My grandmother's argument:
I grew up in an argumentative, eccentric family, both immediate and extended. Some of us were
quiet and eccentric, the others voluble, volatile and eccentric. Almost
everyone knew what they wanted (at least you were expected to, so that you
could argue your point) and mostly it never matched with what anyone else
wanted.
I had just left a tiny, isolated, protected colony life and
come to study in Calcutta. I was living with my father’s eldest brother, his
wife and my grandmother in a large, rambling, unplanned house in New Alipore.
And learning my way around the city. I was also slowly beginning to comprehend
how different life would be for me in the city that in had been in my last 16
years.
One day, early into my stay, I wanted to go over to the
other side of New Alipore to visit an aunt. I was reading the newspaper in the
drawing room as was most of the family when my aunt mentioned to the maid that
she should add another cup of water – a cousin would be here soon.
Sipping her tea, my grandmother said, “That boy is too thin
– he should eat more. Wasn’t he here for lunch yesterday? Why is he coming
again today?”
“He’s coming to escort Rupa to her aunt’s house. Rupa is
still too new and I don’t think she should go alone, so I have asked him to
come and go with her,” said my uncle.
“Escort?” said my grandmother, and the disapproval in her
voice made me nervous. I let go of the
newspaper.
“Of course,” said my uncle, not looking up from his paper,
“suppose she gets lost?”
As I looked anxiously at my grandmother, her face rearranged
itself into a look that we had all learnt to fear.
“If Rupa has to go, she will go alone. If she cannot go
alone, she will not go at all,” said my grandmother. My uncle put down his
paper. The battle lines were drawn.
The battlefield emptied with lightning speed. My aunt
floated away to the kitchen, marking her presence through the rest of the
battle by sending out regular supplements of tea and toast. My uncle’s hangers
on (who were a permanent fixture in the house thanks to my uncle’s recent
retirement from the state government and his leadership in an upcoming
political party) mumbled excuses, called out, “Achcha Boudi, chollam!” and
slipped down the stairs.
My grandmother and uncle faced each other over the tea
table. “Rupa will go,” said my uncle, “but she will go with an escort. Calcutta
is not what it was earlier.”
“Rubbish,” said my grandmother firmly, “ you mean to say, if
a place becomes unsafe we should stop moving about? And I think you should stop
all this hype about Calcutta becoming unsafe. Look at me – I move around the city
– in a bus! No one says anything to me.”
I tried to imagine the fate of anyone who would say anything
to her, but was incapable of doing so. And besides this argument was far too
exciting already.
“There is a lot of difference between Rupa and you, Ma,”
said my uncle equally firmly. My grandmother fixed him with a raised eyebrow.
He specified – “She is new to the city, you have been here for the last 30
years.” The eyebrow came down.
“If she is going to stay here, she had better learn to
navigate the city soon,” said my grandmother, “And how is she going to do that
if there is someone to do it for her? What a ridiculous idea!”
This was too much for my uncle. “Whys should it be
ridiculous?! Her father’s left her in my charge, I have a responsibility towards
her. What will he say if he knows she is wandering about alone?”
“Wandering alone?,” said my grandmother, incensed, “Why if
he was so bothered, why did he send her here in first place? And himself live
in the jungles where you cant even put in
a trunk call easily! And why are you thinking of your brother only? What
if your sister asks you as to why you are ordering her son about on a Sunday
morning to do silly things like escorting cousins! And even if he does escort her,
what is he to do when she gets there? Come back? Or hang around?”
The bell rang and the cousin in question arrived. Sensing
battle, he quickly joined me in the ringside seats and grabbed a toast while
the tray was heading for the table. The battle continued undisturbed.
“I wish you’d stop going on about being a woman,” said my
grandmother irritably to my uncle, “Of course Rupa’s a woman. What else would
she be? And a woman is a woman.” Pause.
“For that matter a man is also a man.” Pause again. No
arguments to that.
“Well, what I meant was, Rupa cant go about changing her
life because she is a woman. She will have to learn to do only the things she
can do alone. She’s not going to have an escort all her life. I haven’t. And
I’m not dead, am I?”
By now, I had figured that such arguments (and there would
be many to come) were more about the reasoning than the actual decision.
Niether my grandmother nor my uncle had
any intentions of making the decision for me. Finally I got to choose what I
wanted to do and stand by it. As I would be expected to do in future.
I remembered this argument for many years to come. Of the
many things I remembered was one critical thing – that I should learn to do the
things I can do alone. And if I couldn’t do it alone, I shouldn’t do it at all.
Since this came from my grandmother, I took it for granted. That all women should be independent. And so to imagine a world of independent women: independent women would mean women who make up their minds without whining and griping. Women who wear their clothes with confidence instead of simpering. Women who take care of their bodies ad their minds. Women who drive their own cars. Women who make their own money, operate their own accounts. Rich women, healthy women, happy women.
That is probably what my grandmother in all her pragmatism was looking for. Turns out she was in a minority. Its still a minority, but a slowly growing one. A small but determined group of women (never mind what women's rights groups tell you -its still painfully small) and one must duly acknowledge, also men, are working hard, very hard for independent women. Why?
Well, they all have their reasons. As I have mine. And besides, independent women make for a better quality of argument. And as a true Bengali, that is a good enough driver....
