Thursday, July 17, 2014

I won't blame the government...we rape women

A six year old child gets raped by her teacher in Bangalore. It shouldn't surprise me anymore and it doesn't. I am just heartbroken trying to make sense of humanity. In the meantime, social media gets set on fire. Everyone is calling for justice. Everyone wants the culprits imprisoned. Everyone is blaming the government for letting such crimes go rampant in the country.

I don't. I want to blame the cold, inhuman entity called the government. The entity that doesn't have a human face. It's the government's fault that so many girls are attacked and raped. So simple. I wish I could do that. But I know the government is no more than a bad handler of an animal that has already gone rabid. I can't blame the government for what keeps happening because I genuinely think the government can't do much at this point, except have their representatives spout some nonsense about justice and bringing safety and slink away once the controversy dies (of course it does not help that our political parties are filled with men who believe eating chicken and fish leads to rape).

I however blame myself. I blame my society. I blame the world I live in. I remember during my first semester in college in Chennai, these boys from this particularly disgusting college would board the bus I would travel in (a lot of MOP girls travelled in that bus). Every time a girl would enter, they would sing lewd songs. Every time a girl would move, they would sing lewd songs. They would catcall. They would "eve tease". I complained to the bus conductor, who shrugged and told me to get off the bus if it bothered me so much. Of course being the person that I am, I created a ruckus, fought and called the police too. But the general consensus in that bus was that I was the problem. These were "boys being boys" and I was being difficult.

Since a very young age, I realised how important it was to protect myself. In Calcutta, I was told to hold my mom's hand at all times because during Durga Pooja, men were abducting little girls (of course I was very tiny, so my parents had to hold onto me even tighter). I would see beautiful prostitutes lined outside Kalighat temple and men leering at them. In Chennai, it's considered a "fun game" for men riding bikes to shout at poor girls walking down the street. You squeal  in fear and they would get a kick off it. Sometimes they would hit you as they passed you by. You are filled with absolute humiliation at that moment even though it really isn't your fault at all. Oh and in Chennai, if you ever travelled by bus, then at some point a man would have come from behind, pressed himself against you and pinched your waist really hard. In fact, I was left with a mark that lasted me a month. Painful. And yes. Humiliating.

In Bangalore, I have faced a different sort of problem - the kind female runners face. Of course there is the usual level of catcalling and grazing your thigh when you are sitting in the bus (at this point I have stopped travelling by buses. I earn money and I no longer want to subject myself to disgusting men who get the kick out of touching a strange girl's thighs). But as a runner, I face a whole different problem - men think it's an open invitation to harass anyone who is a woman who dared enough to run in public.

A friend of mine and I ran the Nandi Hills recently. On our way up, every 5th man either blew us a kiss as he went by, or made an inappropriate comment or even tried to take our picture (I went and fought with that man because the last thing I want is my picture to land up in a strange website). We learnt to keep to ourselves, avoid eye contact and keep chugging along. But it was frustrating. I was personally relieved when I reached downhill. It didn't matter that I was strong enough to run up and down a hill, I was a woman, thus I had to be objectified. I wish the incident at Nandi Hills was the only one of its kind but it's not. I have learnt to run in groups just to feel safe again. And if I run alone, then I have a tried and tested route (that I have briefed my parents on) and even then I have faced problems.

All this brings me to the question I posed at the beginning of this rant - do I blame the government? During the now infamous Delhi rape media circus, everyone blamed the Congress. I don't know if they will blame BJP now. But I don't. I blame us. The society. Tamil films nearly glorify that idea of stalking a woman till she finally relents. A film called 7G Rainbow Colony is about how one man molests and stalks and makes a girl uncomfortable until she falls in love with him. How is that normal? Why isn't that girl calling the police? Why do these films glorify the stalker?

And then there are the item numbers. Munni Badnam Hui, darling tere liye. The woman in those movies strictly exists to please the eyes of the men who bites their lips as she sways her hips. The woman is now "commodified".

But I refuse to blame just movies and songs and the media, the blame for what's happening should be shouldered by the entire society. Girls growing up are told to keep themselves safe. They can't wear certain clothes because that "might attract attention". You should be careful, you are told. Don't get too close with boys because boys will be boys, you are told. Be modest. Don't wear makeup. Don't wear short skirts. Don't smile too much in public. Keep yourself guarded. Carry a pepper spray. Make sure you know how to use your keys for protection. Carry a rape whistle. Don't go out alone at night. Don't run at night. Just don't leave the house. Build a fortress and die there. At least you will be safe.

But what are we telling our sons? Are we raising them to believe that men and women are equal? Are we telling them to be careful? To not touch or hoot or catcall a girl when she is out? Do we teach them not to treat women as inhuman pieces of meat that need to be devoured? Do we teach them that women are human beings too?

I don't think even the most sympathetic of men can understand what it's like to be inside a woman's body. The fear that comes from looking like a woman. The fear of moving shadows at night while walking alone down the street. The fear of getting raped not just by strangers but by anyone.

Can the government teach a man that women should not be raped? That women aren't a hunt? What can the government do? No. Unfortunately try as hard as I can, I don't blame the government. I blame us.


Thursday, June 19, 2014

To be truly miserable over football...

I remember 2002 very distinctly. I was clutching a purple coloured pillow that I had nicknamed Germany and staring intently at the screen. The final whistle blew and Germany had lost the finals. The remote control I clutched with my other hand flew across the room, hit the nearest window and shattered the glass. To this day I wish I had thrown my pillow in anger. Because what followed was my mother yelling at me and disconnecting our cable connection for two months. But that didn't hurt. Germany had lost in football. Here's the kicker...I have never ever been to Germany but I have rooted for this team to win for over 16 years now.

Football has been part of most of my life now. I watch a lot of sports. I am your typical tomboy (who loves unicorns and pink) and I love competition. Tennis. Cricket (lots and lots of cricket). Chess. And of course...football. But football is not just a sport for me. It's a way of life. And when you are a football fan, you just have to accept some indomitable facts:

1) You WILL be miserable most of the time. It does not matter if you support a consistent team like Barcelona (I will keep digressing to league football, so just go with me on this rambling session) or a team like Arsenal that shows a lot of promise only to never win for many years when it matters (but hey we finally won the FA Cup!). You will be miserable. Not just for the 90 odd minutes when the game is played. But during the week, when you will sit and worry about injuries, transfer drama and future fixtures that could make you miserable. Oh and your Fantasy League team almost never performs and you are miserable about that too.

2) Your personal life will sometimes revolve around the big games. That friend of yours who is getting married? Well, what if it's the same day as the Arsenal-Man City game? You miss the wedding coming up with a bad excuse ("I have so much work dude!"), and you spend the evening watching Arsenal get pummeled by Man City. Which of course means you are miserable again. And you don't get free food to drown out your feelings either.

3) You will actually take pride in this misery. Sure, your team has not won anything in close to a decade. But you have been miserable for the team and suffered through pretty humiliating defeats. That means you are a "real fan". The more you suffer, the more you are accepted as a football fan. Newbies just aren't accepted in our fold. We are a frustrated lot. We don't like fresh fans with too much hope in their eyes. We are jaded and pissed and until you become that yourself, you're not a "real fan".

All this brings me back to the current day. I am a 26 year old exhausted football fan. I have not slept well since the World Cup has begun. I am currently training for my first full marathon and I don't like missing my training. I love to cycle AND I have a full time job. The current world cup is my Holy Grail of suffering. I am simply not having any fun. I am just tired and exhausted and unable to quit. Oh and the games have been so unexpected so far that I don't want to miss any of it. The vicious cycle continues. I just don't want to miss anything. I am eating badly. My whole body aches. I have stress breakouts and I zone out at times. For instance, today I forgot it was a Friday. I panicked en-route to work as I was dressed in casual clothes. When I did get to work, I realised I lost the keys to my work station. I know I had stowed them away in my bag but I don't quite recollect actually doing it. For all intents and purpose, I have lost my keys because of the world cup. And oh...England lost. I stayed up to watch Rooney celebrate his first ever World Cup goal and his team's millionth flop. I am truly miserable. But I can't quit.

Am sure there are a lot of football fans like me out there. Ones that realise that as you grow older, your body starts betraying you. You can't quite pull off all-nighters like you used to and missing sleep on consecutive days will lead to your losing your ATM card (I am so afraid of losing my ATM card that I have given it to my mother for safe keeping until I know I have my wits about myself).

So, what do we do? Do we miss out on moments that have for the better part of our lives defined us, so we could sleep just a little bit? I know what I was doing when Zinedane Zidane headbutted Materazzi (I was eating pizza and I spit most of it out the second it happened). I know what I was doing when Wayne Rooney got sent off after Ronaldo the cheat baited him (I was eating pizza and nearly spit it out in frustration). I know what I was doing when a team mate forced the then Arsenal captain Fabregas into wearing a Barcelona t-shirt after Spain won the world cup in 2010 (I was eating pizza and nearly spit it out in frustration).



But I don't know what I did yesterday. I think I ran. I know I ate a lot and I watched England lose to Uruguay. This world cup has been harsh and wonderful but I don't quite know what my future lies as a football fan. As the years roll by, I find myself oddly disassociating myself from that identity. I feel gutted when Arsenal loses, but I no longer sit and obsess over it for weeks torturing myself. And yeah, it sucks when Robin van Persie scores yet another wonder goal but I am not actively plotting his murder (ok I like to day dream about it every now and then but then who wouldn't want to murder RvP?). My failures and successes have nothing to do with the clubs and team I support. And yes, I am contemplating sleeping through some crucial games in the near future, so I can get some shut eye and be able to function a bit like a human being.

A friend of mine asked me recently why people followed football if it made them so miserable. It's because football stuns you with some amazingly euphoric moments. Also, people are willing to be miserable for football because they love it. I don't quite know any other sport where millions actively root to be miserable. But only true love can make you truly miserable. So, as I mull over whether or not I will continue to be a miserable grouchy football fan (it might be years and decades before I decide), I want to thank this beautiful game for turning me into a miserable grouchy football fan. It's been such a pleasure stressing over things I can't control.. And I want to especially thank Arsenal. I have spent more time being miserable and unhappy thanks this club than I have due to actual problems in my real life. It's obvious. I love you guys.

P.S I really hope Germany wins this year...and I promise not to break any more windows :) 

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

The secret life of winners

There is a difference champions and winners. Champions weather all odds to make it through to the day, winners on the other hand do everything in their power to win. There is a difference and I never felt it more than when I was reading The Secret Race: Inside the Hidden World of the Tour de France: Doping, Cover-ups, and Winning at All Costs by Tyler Hamilton and Daniel Coyle.

For months now the people around me have nudged me to read this book and I resisted. I had already made up my mind about Lance Armstrong and his "posse of dopers" and I couldn't care less about what one ex doper cyclist had to say in his defense. I have always hated it when those who have been disgraced from their fields sign six figure publication deals to tell their sides of the story. Cheats, I would mutter under my breath, square my shoulders with a sense of superiority and stalk off. There are good books to read, I would tell myself. But this book refused to let me go.

In a rather ironic twist, at a the time when I found myself incapacitated and bedridden due to a rather serious cycling accident, I was lost in a book that deliciously details the sketchy world of professional cycling where the real race happens in shady makeshift hospital rooms with immoral doctors and the stakes have nothing to do with a cycle.

The Secret Race is a no-holds barred look in a world where cyclists like Tyler Hamilton did everything they could to win...to sustain. So, if it meant taking drugs like EPO, testosterone, Cortisone and everything else under the sun, then that's what they did. Hell, even if it meant removing and adding blood to your system, then they would do it. They were all by-products of a corrupt system with each one trying to beat the other in the game before the race had even begun.

The book rarely falters into melodrama. Hamilton pauses in the beginning to talk about his childhood, his roots bur then immediately thrusts you into the world of professional cycling. He talks about pushing himself hard enough to taste blood every time he rode. Because cycling is one of the hardest and most competitive sports on the planet, you have no option but to push beyond your own capacity to even be mediocre.

But what happens when your best is not enough because everyone else is going faster than you are, pushing harder than you are but with far less effort? Cycling is among the sports where not doping is exception to the rule. Cyclists like Scott Merrier who refused drugs simply faded away because everyone around them was riding on supernatural strength and boosters. Men like Hamilton merely saw taking drugs (or Edgar as they affectionately called EPO) as a way to level the playing field. If everyone was amped up on drugs, wouldn't it mean that the person who wins among them all is the true winner?

I have thought long and hard about this argument. And I believe there is a tragic flaw in the logic. Drugs are tricky to say the least. Performance enhancers can have varied effects on the human physiology. So, the reaction my body might have to EPO might be different to what it did for Hamilton. I am not saying these men didn't have raw talent (how could they not, having made it to the top?) but many deserving winners might have been sidelined because EPO or any other drug didn't work for them. But here is the biggest problem I had. They were all liars. Drug users or not, they made money from making fools of the public that flocked to support them. Hamilton never talks at length about lying but when he does, he mumbles that the truth set him free. What he does not realise that both his lies and truth hurt a sport, its fans...everyone.

As I read the book, I was torn between being impressed with the competitive spirit these men displayed, their histrionics (Hamilton breaks his collarbone and kept at it) and being angry at the flippant way they seemed to treat the sport they professed to love. I could never shake a sense of dread prevalent throughout the book. While not explicit, the tone of the entire book is ominous. Mad cyclists, mad scientists, and mad doctors...ingredients to a horrific tale. Hamilton may not apologise but at least he does not defend his actions. He knows all of this is wrong. Period.

Enter Lance Armstrong. Tyler Hamilton has spent the majority of his life under the shadow of his enigmatic teammate and competitor. Unfortunately for him, he gets overshadowed by Armstrong even in his own book. Armstrong is a strange Machiavellian character. He battles cancer. He battles other cyclists. He battles death. His only motive is to win. It's not just to be better but be better than everyone else. His dogged determination is admirable. His 'never say die' attitude is laudable. His need to destroy everything and everyone is his path is despicable. Armstrong is not a hero, he may not be a villain either. He's just flawed. His personality and strength do not let him quit. He can't process losing and he is most definitely a meglomaniac. Even right now, he may be disgraced and dethroned and the world may have turned its back on his. But he still refuses to go away. He still has not apologised...

There is a difference between champions and winners. Winners win but mostly they are scared of failure. They are cowards. A champion does not always win. A champion takes on every challenge and a champion knows that the easy road might be tempting but the honest road is what makes life worth living. Lance Armstrong is a winner. He is not a champion.


Friday, April 25, 2014

These past days...

I woke up on Monday and cycled to work as I always have done. Stick to the rules and you will be fine Aishu, I have always said to myself. Stick to the rules. Keep left, hand on brakes, stop for annoying traffic lights. Stick to the rules. However Monday morning rush meant someone else who wasn't quite sticking to the rules hit me from the back. I lost balance and fell. In many ways my life changed that second.

I stumbled at first. But I knew I was hurt. I also knew that I could not leave my cycle, my love (named Firebolt) behind. I have no recollection as to who helped me but I later found out it was an amazing human being called Manasa. I was tucked into an auto along with my cycle and en route to home. My first call was to my best friend Ramya. I work with her and I knew she was levelheaded enough to come through (and she did!). She contacted my parents, who immediately called me. What's funny is that I don't remember much of this at all. I do remember thinking that it would be a funny story later on and summoned enough energy to take a selfie! I then called my friend and cyclist extraordinaire Aditya. I still am not sure what I mumbled to him but the gist of it was - "Adi what if I am no longer cute?" Poor thing was probably torn between trying not to laugh and trying to help me in anyway. But he calmed me down.

I decided that instead of going home, I would check myself into the hospital. "You will be fine. Bolt will be fine. Now let's hope this is not serious and hopefully your doctor is cute," I told myself. I paid the auto driver extra, got my cycle out and stumbled into the ER of the Malathi Manipal Hospital a bloodied mess. Immediately I was swarmed by doctors.

Again I lose consciousness. Parents come. I am sitting on a bed. Cracking a joke about running to the doctor who finds me amusing. Apparently I joked quite a bit in the ER. I just don't remember it. But hopefully I was funny. The doc at first seems to deliver good news. "No broken hand. But she needs stitches in her mouth. Bring her back at 2 in the afternoon".

My friend Shuveshek leaves everything and comes sees me. I am still not entirely aware. I continue to Whatsapp. He quietly blots blood coming from my face. Now things get interesting. My left hand is really swollen. An xray shows that it is broken. More bad news: I need surgery. The plastic surgeon has to wire three of my teeth on my upper mouth. He then notes that the lower part of my mouth needs to be stitched extensively. At first my stomach sinks. Then I quietly mumble "I am running TCS 10k in a month...is that out of the window now?". Both docs shake their heads. We need you to get back in one piece they tell me. I smile and tell them - "Just make sure I am still cute ok? Cause I am adorable". They burst out laughing.

I get admitted. Evening surgery. Friends and colleagues pour in. My friend Merlin comes and helps me into my robes. My friend Henna has me laughing throughout. Friends call. I assure everyone I will be fine. I get the message that my hometown team Bengaluru FC won the Indian League. I am genuinely happy and excited at that. Ramya is a rock who helps my parents through this storm. It's time for surgery. My sister in America had apparently been crying. I console her. My mum and dad look shaken but seem fine enough. Especially my mum. She is calm. Her strength inspires me every day.

I had been warned that anesthesia makes you say crazy stuff. When I came out of surgery, I told the nurse I found him cute and then I asked for my friends Prachi, Varsha and GP. Then I asked for my parents. Prach and Varsha were there thankfully and seeing their faces helped. I decided through all that mess that I would be positive and hopeful. I fell into a fitful sleep.

The next day morning was the real shock. PAIN. But that didn't bother me. I saw my face in the mirror. I looked distorted. My face resembled me less and I looked more a zombie. "I will NOT cry", I told myself. Stared at my face a little bit more and returned to my hospital bed. Adi came. We spoke about cycling. He annoyed me when he told me there was a "correct way" to fall but lifted my spirits by calling me the prettiest zombie ever (I am :P ) and regaled me with tales about cyclists and their lives. I am told by the doctor that pain is going to be my companion for a while now. He also tells me I am the most cheerful patient he has ever treated (score 1 for Aishu!). My face has to heal. My stitches have to heal. My fracture has to heal and I have to pray that my teeth can be saved. Discharged in the evening. Curiously the doctor tells me that I have escaped something fatal. I remember fragments of my accident. I believe him.

Friends stream to my house. My friends Nagu, Shri Ram and Naveen (all incredible cyclists) come see me. My friend Niki rushes over.  Nagu always lifts my spirits and he didn't disappoint. He always puts a smile on my face. Henna and Geeta come over with a million rose milk bottles and ice cream. It's just what I needed. My niece looks at my face and sees me and not my injuries and gives me a hug through Skype. I love her more every day but that was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. But I was still haunted by my own reflection.

Sidenote: And incredibly enough my favourite player Sunil Chhetri (captain of the Indian football team!!) calls. It hurts for me to smile but I was so incredibly happy when Chhetri called that I forgot all about the pain. Even now the memory of that phonecall boosts me. Bengaluru Football Club is seriously the best club ever! (Thank you Kunaal)

This past week I have broken my hand, my teeth. My face looks like a zombie. I have lost 3 kgs and haven't eaten anything solid whatsoever. I wake up in the middle of the night in pain. But I have also felt incredibly lucky. My friend Tim's mom called me every day to make sure I was fine. My friends have been pillars of support to me and my family. And the kids in my building regularly bring me friendly flowers they scrounge from outside. I have started working from home and intend to resume regular duty from Monday. I cried only once this past week and it was for 30 seconds (yes I timed it like dork) when I got my confirmation mail for TCS 10k. But then decided I would be the best cheerleader at the event :)

All in all, I am fine. I am cheerful. I still take selfies. The pain is reducing by the day and my face is healing. It is amazing to watch as nature slowly but surely heals you. And I am not afraid or worried. I will get back on the cycle when I can. And I plan to start running again when my cast comes off. Yes, I will be starting from square one but I look forward to pushing myself again in the race track.

In the meantime I want to thank everyone in my life. Everyone who has dropped in a kind message. Everyone who has shown concern. I am very blessed to have you all in my life. But as far as my reflection is concerned. I think I was looking at my face wrong all along. I kept seeing the distorted swollen mess. But I didn't see the brave kid who stared right into the camera. The scars will go away. In a few months, the pain will go away too. But I hope that I never forget to be grateful. For my life. For my family. For my friends. And the love that surrounds me.

As for the person who hit me and sped away: I forgive you. I won't waste a second of my life being angry at you or at life. I hope someday you learn to take accountability for your actions but that's your battle and not mine. And I wish you well in life (no...really I do). I have learned so much about myself because of you. And I am grateful.



Eternally hopeful,
Aishu.

P.S My cycle Firebolt is in perfect condition. I swear I would have died if something had happened to it! (Yeah I know the joke's in poor taste but couldn't help myself :P )








Monday, March 24, 2014

Finding my religion

Yesterday something happened to me. I took the bus after work and nestled myself into a corner and pulled out the book I wanted to read. Next thing I knew the conductor came and told me to get off the bus because we had reached the last stop. Essentially I had missed my stop by several kilometres. And it's not the first time that's happened to me. Not the first time when I have lost track of time reading a book...

Books are my best friends...they are who I turn to when my faith is tested. Where I feel the safest..where I am home. I remember when I was just over two years or so old. My mum bought an illustrated and abridged version of Gulliver's Travels. Sure, I didn't have a clue what the words meant or even how to read. But I looked at the pygmies and an illustration of a giant and I was hooked. To this day it remains to be the clearest and earliest memory of my childhood. We didn't have a lot of money growing up and my grandparents lived with us. It was cramped to say the least. And summer vacations didn't mean travel as both my parents worked. But it never mattered to me. My mum would come back from her school (she's a teacher) with at least 20 books to satiate me through the two months. I would finish them in two weeks straight.

When I look back on my childhood, I remember sitting in the balcony with a cup of snacks that my grandmother made and my head buried under the latest Enid Blyton book I was given to read. Faraway Tree...Famous Five...Secret Seven...Naughtiest Girl in School series...these were my gateways to adventure. I would finish reading a book and then rush to tell my grandfather and my friends exactly how amazing it was. I was able to get more than my share of friends hooked onto the same books I loved.

As I grew older, my thirst for books didn't quench. I graduated to reading Wuthering Heights, Jane Eyre, Little Women, Pickwick Papers and Pride and Prejudice. They were not set in my time but I understood the emotions. I read RK Narayan and imagined what it would be like to live in Malgudi. I devoured Jane Austen's Emma in one reading. Then I turned 11. Harry Potter entered my life. We can often remember that moment when our lives changed forever. It happened when I went to my granduncle's house and found out I had no company. So had to settle with the book they had lying around - Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone. I remember reading the last line of the first chapter and distinctly thinking - I never want to put this book down ever. I didn't like the series much after the fifth book and I am not the fan of the writing at all in the final book but the series grew up along with me. It was my security blanket. I hoped and prayed for Hagrid to come knocking at my door bringing my acceptance letter to Hogwarts. The books mattered to the 13 year old me more than I can describe.

Of course along the way many other books changed my life. I introduced myself to Charles Dickens (my favourite writer of all time). I read Catch 22 and was fascinated by a new kind of writing. I wept through Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird and I saw a different face of humanity when I sat down with Dostoevsky. Most recently it was Hilary Mantle's series on the Tudor era that has kept me up at night and taken me to the world of imagination and political intrigue. Of course not to forget writers like JRR Tolkien, George R R Martin, Camus, Kafka, Haruki Murakami, Christopher McDougal who have all come into my life and changed it for the better and countless others.

There are those who think childhood should be about rolling around in the mud and being outside. I don't disagree. I have had my fair share of the outdoors but given a choice, the scrawny little kid in me preferred being alone to my own thoughts, my own imagination and my books. My books introduced me to new ideas, a different way of thinking. They pushed me to question the status quo. When the rest of my classmates where arguing about the latest movies, I sat and wondered if there was a purpose to life if even family members could desert you (Metamorphosis). I learnt not to judge people and their choices (Madame Bovary, Anna Karenina) and I learnt that no matter how bleak a situation might be, you have to stand up for what you believe in (To Kill a Mockingbird).

I venture out to the world and compare my own experiences to what I read in my books. I see betrayal, comedy, moments of love, chances for redemption and people being brave every day of my life. I also love the fact I can quietly run into the arms of my latest book and stuff more fluff into my mind and fill it with even more different ideas. But I don't want my life to be like the books. A book no matter how epic and realistic (100 years of Solitude), still comes with a clear beginning, middle and an end. Life on the other hand is longer and probably even devoid of purpose. But that's perfectly fine with me. I can write it any way I want. I like the uncertainity of the future. I like that I may be the hero in someone's life but the villain in some other person's existence. My life is messy unlike my books. And I like it that way. I am wholly aware that most of the time, I have no control in how it pans out (even on a daily basis) and anything can change its course. I like the excitement that brings. I like the curve-balls it throws. I love my friends and family and I also love how those relationships can change in a dime.

But most importantly I love that on any given day, I can walk into a bookstore and just stare at all the books I have yet to read. All the worlds I could get lost in. All the adventure that lies in front of me. They are always there. My friends.

- A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies (George R R Martin).

Monday, March 3, 2014

What is a feminist really?


A Facebook acquaintance posted this highly offensive advertisement on his wall today and called on his male comrades to respond on its brilliance. I saw it. Got quickly offended and immediately protested to the woman in the advertisement being turned into a commodity for a man's pleasure. Of course that meant that the man and all his friends ganged up on me for my perceived lack of humour. One of them called out of the society's ever increasingly intolerance for all things politically incorrect and how it is killing the world. And of course my favourite insult of them all - you are such a feminist.

That had me thinking. What is feminist? Feminist as a being has been long defined differently for decades now. The feminist is a thing that burns its bras...attends rallies. Screams when a man cups her publicly. Goes to the police and starts demanding equal rights, equal pay and does not shave its legs or arms. The hairy feminist is also a party pooper ready to literally poop on everyone's fun by offended about everything. The feminist is also a negative and angry being. So this young chap when he described me as a feminist, it wasn't a positive pat on the back but rather a derogatory kick in the face. Why can't you be chill woman and let the men have some fun?, he seemed to ask.

To be honest, I do not know what a feminist is. I don't know if I am one. I like things that are pretty and shiny. I like pink and purple and yellow. I am a regular at the parlour and I have never burnt a bra in my entire life (I like them and I support their existence wholeheartedly :P ). I am independent. I work. I earn. I pay for the things I like myself. I am not afraid of doing lunches or movies by myself. But I also am sensitive and vulnerable and not at all like the hardened female feminist figures that have been portrayed by the media over the years.

But I don't think this is an issue about being a feminist. I think it is a matter of being a woman at all. It is a tricky tricky thing to be. You like sports and video games, you get branded one of the boys. If you wear your hair short and walk around in jeans and t-shirts, you become a tom-boy. If you are conscious about what you eat, you become a stick in the mud. If you wear makeup, then you become barbie doll. When do you get to be yourself? 

I am at loss for words. But for now I have "unfriended" this person from my life. I don't want such men polluting my life. I don't want this person to tell me that the "only offensive thing about this advertisement is that Aston Martin is far superior to a hundred women" (I hope his mother or his wife never reads this comment  because man is this an insult to them!).

For my part, I want to figure out for myself what being a feminist means to me. I get angry when a woman is compared to a car, a perfume, a bag...like she is something that is for sale. I don't like it when someone tells me to "be a man." They should try being a woman for few minutes to know what it takes to be us. But for the most part I just want to hug all the women in my life. Every day we show up to take on life, we are already ahead of the race. Happy women's day.


Thursday, February 20, 2014

I am allowed to hate my home and love it too...

There have been two periods of my life when I couldn't wait to get out of India. Once when I was in 11th standard. For about six months I had decided I wanted to live in New York like those beautiful people on Friends. I would be like Rachel and Monica living in a nice NYC apartment talking about my first world problems. India was no good and I was meant for bigger things. I was meant for America. The first chance I got, I would leave and never come back.

Of course immediately after my 17th birthday, the American economy collapsed and the subprime mortgage bubble broke and I quietly congratulated myself for being in one of the fastest growing economies in the world - India. Who needs America when you have festivals, colour, beauty, a million languages and so much to do right here? I would make my home in India, I decided.

The second time I truly considered moving to America was when I visited my sister in California last year. It was a month of bliss. The weather was beautiful. I drank water out of the tap and was not worried. There were cycle tracks everywhere I turned. Beautiful trekking trails. Mountains and valleys. Hardly any traffic at all. And I could wear shorts and go for runs and no one would bat an eyelid. I think that's what appealed me to the most. I felt safe in whatever clothes I wore. In India I think twice about wearing something before going out, I enjoyed real freedom staying with my sister. I wore anything at all and was not remotely worried. She lives in one of the safest neighborhoods I have ever been in and I felt truly safe for the first time in my life. So, when I came back home I thought about it hard and long. America meant I would be closer to my sister and niece. And it also meant less pollution, better beaches, cleaner trails and I could run without worrying about some random man attacking me. But India is my home.

I have spent the last 10 years of my life using public transport in this country. Think Mumbai, Calcutta, Pune, Delhi, Chennai, Bangalore and even Hyderabad. I like public transport. You don't have to worry about weaving in and out of traffic and you can put on some music, take out a book and you can enjoy some "me time", till the chaos of the day takes over. But it hasn't always been like that for me. I was 17 when I had to first handle my first frisky "uncle". In Chennai they are famous. They come stand right behind you. And slowly they will put their hands on your hips. Some women squirm. Some women move away. Some women fight and some even ignore. I didn't quite know what to do when it first happened to me. I turned around startled. The man smirked almost daring me to scream at him. I came home in angry tears.

Of course I learnt to protect myself. I would loudly tell them to remove their hands. I would physically grab their hands while crushing their fingers and push them back. I would also sometimes (if I had the energy), fight. All this time it should also be noted (so the moral policing aunties and uncles won't claim that I was asking for this with my attire), I wore salwar kameezes as they were the dress code of my college. In a week I turn 26. I have had men flash at me. I have had men whistle at me. I had have men scream obscene words at me. And every time I have tried to fight back, I have often found myself surrounded by apathy. "You are a girl. This is India. It is for your own safety to be quiet and ignore." These are words I am very very used to hearing from people.

So why do I blame India? The truth is women are badly treated across the world. It's not an Indian issue. It's just that in India, I see it happening more in open. It's more accepted. I read everyday about young girls, women, aunties getting attacked, raped and worse. And every second you can trust me some girl is being harassed. But we tell ourselves that it's not the nation...it's the singular man in question. Does this mean India as a nation is not to blame at all? I don't buy into that theory. While the whole world is often described as a "man's world", in India, it is hard to be a woman at all.

After all this is nation where Sati was once glorified. Where widow re-marriage is still an anomaly. This is the nation where the boy-girl ratio ( 917 girls to 1000 boys) is so skewered because parents simply do not want a girl child. Where young girls are held back at home and not allowed to attend schools. Where dowry still exists. Where there aren't even enough bathrooms for girls in government schools. Even girls who are highly educated are expected to get married at 25, have kids by 27 and cook perfect meals while also having the perfect jobs. The Indian society has lived for centuries and decades under the impression that having a girl child is a burden. When a girl is raped, women snigger and say that she ought to have dressed appropriately. This is a nation where marital rape is not recognised by law. So if a woman was to be raped by her husband, he can get away with rape and she will never see justice meted out. She will never get justice. So, we can't blindly put the blame on the men who think it is their right to mistreat women, centuries of reinforcement in the nation has led them to believe that they can in fact get away with murder.

But why am I still here? I know a lot of you who love love love this nation, don't like to see it criticised. Would you even believe me when I say that I love this nation too? After all I have described it as being the perfect hell for women. The truth is I love my country. I want to see it prosper. I want it to be corruption free and safe for men and women alike. I want children to get the best possible education regardless of their economic strata and I want the caste system gone for good. But in order for this happen, I have to acknowledge that there is a problem. I can't get angry at the foreign tourists who come here and then talk about how their safety was violated. Their safety is often violated and I cringe every time I read those stories. I feel embarrassed for my nation. And I want it to get better.

After all this is my country. My home. I love the colours. I love the festivals. I love its broken roads. I love the overcrowded trains. I love its smells. I love its mountains. I love its people too. I love bhajjis you get outside Besant Nagar beach. I love how sometimes when you least expect it, a man will let you take his seat on the bus just because he noticed that you were tired. I love its bad movies. I hate its item songs. I love running in Cubbon Park early in the morning. I love travelling and discovering parts of this country that are brimming with history and tradition. I want to be part of its redemption. I want to pay the taxes here and be part of the solution. I want to be there when the roads get fixed. I want to be there when a politician surprises us by doing his/her job for a change. I want to be there when every child in the country has access to education. And I want to be there when women are not blamed for everything in the world. Where mothers-in-law don't kill their daughters-in-law for not paying enough dowry. Where infanticide does not occur. And that can happen only when good conscientious Indians stay back and try to create a new nation where women don't feel like they enter a battlefield every time they leave their homes. I will criticise this country. Because I love it. And I know that by sweeping the problems under the rug will not solve them. The dirt just accumulates. I love India and hate it sometimes. But I am not going anywhere. This my country and my home and it's not safe for me yet but one day it will be. I won't stop fighting. Because India is my home.