and how many of their drinking freinds/family had domestic trouble. As the weakness of their argument began to present itself to them, my freind would launch her final attack - "And now," she would ask, " If alcoholism gives rise to violence, how many people in the drinking corner, on the way back home and inside the home does the alcoholic man beat up?"  No one but the wife? Yes, she thought so too. Did the group have an idea why the wife stood out in this alcoholic haze? Yes? Ah, she did too. And then, having got the group to the foot of the stairs, she'd start pushing them up, one difficult step at a time.
What I learnt: The root cause of the problem should drive feminist thinking and praxis. At the end of the road of every patriarchal system lay one common principle - women are secondary to men.  Anything else was an aside. A drunk man beat up his wife only because he saw her as secondary to him. Not because he was drunk. And so, if we wish the break down this system, feminists need to focus on equality, not necessarily prohibition.

And so it went, my Feminism of the grass roots, learnt in that language. What interested me the most was the depth of wisdom of my teachers. And the extent of their often amused contempt for the men they knew and saw. As in one animated, angst ridden discussion on how violent our world had become, one of the older women in the group said it applied only to the men. Only the men had become violent, the silly creatures that they are. And we asked -  the women weren't? No she said, women were not as silly as the men. They did fight their battles though, they had more honor than the men. Her tranquil reply to our agitated questions was "Termites" - you can't see termites. You can't hear termites. You can't count termites. And the outsides of the furniture they attacked was left untouched. Yet once the termites got at it, everything was emptied out from inside - everything  broken and eaten and digested. The woman smiled to herself in satisfaction and I can still see her moving her hand in a circular motion, fingers outspread, saying, "All gone! All empty inside!" - as she said it," ander sey khokhla!" And hence, armed with my battle mascot, the Mighty Termite, I ate and digested my own demons, learning much from my Mighty Teachers. That would be material for another post though.

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Dissent and the feminist dictionary

A time of protests. Which in a state of democracy, all must participate. But I cannot yell - a bit of trouble with the thyroid. And besides I hate being yelled at so I shrink from shouting at others. Can't say nasty things either. My hostel room mate from school still maintains that I am the only black spot in her life - as her room mate and best friend I did not learn either to drink, or to swear. And yet, as a feminist, as a single parent bringing up two daughters in a city like Delhi, as a Bengali, leaning heavily to the left, I must contribute, I must give advice. Let me choose my first identity for this post - that of a feminist, and share with the protestors a few words, re-defined by the feminist experience. Here you go -
Dissent:   a difficult word in a dangerous place.  So when you use the word, be prepared. Do not, under any circumstances, expect love and affection, bonhomie and understanding. Drink some Horlicks, put a tube of Boroline in your pocket and prepare for arrest, assault and worse.  Here, I must admit to having limited experience. Us feminists have not got as far as dissent. We are still in a difficult place with the idea of consent you see. So if you are cleverer and luckier than us and can get to a less dangerous place with dissent, we’d be very willing learners. We could still help with the experience of assault though.
Secular, unlike what you may believe is a very limited word, with a marked tendency of closing doors instead of opening them, if you are not careful. Being secular involves only one of our many identities as active citizens. But it seemed a good word to use and so we feminists signed on to it. As soon as we did we discovered to our dismay that now everything in our lives from science to sex would be interpreted through this one identity. And worse, we got labeled as being grumpy because we are apparently never satisfied – even with the good things in life. Our advice on this one – choose your causes carefully. Sometimes, when you choose to stand facing the sun, the shadows, instead of falling behind you, wrap themselves around your ankles and yank back. And instead of standing strong, you find yourself face downwards staring at ground zero.

Sedition, to quote an unforgettable English teacher of mine, is like shot silk. What you see depends on which angle you are looking from. Shift your position slightly to the left for example, and you’ll find that what seemed decidedly green now looks saffron. Feminists have occupied this space for a very long time. There seem to be very few things in our wish list that do not seem to be anti state. Looked at one way or the other, in one country or the other, everything we are or do has some time or the other been or is anti state. Voting, not voting, marrying, not marrying, divorcing, having a child, not having a child, having one child, having seven children, having a child outside of marriage,  working, not working, working full time, working from home, emigrating, not migrating, staying in the house, not staying in the house, wearing clothes, not wearing clothes, wearing certain kinds of clothes, standing for elections, not standing for elections, having a mobile, not having a mobile, being a porn star, not being a porn star, drinking alcohol, not drinking alcohol, loitering, not loitering, - this list could go on. We have been to jail and worse for most of these. Our advice on this one – look for the fabric and not the colours on the fabric. The fabric holds the inequality, the colours are the conspiracy - meant to blind you to the real thing. In India, dowry was long seen as a cause of discrimination and violence against women. In East Africa, exactly the opposite practice of dowry – bride price was perceived as the cause of violence against women. And in both places, it was always the brides who faced violence. The colours shifted, yet the inequality remained the same. And yet, in India, feminists spent years of very hard struggles to change laws and attitudes towards dowry - only to realise that we had been looking at it from only one angle. In these times of eternal access to information, look carefully at all the colours before you say ‘sedition’.

Freedom: the toughest journey in the world. Do not assume that you will get it free - the price we pay for freedom is the highest we can imagine. Do not assume that you can get there alone - others are essential to your freedom, including, never mind your existing outrage against them - your oppressors. Do not assume that freedom is a place you arrive at - it is a process and as soon as you sit back and relax, you slip back to where you started. Do not assume that freedom is a public idea that sits outside of you - it upholds very clearly feminism's belief that the private is public - you cannot champion for freedoms that you yourself do not practice. Do not assume that freedom is about violence and angst only - it is about peace and tranquility, respect and dignity, and quite often grace and laughter. I have never seen a photo of Aung San Suu Kyi without that flower in her hair. Our advice on this one - if you want freedom, get ready for a never ending journey, not arrival - this journey does not have a destination.

The protestor may well ask, am I arguing for a world where dissent, secularism, freedom, is difficult and so should not be striven for? I argue and work for exactly the opposite, brave protestor – a diverse, equal, sustainable, exciting, dynamic world where everything is an equal partner in Life. This post is only to remind you that we are far from there, that the road there involves a lot of ugliness, that you stand where you do because millions of others have fought all their lives for your freedoms and that the journey, though well worth every battle, is a long,  weary and often lonely one.  There is no quick fix to get there, no free lunches. And finally, our advice on this one- as the feminist adage goes - you cannot destroy the master's house with the master's tools. We need many new tools to make the world a better place. And new tools need new ideas, new friends, new investments, new languages - work on these, they make the journey worthwhile. Don't waste your time on sloganeering - a feminist friend protesting violently in a group against the Miss India contest outside the contest venue overheard a nearby group of boys wondering why this group of women were yelling. One of them explained seriously that maybe they had not got tickets to the show, like the boys. Another boy said wisely that my friends group  was yelling in anger and sorrow because they weren't chosen for the contest. Needless to say, my feminist friend has worked very hard on new tools, cut down her sloganeering and redone her wardrobe.
I trust this set of protests will contribute to this body of learning. And one day we shall become a better people. The world a better place. In strength, support and solidarity.

What does Mr. Gupta do?

A primary principle of patriarchy is to keep women busy. Always somewhat puzzled and exhausted by this constant need for women to be doing something, I have tried to promote the need and use of solitude for women. Often to be violently opposed by the women themselves. If they did not find enough to keep themselves busy with there were always the social obligations. To me these mostly seemed to consist of incomprehensible  events in the lives of indeterminate relatives. Even in a family as unusual as mine, I reluctantly conceded that the men had a slight edge over women in escaping social obligations.

I found souls in solidarity, yes, but they were few and far between. A college professor swept aside our interest in jewellery saying if we were clever enough (she was) we should be able to see through the fact that jewellery and other such 'ladies business' are designed to keep women's minds busy with silly things so that they will not claim power. At that time I was willing to make that immense sacrifice of not going to Chamba Lama any more, but was not clear what power really meant, so I wisely decided to wait. Later in life I found that Chamba Lama did not interfere with my access to power. But I found my professor was right in a hundred other ways about the silly things and power. And I found that every time I or any other woman decided to move away from the silly things, we faced a battle of sorts.

Even within her home, any such deviation by the woman invites apprehension, anxiety, suspicion - depending upon what kind of family yours is.

"Ki rey, all alone on the roof? Why so sad?"

"A few minutes to rest by yourself? Sciatica, again?"

And then, what if these battles are fought outside the home? I found, as I went along that the experience of these battles was the experience of power. And that these battles were fought with the strangest of weapons.

One of the advantages of belonging to an eccentric family was that as one grew older, one became entitled to one's own peculiar eccentricities. When we were younger, eccentricities were limited to those already established by parents, uncles, aunts, older cousins, grandparents, etc. but I was older now and entitled to my own. And so, around the time I turned another decade and announced my intention of travelling  solo every 6 months, my family took this proposal with pragmatism and interest. Not so the rest of the world.

Besides, I was in India. Indians, as a people do not travel alone. In recent years, it has become acceptable for men to travel alone for work. In the very recent years a minuscule number of Indian working women have attempted this Unindian task. But these too are linked primarily to work related travel. And hence its acceptance is tinged with sympathy for the woman whose unforgiving job takes her away from the safe and happy confines of her home and family.

Used to fielding questions about travelling alone on work, I quickly found that acceptance for travelling alone for leisure invited sympathy, an unhealthy curiosity, puzzlement, or direct attack - depending upon who your co travellers were.

If I naively explained that I was travelling to Place X for a break from my everyday life and had always wanted to see Place X, co travellers would nod and smile,

Ah, I was on holiday! Travelling with Mummy and Daddy?

Not exactly, no, I was the Mummy now and -

Aha, travelling with the children then?

No.

Oho! Travelling with the Daddy! (Twinkle in eye)

Again, sorry, but no. No Daddy in the picture, you see -

At this point the expressions would become either embarrassed or stern and either way conversation would become stilted. And I was usually left to myself - which was the point of my solo travel anyway. There have been times on trains, buses, airplanes, where escaping my co travellers is physically difficult, the intense curiosity of my co passengers has cut through my usually formidable reluctance to engage.

I was once asked very early in such an interrogation after I had replied to a few questions in monosyllables, as to

"What does Mr. Gupta do?"

My interrogator in that train  compartment was a middle aged, balding shiny shoed man, his waist barely contained in his belt and his pompousness barely contained in his behaviour. Realising I was travelling alone, he turned cocky, insufferable and raised his voice slightly when speaking to me, as one would do to a naughty child. He had been staring at my every move and listened intently when the ticket checker looked at my ticket and checked past me, as they often do - "Malini Gupta?"

This had prompted the man to ask what Mr. Gupta did. He was leaning forward, eyes gleaming, avidly curious and bent on getting what he wanted. At this point I had a vivid vision of the hundreds of questions tumbling about in his head that he wanted to ask me - each question wanting to get ahead of the other and all tripping up on his tongue.

Unwilling to let this moment go, I leaned forward, grinned and said in a voice slightly louder then his, that Mr. Gupta had a fisheries business but I suspected he was actually a gun runner as he had been to jail twice. For the east of the journey a hush would fall over the coupe if I as much as changed my position in my berth. I carefully listed these weapons.

There were other times that there were no opportunities for either entertainment or weapons research. On one such occasion,  a long train journey across central India, I settled in to my side berth in a near empty compartment. After a few happy hours of solitude a large group boarded the train, filling up the compartment with shouted conversations. Of this naturally Bengali group, a set of garrulous, luggage bedecked, fully socked and shawled ladies marched into my little space. One of them proceeded to occupy my berth and made a subsequent attempt on my mind. I had to share my berth with her till night time, and retreated to one side, looking out of the window or reading my book. My reluctance to talk she promptly assumed to be sorrow at having to travel alone. I was aghast at her intrusion and assumption but she was on the warpath already. She told me in a voice quivering with righteousness that it was dangerous for a woman to be alone. My reply that a mob could be equally dangerous, she swept aside ruthlessly.

I was sad, she said, and that was why I was opposing her.

I was happy, I said, and that was why she was opposing me.

She was unmoved. The dangers a single woman faced were from her own mind, she said.

Not from the minds around her? I asked pointedly, but it went unnoticed.

I should have been able to take it in my stride but her fervour of conversion caught me off guard. She lectured me on 'improving' my mind- read books on the lives of good women, amulets, charms, astrology, ashrams. I was intrigued by the ashram and asked her how the ashram could help. Because it would help me fill my mind with correct thoughts.

At other times, I would have argued through this. But this time I was tired, I didn't want to explain myself. I wanted nothing but to be left in peace to read my book. The last thing I wanted was this fervent, aggressive person stamping around inside my head. And so I spent a rough night, desperately side stepping her advice, her horror of my solitude and her inability to listen. At dawn, exhausted, immeasurably irritated I crept out and opened the door of the bogie. I sat down on the steps  and lit a cigarette. The smell of the cigarette, the clickety clack of the train soothed me. I looked out, breathed in deeply of the fresh day, watched the hills and forests slip past and assured myself hat the world was larger than the lady's mind.

Click. The door opened and the indefatigable warrior peered out. Seeing me sitting on the steps she started to speak but caught sight of the cigarette in my hand. Her eyes went from the cigarette to my face and back to my cigarette. Her mouth snapped shut, eyes went blank and she retreated without a word. I sighed and stayed sitting for as long as I could. By the time I went back to my berth, she and her companions had left to join their larger group in the next compartment. The accoutrements of battle were diverse, I reminded myself.

What I found interesting was that though most people were curious about my travelling alone, sometimes irritatingly so, mostly people were puzzled. But as yet, I have never found this to hamper my experience, besides having to answer a few questions that people should not ask in the first place. And so, along with my own experience of travelling alone, grew my understanding of what I was expected to be as a woman my age, exactly how much of that I was not, and how I chose to deal with that gap. Over the years, it has truly been a journey of discovery of many kinds. One that I would recommend to all. Try it. You might find some good stories to tell, some innovative weapons of war. God knows guns could do with a rest.