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.

The Yelling Universe

I am firmly of the belief that it is always our 'estranged faces that miss the many splendoured thing.’ The Universe is perpetually and incredibly busy spinning in and out of black holes and untiringly trying to talk to us and show us things. It is obviously as persistent as we are dimwitted.

But in all our lives there comes a time (quite a few if you are a willing and quick learner) when the Universe loses its patience, holds you by the scruff of your neck and makes you see. Or yells out its message at the decibels of a jagrata loudspeaker in South Delhi. And once you do manage to hear and see, you can never be the same person as you were before.

Of course this very excellent theory is based on my personal experience. And though robust research would not count self admission of changed attitudes and perspectives robust enough  I shall tell you anyway – that’s why I am writing this blog.

Some time ago, the immensely popular Bollywood film – Kabhi Khushi Kabhi Gham was showing on TV for the ‘n’th time. And being the ardent film buff that I am I was watching it with my daughters for the ‘n’th time.  I shall tell you only as much of the films story as is necessary for this blog.

A rich boy meets a less rich girl. Both are attracted to each other and also equally aware that when it comes to marriage (most Bollywoood films head in that direction) the girls family will not be considered equal to the boys family. Moreover, the boy’s father is grumpy, arrogant, cold and distant and the boy naturally hesitates to tell his father who he wishes to marry.

The girl’s father on the other hand, is a widower, an amiable and virtuous man, a good and loving father and provides his two daughters with a spontaneous and boisterous upbringing. He owns a picturesque and profitable sweet shop in Chandni Chowk– an ancestral family tradition of this Dilliwala family-and completes the stereotype of the vibrant and vivacious Punjabi household.

To cut a long story short, the untimely and sudden death of the girl’s father pushes the boy to take a decision and he informs his father of the girl he wishes to marry. As expected, after the standard melodrama and histrionics, the boy is disowned by his rich and bad tempered father. But the boy stands by his true love and leaves home to marry the girl he loves. Years later, we are told he takes the girl and her sister to far away England, sets up his own business and provides very well for his wife and her sister.

Now every time I had watched this film earlier, I would go misty eyed at this part. The course of True Love would always bring tears to my eyes – how brave the boy – all alone yet so honourable in love. How dignified the girl in her sorrow. How heartless the world. But this time the Universe was ready for me. At this point of the film, it caught me the scruff of my neck and screamed. And instead of going misty eyed, I thought – but – what happened to the sweet shop in Chandni Chowk?

This thought sauntered in and took up residence in my head. The tears disappeared rapidly. Hitherto unknown thoughts made their presence felt. And now, instead of the linear direction of True Love, numerous multi dimensional and parallel versions of possibilities was what I began to see. Let me describe a few:

Version 1:

Grief struck at her father’s death, the girl realizes she has been foolish in neglecting to learn about the business. She sells her chiffon sarees and pearls on OLX, raises enough money for an MBA course, puts the faithful retainer in charge of the sweet shop for 2 years and decamps to Singapore, younger sister in tow, to obtain the MBA degree.

5 years later, she wins a prestigious Entrepreneur of the Year Award and her sweet shop gets added to the list of Places to Visit in Delhi on The Lonely Planet.

Much richer now, she marries the faithful boy and joins his business as an equal partner.

Version 2:

  The two sisters are heartbroken with their loss. They go to the reading of their father’s will with a heavy heart but sit stunned as the few lines are read out; “ I have done my duties as a father. Now you need a mother. Since you have none, go to the Eternal Mother – at any of her pilgrimages – She will show you the way.”

The obedient girls did what Babuji told them to do. Makemytrip gave them an excellent deal for Kolkata so off they went.  After visiting Kalighat, they wandered around the city and it seemed to them that every second shop was a sweet shop. And what a collection of sweets! A hundred ideas sprung up in their minds in that fertile soil of many generations of ‘halwai’ genes.

One day, as the elder bit into a Baborshah, she asked the younger – “Are you thinking what I am thinking?”

The younger, giving due respect to the succulent malpua she was eating, nodded vigorously.

Seven years later, the sisters’ new food tourism project won them the Business Innovation of the Year Award. The girls were 7 times richer than what they started out with.  They also had amongst the two of them seven new admirers and the older was in the process of choosing between the new and the old.

Version 3:

Intrigued by her son’s commitment to his unusual choice of a girl friend, the boy’s mother decides to meet the girl herself. As soon as she enters the colourful, warm, welcoming home behind the sweet shop, she is acutely aware of the absence of women in her own home and life. As the two girls fuss about her, she slips into a dream, thinking how easy life would be if there were more women with her.

Quietly, surreptitiously, a clever little voice that was waiting exactly for this moment, whispers inside her head, “There could be, you know – all you need to do is work!”

Seven years later, the two girls and the boy’s mother own a hugely successful sweets catering business. It wins the Business Diversity Award as it employs only women. Its transport department has only women – women drivers and delivery girls. The milk men are milk women.  They bank with an all female bank branch. All the chef and cooks are women. Women customers get wonderful rebates.  At the award ceremony, this unlikely trio holds aloft the trophy and exclaims – “Celebrate Women! We do!”

The father and son, sitting in the audience, one still grumpy and the other ecstatic, clap their hands.

Version 4:

Wandering around in what feels to her like an empty house, the girl realizes the enormity of her misplaced priorities. Instead of singing in lonely places, she should have been helping her father. Instead of dancing at the victory of the Indian cricket team, she should have been building her business. She decides to take charge and organizes a memorial service for her father. After the memorial service, she has a dream. In her dream the white clothes of the people, the strings of green leaves and marigold flowers (her father’s favourites) merge into the Indian flag. She realizes that her faith in the Indian Cricket team was misplaced patriotism.

She changes her wardrobe to designer khadi, revamps her shop to sell traditional Indian sweets, made the traditional way. Seven years later, the shop has seven franchises in seven different cities. In seven seven star hotels they conduct traditional Indian sweet making courses. The two sisters are featured on the cover of Time magazine, “The Sisters Sweet” And the lover boy, being allergic to khadi, designer or otherwise, has had to exit this version.

You see, after the Universe has done yelling, you don’t quite hear the same. Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol will no longer be the same for me. But I don’t mind, because in their place spring up a thousand ladies and gentlemen all doing the many splendoured thing.....

Domesticity. And radical social change.

A long time ago, a friend of mine and I sat talking about our future. At that time life was just opening up in a million exciting ways and exploding in all directions – both good and bad. We sat on a little wooden bench in a tiny shed in the remote and stunningly beautiful hillsides of the Chhotanagpur plateau wondering what the future held for us. Twenty years down the line who would we be? Where would we be? We felt it may be an easier task to have a hold on what we would not do, rather than what we would. And my friend and I then set ourselves 3 indicators, which we swore to avoid.  These indicators, true to our then somewhat romantic and intellectual pretensions, took the detailed shape of these 3 visions:

1.    We were standing in a poorly lit kitchen, hair coming loose from a hastily tied bun, wearing a synthetic saree with a blouse that was not matching, cooking over a blackened ‘kadhai’. We looked fatigued and virtuous.

2.    We were running after our infant children, with morsels of food in our hands, pleading and cajoling them to eat a little – just a little, ma. We looked dumpy and virtuous.

3.    We were meeting after 10 years and our conversation was limited to nappies and recipes. We looked vacuous and virtuous.

We made a pact right then, and promised to avoid doing all the above three and use these as our indicators of failure in the years to come. Our joint horror of domesticity, the influence of Bollywood and our own rather non conventional mothers are visible in the details and nature of these three indicators.

Did we succeed? I would say yes. Has it been easy? No. The pressure to conform is immense.

In the twenty years that have elapsed  since that day, my friend and I stayed faithful to our pact. We have stuck to avoiding our indicators, sometimes slipping close to one, sometimes making herculean efforts to avoid another and often, standing aloof and apart and watching with disbelief as other eminently sensible friends and family ticked off one indicator after the other. “Why can’t you be like everyone else?” has been a comment we have heard often. “Why can’t others be like us?” my friend and I have wailed.

And in these twenty years, these carefully detailed indicators (our apologies to all readers who wear synthetic sarees) have turned out to be one of the most potent influences in my life. Every time convention and custom called one of these indicators would rear its head. For example, as I prepared for a parent teacher meeting, chose a plain saree and tied my hair in a severe bun to look the role of a sincere and hardworking parent, one of these visions would rise up in all its melodramatic flamboyance,  and  I would hastily back track. Mostly I have arrived at parent teacher meetings looking, well, let’s say, different from everyone else in the room.

Just in case the reader is beginning to imagine us as anarchists or feminists or activists or all of them together and pictures of austere, angst ridden, dowdily dressed, statistics quoting middle aged women are beginning to take shape in your head, let me assure you that only the middle aged, feminist and activist bits are true. Both my friend and I are proud home makers and contented parents to 2 children. Our homes are full of things we love – books, music, children, friends, family, dogs, gardens, paintings, maps, food and more books. We have travelled the world. Like most others, we have had our share of good times and the bad. If you meet us now, you will see two contented, eccentric, determined women, with a clear and usually singular opinion on most things in life and not shy of voicing them, ready for a good laugh and a good trip, a good book and a good cup of tea. We are mostly tranquil, sometimes grumpy and yes, a few times also sad. We have our kitchens (excellent ones, mind you) but have not been limited to them. We have our children (lovely ones, you’ll see) but have not been limited by them. We have our conversations (soul satisfying, as always) but they are never virtuous. By our standards, we succeeded.

And since this is a blog about my own experiences, I cannot end by only telling you that we succeeded. I must tell you how I succeeded.  Here then, are my tried and tested strategies of response when conformism and virtuosity are leaning heavily on your door. Mostly such bulwarks of social stability exist in the form of the general population who spend an immense amount of resources trying to get you to follow the herd. When they do,

1.    Learn to smile. But smile knowingly and enigmatically. Most people find women who smile knowingly a little scary, if not creepy. Do note the difference between smiling ‘nicely’ and smiling ‘knowingly.’ The latter has an element of superiority. Smile especially in times of anger. Hide your anger, but show your smile. When I have responded with anger, the argument has turned righteous and virtuous, and I have been left isolated, furious and worst – I have lost the argument. But when I have remained silent and smiled slowly and knowingly, I have always won the argument. Additional benefit of this strategy: Enjoy the confusion one creates by choosing not to respond exactly at the time when people are gathering around to watch you explode. 

2.    Pick a non committal word or phrase that allows you to respond, but not give anything away. Like “Really?” or “Is that so?” or “Indeed.” My mother tongue, Bengali has an outstanding phrase in this category –“Tai, na?” Apologies to my non Bengali speaking readers – it is almost impossible to translate. The primary objective here is to refrain from committing to anything you will regret later and/or participate in a pointless argument. The combination of this phrase with Point # 1 or with a raised eyebrow can give you 95% success.

3.    Have role models of who you do not want to become. That works better than having role models of whom you do want to become. If social pressure becomes too much and you start thinking of replacing your one dish party menu with a 4 course sit down meal, instead of sensibly completing the chapter of the book you were reading, train yourself to respond to this situation by remembering Auntie M.

4.    Have the correct friends. This one is the most important.

Since you will definitely benefit from this short hand book on initiating radical social change, do return the favour and share your strategies too.

The Golden Journey to Samarkand

Losing an argument, in our household, is a serious matter. Losers are known to sulk for days. Winners  retain unhealthy levels of smugness for as long. Skill at arguing is considered to be a critical indicator of intellect. And hence my losing this particular argument was tough anyway, but because it was on a subject that I considered myself an expert on,  but my defeat was an exceptionally hard one.

And I was actually winning the argument on women’s rights, a few days ago, when Baba interjected, “But you see things won’t work out for women – their biological clocks and professional clocks are in complete conflict with each other.”

This was clearly not Baba’s own thinking, having insisted on that his own daughters do otherwise. I looked at him suspiciously. He was reading the newspaper.

“Rubbish,” I said, “That is such a medieval statement. Who says things like that nowadays.”

“This newspaper does,” replied Baba, still not looking up – this boded ill for me.

“Hmpfh. Conflicting clocks indeed. Must be a man,” I said, picking up my bags – I could hear the pool cab arriving.

“Not a man, no. It is a woman – this person that you spoke of so highly the other day.” He had the smug look of a potential victor. My heart sank.

I looked at him in dismay, the cab honking impatiently. “Ha. I don’t believe it, let me come back and read the papers,” I said as I went out of the door.

“Why wait?” Baba called after me, ”It will be on the internet. Indra Nooyi – the big boss of Pepsico claims women can’t have it all.”

As I flung myself into the cab, I knew I had lost this one. Stung, I logged on to the Net. As I went through the interview that had gone viral on the net, all the associated discussions around it, and some hitherto neglected research on Ms. Nooyi, my sense of dismay and disbelief steadily increased.   

 And in such circumstances, being as I am a Gupta, a Bengali, a feminist and a person who firmly believes she is heading toward having it all, I cannot stay silent. My way of life is being threatened and besides, I have lost an argument. Here then, is what I have to say. At this point, , the reader may benefit from a quick virtual review of the debate at the link below and some associated links.

http://www.forbes.com/sites/moiraforbes/2014/07/03/power-woman-indra-nooyi-on-why-women-cant-have-it-all/

1.    I shall begin my disagreement with Ms. Nooyi’s statement by agreeing with her. Agreed, women can’t have it all. But then, men can’t either. In fact I have always believed that women, with their natural ability to create life have an immense advantage  over men, to start with. The problem is with women who see this as a disadvantage – not with the Nature’s distribution of power.  To make a public statement of one’s own limited world view simply gives the chance to everyone to pull you down. And believe me that list of people in ‘everyone’ is a long one. Including me.

2.    But would you want it all, in the first place? I would rather have a choice. There is a deep wisdom in the saying – Be careful what you ask for; you might get it. I think the men are  quite clever, by focussing on what they are good at and portraying it as ‘all’. Shouldn’t we follow suit? If you really want to copy the men, that is.

3.    Ms. Nooyi says in the interview that women’s professional clocks and biological clocks are in complete conflict.  Do I agree? No. And I have three reasons for saying no.

Reason 1: Professional and biological clocks are not the only two clocks women have. I have many more clocks – a spiritual clock. A creative clock. A well being clock. A social clock. A political one.  And some. All of these exist simultaneously in each one of us. If you choose to limit yourself to 2 of these – the loss is yours. I have chosen not to, as have a couple of million other women. But the choice not to see and acknowledge that again is yours.

Reason 2: Technically, biology specifies that the most effective child bearing age is between 18-25 years. That does not coincide with the peak of our careers. But socially, we have pushed back child bearing ages, and are more or less unanimous in our agreement that child bearing before the age of 20 (though most of our grandmothers would not fit this) is risky. And so, we should not speak of a biological clock – we should speak of the social one. To smudge the edges of biology and society has been one of the ways in which patriarchy has succeeded. The choice to remain within a limiting social structure like patriarchy is again – yours. Not mine.

Reason 3:  I do not like clocks. They go tick tock tick tock and repeat exactly the same task over and over again – if left to themselves – for eternity. A terrifyingly limiting existence, Ms. N. Not one that I have chosen.

4.    Another example Ms. Nooyi gives of not having all is in the raising of her children. If her children want to play Nintendo, her response would be to get a secretary and train him/her in dealing with her children as she travelled to Tokyo? For many of us – who have no access to secretaries and/or do not wish to ‘remote control’ our children, the strategy is different – we teach our children not to play Nintendo. That is easier than you think – each of us have simple strategies. I have taught my children 3 things that I love – cycling, swimming and reading – now when we go for a swim together, I get to spend time with them and get to do what I love. This also ensures that my children make friends who have the same likes as they do. For the rest of this argument I have only questions: Do secretaries in Pepsico get training in dealing with Nintendo playing children? Is this what the secretarial schools teach nowadays? Also, does Ms. Nooyi realize that the majority of working women have no secretaries – they ARE often the secretaries? Does the word ‘cope’ in America apply to children? In India, it is mostly used for dealing with disease and delayed monsoons.( In fact, if Ms. Nooyi was in India and ‘coping’ she would have probably been in the Metereological Department. And not have to worry about clocks of any kind.) But the next question deserves to be a separate note –

5.    And this is the matter of her children complaining that she doesn’t come for Coffee Mornings in school as they happened on weekdays. Take the strategy Ms. Nooyi used to deal with this complaint. She got a list from the school of all the mothers who did not attend and shared this with her daughters telling them Look! I am not the only bad mom! There are so many other bad moms. Now her daughters will grow up with the understanding that yes, my mom’s a bad one. And so are all the other mothers who do not come to Coffee Mornings. Corollary – all moms who work are bad. All moms who stay at home and come for coffee mornings are good. Sigh. Ms. N, l don’t think this works. If you want the world of the masculine, you cannot get it by using feminine paradigms. As we feminists say  – you cannot dismantle the master’s house with the master’s tools. If you love your children as much as I love mine, you will find new tools, – that is the challenge and excitement that women have waiting for them –(and yet you say we don’t have it all) If you take my advice and that of a couple of million other women, you would influence the school to shift their Coffee Mornings to a more accessible time – if you’re the boss at an MNC that has global impact, I am sure you can impact a school. Or you could tell your daughters that their mom does a very important job – many people besides her two daughters are dependent on her. That you are proud of what you do. That being you at office allows you to have children, to love them and give them the best education that they so much deserve. That it allows you to bring the world into your home. You could take them to office and show them what you do. You could tell them that the moms who come to the Coffee Mornings are the good moms yes. But so are the moms like you who can’t come. If your daughters grow up feeling the passion that you bring to your life, they will grow up loving you even if you can’t do Coffee Mornings. And they will grow up believing that women who work are like their mother -  and want to be like you. Believe me, this works. And from a woman in your position, we expect that you will aid us in the new tools – not giggle about how the old tools make you feel guilty – that’s what they are supposed to do.

6.    And then there is the mother angle. Apparently Ms. N’s own mom is dismissive about her achievements and asked her to get the milk first when she returned home with the news of her promotion. She was asked to ‘leave the damned crown in the garage.’ Now if Ms. N cant organize to get a bottle of milk into her home in time, will she really be successful in getting millions of bottles of Pepsi across the world? But that’s an aside. Regarding mothers let me quote from one of my own earlier posts in this blog: “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.” Actually, if you were in India, maybe you wouldn’t have had this problem. The only crowns you would have won would have been the glamorous kinds and we all know that mothers of suchly crowned women are actually very happy with their daughters.

7.    And then, there is the question of guilt.  You may want to  examine the use of the word ‘guilt’ and ‘death’. Especially when you wave your papers in the air and claim that you die of guilt – simply die of guilt. Do remember, women do die. Simply because they are women – and are born into the house of patriarchy – the house you seem so intent on protecting. A young aspiring woman was brutally raped and murdered in my city two Decembers ago. In another country across the borders, a young girl was shot at because she wanted to go to school and take more girls with her. No guilt involved here, see? These two women represent millions of women facing violence.  So when you speak of dying, may I suggest you speak responsibly. And use your position to speak against such crimes – anything less is not acceptable.

8.    Of your spouse then. And how he complains about being your spouse. If he does, examine your relationship, that’s what he’s asking you to do. Don’t waste your time convincing us that he ‘hurts the most’ – we are not convinced and he is no happier. But spousal relationships are a tough one and we are all working on it. And a couple of new tools are presenting themselves. So if you are still using hackneyed tools, may I suggest that you at least speak in the singular? And not generalize for all of us.

9.    And finally as I end my angst filled response, may I suggest you examine the use of the word ‘all’. It is an impossible word to quantify. And if there is anyone who does get it all – the winner takes it all, Ms. Nooyi. Just as my father did when he won this argument. So, if you don’t have it all, yet, it may just mean you are still not a winner. Or, you may simply be an obtuse person and insist on looking in the opposite direction while your ‘all’ sits waiting for you – have you seen the salary Wikipedia claims you are earning? And besides your all may not be my all. Your all seems limited to the 2 clocks you speak of. The corollary of this is that women who don’t have both or either of these clocks cannot have it all. Would it surprise you, Ms. N to know that there are millions of women who either do not work or do not have children or both – and yet are happy, contented women, full of the lust for life and making an immense positive impact on the world around them.  I am privileged to know many of them – in my family, amongst my friends and among the hundreds of amazing women I have worked with. And I am sorry you do not know of them – your life then is infinitely poorer than theirs. Or mine.

The lives of women are not about training, guilt, coping and hurt. And I am sorry to see these appear in the expressions of a woman who is a path breaker and considered a role model by many. I hope you will find it in yourself to move beyond those two clocks, because there is an entire universe out there – challenging, tough as nails, exciting, infinitely fascinating. To quote from a favourite poem –

“We travel not for the sake of trafficking alone –

By hotter winds our fiery hearts are fanned:

For the lust of knowing what should not be known,

We make the Golden Journey to Samarkand.”

May you make your Golden Journey and live to tell us a tale very different from the one you tell us now. Then I may not mind so much if I have lose an argument.

Maybe.

I have a small, select list of the compliments that I have received that have meant  a lot to me. Of these, some are related to my being a mother. One of them was made observing how both my daughters were growing up to be happy and well balanced children – that I was The One With A Golden Womb – “Shwarnagarbha” in Bengali. And the second was made during an intense discussion on parenting when some of my younger friends told me that I wore my motherhood like a medal of honour. I still treasure both compliments.  And I am a very hands on and proud mother. My children stand at the centre of my life.

And yet, I have always been conscious of the impact and influence of motherhood on my sense of womanhood. Over the years of my work with women’s rights and my own experience of motherhood, I have seen the immense anguish, angst and trauma that the concept of motherhood creates in our lives. And this is true for those of us who have had to give birth when they do not wish to, those of us who have given birth under luckier circumstances, those of us who cannot give birth, those of us who have not been able to give birth and those of us who do not wish to give birth. And all of us are real living women. And in meeting them, I have often felt maybe we have walked down the wrong road. Maybe if we had taken another road –

Maybe our existing concept of womanhood based on motherhood is incomplete.

Maybe the physical act of giving birth was only one of the hundreds of creative and life giving tasks that women were able to perform.

Maybe we were to learn from this act of giving birth to our children our other natural abilities –to create, to breathe life into, to nurture, to be fearless in the face of death, to have courage, determination, stamina, joy, the ability to withstand pain and loss, to be naturally and immensely creative and powerful.

Maybe we were to bring this power to our minds and our souls also.

Maybe the one million ova that every female child is born with was symbolic of every woman’s ability to create – to bring to life many things in our bodies, souls and minds.

Maybe our ancient cultures, those that were closer to nature, understood instinctively this innate power of women to create – to make fertile all that came her way – her womb, her home, her people, the earth, the ideas, the skills. And hence our first gods were goddesses.

Maybe in those ancient days, when our sisters of long ago lived with the full power of the feminine, our menstrual cycles were days of joy and celebration and sharing with the world – I am alive! I can create! I bear life breath! I am powerful!

Maybe we were really ten armed and ten headed.

Maybe over the years, we began to disregard our power over all other creations of the mind and soul and chose to create only with our bodies.

Maybe in doing so, our goddesses were turned into stone. Or into idols made of the earth we forgot to make fertile.

Maybe much of our troubles today arise from this limiting of our womanhood to the fertility of the body only – however unforgettable, precious and life changing the experience of child birth and parenting is.

Maybe in our obsession with the fertility of our bodies, our minds and souls lie fallow, untended and infertile, releasing their poisons into those very bodies that house the children of tomorrow.

Maybe in doing so we have given up our powers that were once naturally ours – and worse – divided ourselves against those of us who cannot or do not wish to have children.
Maybe in our uni dimensional focus on our body's creative potential, we have slowly forgotten to create and nurture ideas, skills, relationships.

Maybe we have all – including every generation of children that we are so proud to have borne, paid an incalculable price for having linked our woman hood to our bodies only.  

Maybe many of us reading this already know this to be true.

Maybe we should now start teaching every female child as she grows up – that your existence is the partnership of a triumvirate – your body, your mind and your soul. All three are equal in their ability and potential to give birth – to a child, to an idea, to a relationship. And all are equally valuable to humanity.

And then maybe we would see all women as equal, as they truly are. And only once we see ourselves as complete and equal can we hope for any real equality with the rest of the world.