Mirror, Mirror On the Wall!

 Zaara's encounters with the mirror were pretty frequent. She loved to spend hours twirling her hair with the roller, trying different shades of her mother's lipstick and draping one of her dupattas as a sari when no one was watching. She loved the way the girls danced in the rain in the movies. She tried it out too; on some days when nobody was at home, she'd rush to the terrace and run in dramatic fashion with the dupatta in her hand, holding it high and letting the wind form tiny waves in it as it flew.

'Oh, I am beautiful', she thought to herself. When she used to study at her table, she was often distracted. If she turned slightly to the right, she could catch her reflection in the tall mirror and no matter how hard she tried, she could not resist the temptation to admire herself. Zaara was ten and her understanding of beauty was as innocent as her age; a little bit of rouge, a pair of pretty earrings, a flowing dupatta and a sparkling smile could do it all for her.

She was a cheerful young girl. She scored all A’s in her classes, played basketball in the evenings, had a lovely group of friends, loving parents and a beautiful elder sister. And, sometimes when she finished her homework earlier, she would rush to the mirror and play 'dress-up'. There is this strong connection between beauty and femininity which develops at a very young age. In Zaara’s case, she grew up believing that she was beautiful.

As the years passed along, the girls around her became more conscious of the way they looked. The length of the skirts became shorter and the blouses tighter. The hairstyle was suddenly so much important; combs, lip balms and creams were sneaked into the school bag and long queues were made in front of the washroom mirrors during the lunch breaks. Every time she looked into the mirror, a beautiful young lady stared back (at least Zaara thought so). Her mother also told her she was beautiful and she chose to believe it. You don’t really know that you don’t look conventionally beautiful or have the set of physical attributes that determine beauty, unless someone points out in you the lack thereof.

She was told one day by one of her friends that Faraz would never like her back because she’s not pretty enough for him. She learnt that day that sparkling big eyes, chiseled nose, beautifully defined slender lips and high cheek bones are the main parameters of a magnificent face and that she lacked not one, but all of them! She cried to herself all night in a long, long time. She kept wondering about all the possible ways she could make herself worthy of Faraz.

She would apply thick kohl around her eyes to make them appear more prominent and every day when nobody was watching, she would try to squeeze her nose a little with the hope that it would pick a better shape with the continued pressure. Maybe then, Faraz would not mind liking her back, she fondly hoped.

She was in the ninth standard now and the obsession with beauty steeply grew for most of her peers. The queues in front of the washroom mirror became longer and the cosmetics sneaked into school grew in number. There was a certain kind of attention that all her ‘beautiful’ friends started getting which the unusually talented Zaara was used to a few years back. Faraz would be surrounded by all the pretty girls who would flirtatiously talk with him the whole time in the recess and gradually, unnoticeably Zaara was pushed out of the scene. She started ignoring Faraz over the days that followed; she thought it’s better to let go of him herself rather than going through the pain of being shrugged off by him.

She could hear the girls raving about Faraz, about how irresistible he looked with his new ear piercing and the crew cut hair style. It would crush her heart and burn it to a charcoal black every time she would hear them talk about about Faraz. There is strong feeling; a strange mix of envy, admiration, covetousness and hatred that ordinary looking girls feel for gorgeous girls; and Zaara felt it every time, every time for all of them. How the world seemed to just revolve around them and all they had to do was to just pass one of their smiles which were capable of killing with the magnanimity of their beauty to get things done! She would question it sometimes, the unfairness of this treatment, only to realize the futility of her questions. The world was not a fair place; life is unfair and she knew it all along. The only difference was that now the unfairness started hitting her in the face; as long as it was favouring her, she did not mind the unfairness at all. How fair it was after all that she was just born brainier than the rest of them, had an athletic built which made her stand out in sports and a melodious voice which won her so many admirers. Had she ever questioned their admiration for her intellect or her talents? No, she hadn’t, she just felt she deserved it. “I have worked hard to polish that intellect and voice, worked out every day from 5 in the morning to grow my athletic abilities; I did not just magically wake up one day being all smart, athletic and melodious”, she would try and reason out with herself. She could not convince herself entirely though.

She started living indifferently and started hanging out with people whose behaviour and interests did not dramatically change with the onset of puberty. She would look with disdain at those pretty girls, somewhere inside secretly wishing to be one of them. Her own hypocrisy would make her look down upon herself sometimes. She was failing to admire herself like before and she had no idea about dealing with it. She just cut herself off from the Faraz in the hope that the lesser she sees of him, the lesser it might hurt. And, how she failed miserably; every time, every time!

Faraz cornered her one fine day, held her hand and pinned her to the wall in utmost fury contrary to his usual calm and composed demeanour. “Why are you doing this to me, what have I done to deserve your coldness. You shouldn’t have come this close to me, if you just had to leave one day without reason or explanation.” He realized as his breath calmed down that he was holding her hand way too tight. He let go of her and apologized. Never had his fury and grief been a cause of her happiness. This time it was; she felt so elated that she did not even feel the pain of his hand gripping hers so tight. The rage in his eyes never pleased her so much. “I need to know Zaara, I need to know. Tell me what happened”, he exclaimed. “I though you don’t like me anymore Faraz. I am not beautiful like those girls you hang out with. And you’re beautiful Faraz, you are way too handsome. I know I am not good enough for you. You started hanging out with those girls; they were beautiful, all of them and I knew I didn’t stand a chance so I just went away”, Zaara let her emotions out. Faraz looked at her in disbelief. “You’re not good enough for me, did you say? Are you crazy? You’re the most beautiful girl I have ever come across and I could write an entire book about how smitten I am with everything from the way you play with the tiny strand of hair that falls over forehead to the way your smile arrests my breath every time you stretch it all the way to your eyes. Yes, I don’t like you Zaara because I insanely, passionately and deeply love you”, Faraz said out loud in the outburst of love and fury. Both of them stood silent in the heat of the moment, consuming the gravity of the emotions that just overflowed. Breathing hard and with tears rolling down their eyes, there under the school staircase, spellbound, they kissed for the first time.

“What is beauty”, Zaara asked herself many times after that day, and how much ever hard ever she tried, she could never get a definite answer.

Men Don't Cry

They can. They do. They may. And you know what you and I ought to do, we should let them. We as a society have been so engrossed in taking up the cause of women, of their oppression and their neglected rights that we became oblivious to the problems faced by men. 

As a kid, the fairy tales that were narrated to me painted two very distinct pictures of men and women in my head. The stories more or less circled around “A strong macho man sweeping the pretty princess off her feet, wiping her tears, making her smile, solving her problems and being a constant support system for her. The princess never did that for him; she never needed to, because the prince was never low, distressed or in pain. Even if he was, he kept it to himself and dealt with it like a man and never, ever did he cry because apparently ‘men don’t cry’.”

I grew up with this picture of men and women. It didn’t seem flawed to me in the initial growing years of my life; the only thing that was within my understanding back then was that I get to wear the beautiful princess gowns, and oh, I liked that! However, as I grew up it started to seem slightly odd to me when my parents and teachers would exclaim, ’Oh, she’s a boy’ every time I acted slightly violent, athletic, bold or brave. I did not completely understand it when my friend was asked to not act like a little girl when he came back misty eyed and bruised one day from school and narrated the incident of being beaten up by the senior boys. I saw his hands and face severely bruised another day; this time on being asked what happened, he told his parents that he had scraped his hands and face while playing football. I knew he was lying. He knew it too. He just learnt that day that it was not manly enough to succumb to tears and no matter how much it pains him he was supposed to keep it to himself and never vent it out or else he would be less of a man. I, on the other hand learnt that everything that has got to do with strength and valour fell in the category of men, and everything that has got to do with weakness, sympathy and fear fell in the category of women. Did I like the definition that the world was giving me? Oh! I abhorred it; but did I start accepting it, yes, bit by bit huge parts of me started accepting it.

As I grew up with this mentality, often in flashes of immaturity I have remarked and mocked many of my guy friends rather unapologetically ‘to not act like a whiny little girl’, when they have expressed emotions over trivial issues which they were ideally supposed to act all macho about. I did not know back then about the severity of damage that my words were capable of causing. Only when I grew up I realized what I did back then and what we as a society have been doing to men, not just to men, but also to little boys with our rigid ideas of machismo and masculinity.

I remember having a conversation with a friend notorious for his stoicism when I asked him if he has ever cried in the recent past. He took a deep breath and warned me that he might sound like a male chauvinist in his reply. He said, “When a girl cries, you can sense genuine concern in people’s eyes who feel like going to her and comforting her. When a guy cries on the other hand, people feel like mocking him. It’s disgraceful and shameful for a guy to cry, to express his emotions out loud. I am human, I have emotions and I do break down at times, but I keep it to myself because I cannot take it out.” I was quiet for a long time. I felt deeply, almost painfully sympathetic towards men. While we’re out there demanding women’s rights and liberation, I wonder how independent men are when they do not have the freedom to feel as strongly as a woman, when they are denied the freedom to express their emotions, when they are denied to expose their vulnerabilities for once and cry without being labelled as effeminate and weak! Oh, it saddens me, almost pinches me!

One of the major reasons why sexual and physical offenses against men and young boys go unreported is because we as a society refuse to see men as being vulnerable, victimized or weak. The victims of such violence suffer silently because we never gave them the outlet to express their susceptibility. A young kid bullied in school could not complain to his teacher because it was not manly enough to do so. A twelve year could not walk up to his mother and speak out about being sexually abused by his servant because it was shameful for a guy to go through sexual abuse. They chose to suffer in silence because they had to keep up the ideals of their gender above themselves. Yes, these are extreme cases that I mentioned, but it reached this stage because they were not for once allowed to be weak by the society.

We need to view and perceive gender as a spectrum and not just two distinct shades. We need to understand that the distinction in our physicality is the only definite difference, let us not impose restrictions on our soul. Our souls are free and liberated, they probably do not understand the specifics of gender and let us not force them to. We all have a soft side, a cruel side, an indifferent side, a strong side, a vulnerable side and a brave side; a few of these sides may be more marked in some of us as compared to others but it doesn't have everything to do, in fact it might have nothing to do with our gender. We need to accept that it is perfectly alright for a man to rest his head on a shoulder which could be a woman’s (pardon me for the blasphemy), shed a few tears and expose his weaknesses. At the same time, we need to understand that it does not make a woman any less feminine if she does not feel or express emotions as strongly as women are naturally expected to. A man cannot and need not be firm, strong, courageous and unwavering at all times, a woman cannot and need not be emotional, fragile, gentle and coy at all times or at any time, for that matter. Let us give each other the freedom to be ourselves and not be burdened by gender.

You might ask me how I plan to achieve it, I do have a certain idea in mind. I wrote about it, to start with. I hope it resonates with the thoughts of a couple of you and I hope you will imbibe some of it and carry it forward with you. I will make sure that the men and women I come across are not burdened by gender and do not have to be too aggressive or too meek to fulfill their conventional gender demands and will hope that you’d do the same. I will make sure that when I have a child and strongly hope that when you have one, we don’t teach him/ her what it means to be a guy or a girl, let us not impose gender upon them. Let us give them the freedom to choose the qualities they wish to develop and choices they wish to make. That way, we could move towards a more progressive and liberated society. I may be painting too rosy a picture, but then, it all starts with one stroke. It’s stifling to be restrained by gender, I want to be liberated, I’m sure you want to be too.

That Cat

I hate cats. I've always hated them. No, not always. I loved this one particular cat once. White and brown fur. She was beautiful. Not just beautiful, she was enchanting! Hazel green eyes, stunning yet frightening and claws so sharp that it could rip you off. She would come every day to our little cottage house in Nainital. I would give her milk and chapattis regularly. I know it is not the best food for a cat; but staunch vegetarian that my grandmother was, we did not have much choice. She did not seem to mind the vegetarian diet anyway. The bowl would be licked clean by her, not the tiniest bit of chapatti or smallest drop of milk sticking around anywhere.

She used to come over in the afternoons sometimes, sometimes in the evening. How I’d wait for her every day! I’d look forward to petting her, getting her a bowl of milk and chapatti, hearing her meow as she would walk around the house defiantly and making her sit on my lap (sometimes forcibly, because she disliked bondage even if it came out of love) as I caress my hands on her rich brown and white fur. Before I knew it, I was in love with her! The agile walks, the magnificently fearless jumps she would make and traverse several meters with just one giant leap of hers and those eyes, although I admit they could scare me immensely but I had never come across anything more stunningly beautiful! I would wait longingly, every day for her to come; sometimes I went as far as going to the neighborhood to check on her when she would not turn up until late evening.

I saw her hunt a rat once, a harmless little thing wriggling about playfully near the drains.  She approached it cunningly, not making the slightest noise as it cautiously walked towards it and when she was close enough to grab it, she thumped it with her claws which made it squeak out in pain. As the little thing was trying with all its might to free itself from her grab, she hit it for the second time and when it ceased to breathe, she tore it with her canines and chewed it away with the utmost ferocity. I saw evil in her eyes that day! A soft heart, I had. I was an animal lover too. However, that day for some reason I could feel no remorse for the rat. I almost reveled at the cat’s victory, took pleasure in the satisfaction that she got out of hunting the rat. Love, I tell you, is a tricky thing! It can make beasts out of us humans.

My admiration for the cat grew with every passing day. She continued coming over to play with me each evening. One day after feeding her, I was trying to pull her into my lap to pet her. She wriggled out of my hands one time, I tried harder and pulled her more lovingly towards me for the second time. She turned her head wildly towards me, clawed me sharply on the hands, gave me the fiercest look ever and jumped away. She went far off my cottage in leaps and bounds and was out of sight in a few seconds. I was left in devastating shock! How could she do this to me! I was just trying to hold her for a while to caress her lovingly. How could she claw me and give me that devilish look; I thought it was meant for the enemies, but she met me with the same look. How could she!

‘I would not play with her, I will just give her food and then she can go back from wherever she came’, I thought. It was 5 o’clock. She was supposed to come by now. Maybe, she would come a little late. 6 PM, 7PM , 8PM ,9PM… hours passed by, the cat never came. I was hopeful that she would come the next day. The next day passed by, and the next, and the next. The cat never returned. I went looking for her in the neighborhood where she used to hunt about, but no luck. I gave up the search in a few days, but every time I sighted a cat, I would get reminded of her.

One fine evening, I was playing Hide and Seek at my friends place where I was hiding at the backdoor and there, I saw her! She was there! I was not mistaken. The same brown and white fur, thinning slightly at the skull and how could I forget her eyes!  She was out there for a hunt, I presumed. She was approaching the kitchen door with the same cautiousness I witnessed long back when I saw her hunt for the first time. I was right. She grabbed the rat with its sharp canines and ate it off mercilessly. After having finished her meal, she walked back and then, our eyes met. I could sense an air of recognition. She walked towards me and stroked my legs amiably with her head. A moment later she jumped athletically on a tree and was gone! My friend told me later that the cat recently started coming to her place every day and she feeds it milk and biscuits. ‘Such a beauty, isn't it?’ she remarked!

I felt a sharp pang of betrayal for some reason. I sensed at that moment that she did not hate me, but she did not love me either. She was not bonded by emotions. She belonged to no one. She was wild, free and independent. She was probably capable of love too, but not attached. She was incapable of getting attached to people, things or places. I guess that is why I started hating them, because I got too attached to that cat, only to get to know later that I was replaceable, easily replaceable. It was not hatred, I guess. Probably envy, I envied their free spirit. I envied their independence, the way they are completely on their own, the way they can never truly belong to anyone, the way they refuse to be owned and bonded, even in love. I guess somewhere in a tiny corner of my heart I long to be like them-free, independent and wild!

The Downside of Being 21!

As you gradually approach the first quarter of your life, a whole lot of mixed emotions stir you from within. On the brighter side, you have almost a fourth of your life figured out for you and a lot of life lessons are learned along the way. You laugh over the things which had once made you cry, you realize which people truly matter in life and you learn one very important fact about all the happy and bitter faces of life that this too shall pass. As you’re maturing along the years and gaining a clearer perspective of life, somewhere the kid in you is clinging hard onto you and refusing to let go, making sure that the maturing process is pushed as much ahead in time as possible. When you’re expected to be your smartest, most mature self, exactly then you end up making the worst mistakes of your life and which is more, nobody has any consolation to offer. Some major spoilers of being 21 are:

• You don’t have puberty by your side to save your ass when you’re acting full retard. You simply cannot blame it on the hormones, anymore.
• You cannot go running to your mom sobbing intermittently as you narrate the story of the asshole who cheated on you, because you won’t get any sympathies anymore. You’re no longer the innocent little girl for whom it would have been acceptable to be naive and fall for a jerk. You, my friend are just expected to be a better judge of people and it’s your fault to have fallen for such a guy in the first place.
• You are just expected to have at least the next ten years, if not your entire life, figured out for you. People give you dirty looks if you tell them, ’I am trying to figure out things for myself.’ The figuring out part should have been long completed by now.
• Dating is serious business now. You cannot be unsure about the guy going out with, anymore. You’re suddenly expected to find out the ‘The One’ and be with him.
• On a peaceful Saturday evening, you’re casually browsing through Facebook sipping your hot coffee and suddenly out of the blue your classmate’s wedding pictures pop-up and you get so startled by it that you end up spilling the coffee all over yourself. The next thing you know is that you’re trying to type a congratulating message to her, but you just cannot make yourself write ‘Congratulations’ and instead you feel like sympathizing with her because the whole idea of marriage scares the shit out of you. Then, gradually the feeling sinks in and you realize that you've grown pretty old too, and in years down the line you’d probably be wearing the engagement ring too. There’d be responsibilities to shoulder, there’d a husband to take care of and in a few more years there’d be kids too. ‘I am way too young for all this’; you shriek out in horror and break out of the thought process. ‘I am never going to get married’, you falsely reassure yourself.
• You’re supposed to be responsible, mature and emotionally stable now. Being young, crazy and stupid are not valid excuses anymore. Sometimes, it’s just too much pressure to handle.

Growing old is pretty serious business and sometimes it might freak us out a little because the kid within us refuses to leave so easily and makes us act like twelve year old's once in a while. However, I believe it’s the immaturity, the imperfections and the times we screw up things real bad which make our lives so much more interesting. Moreover, like the years have taught us, this too shall pass!

THE CONSTANT FEAR

My earliest memories of childhood have been prominently marked with recitals of the list of restrictions. The list which only grew longer as I grew older. The list contained 'preventive measures' for lecherous groping, unasked stares and although it was never spoken openly, the most prominent reason was to make sure that go through my life without being raped. We've lived in constant fear...yes, all of us. Our mothers, our brothers, our sisters, our uncles, our best friends, our teachers...all of them. They have all feared. They gave norms of female behaviour. Rules to follow if you want to continue being un-raped:

•      Do not stay out till late in the night.
•      If at all you have to stay out, stay in large groups. Never stay alone.
•      Avoid travelling alone at all cost.
•      Wear decent dresses.
•      If you are eve-teased, do not respond. Ignore and move on.

I did not question any of them, they all made sense to me. A lot of sense. However, sometimes I do get a little annoyed when my mother would become completely paranoid when my phone went out of reach even for a minute when I was in a different city. How she started reciting the 'Crime Patrol' episodes to me and though she never directly said it, I know she silently feared that something similar happened to me! I remember feeling the need to urgently use the washroom at 1 AM in the train when I was travelling alone and the dilemma that I was caught in for twenty minutes because of a tragic episode of a girl which a friend shared with me a day back.

I remember putting my best friend's number on speed dial on my phone, clutching the umbrella with all my might, rehearsing mentally how I'll handle the situation because the auto driver seemed notorious and was passing obnoxious glances to a fellow on the bike. I was revising all the self-defence techniques I had read, seen or heard about. However, he was going through the right route. In five minutes, I reached my destination. I let out a sigh of relief. Not a rapist! I rebuked myself for over-analysing situations. This is how maniacal fear can turn anyone- it can make us label any man in a thinly populated area, beyond eight in the night as a potential rapist.

We all live with and through this fear every day...every single day. For our daughters, sisters, friends, students and sometimes for ourselves. We have lived in constant fear and we continue to live in it. The most painful part is that we do not find anything wrong about the fear any longer. We have accepted it as an essential part of our lives, an inseparable part!

What am I complaining about and why am I complaining you may ask! Have I had a very hard life? No. Have I been deprived of any opportunities because of my gender? No. Am I not happy with my life? No, I am.  I have a very beautiful life, a great family, wonderful friends and a promising career ahead of me! So, what is wrong? Why I am cribbing. I am cribbing because of some UNNECESSARY(as you may call them) freedoms which I have been deprived of. Little cravings that I have of a solitary walk in the night having the breeze play with my hair. I wonder sometimes how it would be to travel all by myself to say, Pondicherry, to sit by the rocky beach at five in the morning and feel the waves splash over me as I think about the story of my first book. I have musings about dropping to my friend's place anytime of the night riding my bike without having someone to guard me. I wonder sometimes what it is like to be completely unguarded, I wonder what absolute freedom tastes like. I wonder what it's like to not ask my male friends to accompany me when it becomes late and to be completely independent. The thought of it seems very enticing, I visualise it and I fall in love with the idea of it over and over again.

I do not know how to go about making the change that I wish to see in the world around me but I know that I have to do something. I know for a fact that I cannot continue living with this fear forever. I know that I have to take steps, and I am unsure about what the first one will be but I know the solutions will come along. I need your help, of all of you, in stemming out the fear from each one of us.

I know the article sounds incomplete and the thoughts incoherent. This was a swell of emotions which had to come out. Pardon me, because I have no idea about what I have to do to make a difference. I just know that I have to do it and I will do it. I urge you all to help me and join me, we'll figure out a way. Trust me, we will!

Written in blood-debarred

Morning 7 o’clock: ‘tin-tin-tin-tin-tin-tin-tin-tintintintin’, went my alarm-clock, the noise was blaring. I checked the time-7 o’clock.I told myself, ’I can sleep for 5 more minutes.’ I put it on snooze.

5 minutes later: I was in a beautiful orchard, a strawberry orchard, picking ripe strawberries and eating them with fresh cream. Oh, what bliss. When suddenly, a giant fat man came with a huge bell and started ringing it. It went like, ‘tin-tin-tin-tin-tin-tin-tin-tintintintin’. It was my alarm, again-7:05, it said. I made a quick decision-‘No bathing today, it will give me another 20 minutes’. This thing within me kept shouting, ‘remember that red debarred sign next to 4 of your theories…GET UP. If you go on like this, you will bunk this class again. GET UP.’ I made that thing shut up and set the alarm to 7:25.

During those 20 minutes: ‘And, to all you wonderful sleep-deprived students who have to stay up late in the night for important stuff like ‘facebook’,’phone-conversations’, ‘watching-movies’ and ‘absolutely nothing’, I have an announcement to make,”I truly understand the significance of all these useless activities in your college life. They play an important role in shaping you all as NORMAL,non-Chatur (remember, 3 idiots) and socially un-deprived individuals. I understand that after staying up late for all these activities, it is difficult for you to get up early and go for your classes. Knowledge cannot be taught, it has to be caught. Moreover, since our vision is on granting knowledge-not marks, we have arrived on the decision of removing the 75% attendance rule. No student shall hereafter be debarred in any subject”‘. A loud applause followed. My friends and I in the audience went all misty eyed. ‘I am proud to be a VITian’, I exclaimed with joyful tears. Then suddenly, that giant fat man with the bell emerged again, this time with an evil grin,’ tin-tin-tin-tin-tin-tin-tin-tintintintin.’

7:25 AM: The alarm again, ‘I knew it, it was too good to be true. But still, I don’t want to wake up!’ That thing within me again started ganging up against me, ‘DEBARRED DEBARRED DEBARRED…it said in repetitive Bollywood style. ‘Okay fine’, I shouted back, ’I am waking up.’ Then, again, I started negotiating with myself-10 more minutes, if I miss breakfast. I can always have it in SJT canteen during the 10 minute break. ‘Don’t do it’, my mind was shouting again,’you will never get up, you are DEBARRED...if you miss this class, considering all attendance calculations you've made in the past, you will have to attend each and every class in order to make it 75%.Are you ready for it!’
I almost said, ‘Challenge accepted’, I have been watching too much of How I Met Your Mother, seriously! Then, with whatever little sense that was left in me, I told myself, ‘I will get up, promise…in 5 minutes.‘ Snoozed again.

7:30 AM: This time there was no,’tin-tin-tin’, the alarm tone magically changed to, ‘debarred-DEBARRED-DEBARRED-DEBARRED.’ Needless to say, it was way more effective. I jumped from my bed right on my feet.
And, in those 30 minutes, I managed it all-the brushing, the bathing, the breakfast and reaching the class (customary-five minute late, of course).

Certainly, the deadly red-debarred sign can work wonders.

The Pseudo Feminism

Most of us have added to this activism, at some point of time or another. Getting aggressive and enraged over unintended harmless remarks on women, digging out a feminist angle in almost everything, looking down on people if God forbid, they ever support men in any situation, the whole sing song about-‘You have no idea about what a woman goes through each day…’ begins. Yes, I know that it’s a hard world out there for the women. Yes, I know most of the time it is the women who are wronged. But, to drown oneself in self pity and present that as an answer to every question raised on women is wrong as well.

Yes, I know you must be thinking that I am a traitor of my own sex, that I am another of those women influenced by patriarchy to a level that she starts believing in their ideologies too. No, I am not one of them. I am a feminist, proud to be a woman and strongly feel for the cause of my gender but unnecessarily sensationalizing every second thing to be an assault on feminism or women rights is something that I find horribly annoying.

The other day I read this piece on how Raksha Bandhan propagates the idea of male superiority over women. I don’t understand why an innocent festival which celebrates sibling love has to be blamed for propagating patriarchy. No, it does not! It’s totally the way you wish to look at it. They might argue that it makes the little children believe that the brother is someone who should be looked up at with high regard (and is probably worthy of more respect) even if he is younger to the sister because according to tradition, the sister ties the ‘Rakhi’ to the brother who pledges to protect her always. May be the little children do start looking at it that way. It is our job to make sure the thought never crosses their mind also. However, if we are hell bent on believing that Raksha Bandhan is another tool of imbibing into every individual that men are above women, then there’s nothing much that we can do from preventing our children to think on similar lines.

 Culture, tradition and value-system have evolved with time. The traditional celebration of festivals also has. I remember when I was little Raksha Bandhan meant selection of the most beautiful Rakhi for my brother, expecting the most beautiful gift ever and flaunting it the next day to my school friends, wearing pretty dresses, having delicious sweets and of course a holiday, that was pretty much all. The idea of it meaning the dominance of my brother over me did not even cross my mind for a split second, because I believe a child’s brain is too pure to even think of such lowly things. In fact, sometimes even my brother used to tie a Rakhi on my wrist, or I tied one on my mother’s wrist, we never quite went by some hard and fast rule. So, if we are so concerned about the male dominance occurring to our children, we may ask the brothers and sisters to tie Rakhi to each other, instead of having it just one way or maybe we can present the ideology behind the festival in a more beautiful way to them but let us not put blame the lovely festival for anything evil, it has given me a lot of sweet memories.

Then, there is this Tarun Tejpal sexual assault case, I have my utmost respect for the victim who came out strongly against the perpetrator. However, I was reading one of the replies to some tweet where someone asked why she went on the elevator with him for the second time. And, then began one after another outpours of comments like, ‘you are a sexist’, ‘it is the same mentality which makes one blame a women’s clothes for rape’, ‘you are a misogynist’, etc. Now, nobody is blaming the women for being assaulted, but it is genuinely shocking that you would consider going again in the elevator with someone who has sexually assaulted you the previous night. Correct me if I am wrong, but if you have been forcibly kissed, attempted at being disrobed and penetrated by fingers by a man on one night, you would not even consider coming close to him, leave apart getting into the lift with him again. I am not saying that this makes Mr Tejpal any less wrong for what he has done, but it does make the women appear a lot stupid, weak and defenseless.

We are getting to a stage where we are ready to believe that every time a woman suffers, she has either been wronged or used or cheated or misled or suppressed. We blame it on the misogynist society, on patriarchal norms and what not! What we completely ignore is that sometimes, it may have nothing to do with it at all. We get all charged up to take the feminist brigade forward every time the word ‘woman’ even pops up in any conversation.

Why is any man who would prefer to marry a girl who could devote most of her time to take care of the children and the house looked upon as a sexist? I mean… it is all a matter of choices, right? There are a lot of women out there who are not ambitious, who would actually look forward to that kind of life. Not every woman is career conscious. A lot of them would actually look forward to being a supportive homemaker. They would actually enjoy it.

Come on, let’s face it- all of us have different ideas of what we want out of life. We have our priorities set differently. Some of us value our career more than anything else, while there is another category for which marriage is more important and they wouldn’t even think twice before leaving their careers to devote all their time to the family. Not always is the second category forced to do it, sometimes they choose to do it. They have no complaints, they enjoy their life that way. To look at all of them with pitiable eyes thinking that they had to make a huge sacrifice would be very wrong on our part. This is what they wanted out of life and they are getting it.

A lot of women openly claim that one of the main parameters of choosing the right guy is definitely his bank balance. We never judge them, do we? We feel that it is important for a woman to be concerned about her financial security. Well, if we talk about equality then why do we have to depend on the guy for our financial needs? This question is often swept under the carpet. I believe if we do not judge women when they tick mark ‘hefty bank balance’ in the must-haves list, we have no right to judge men when they expect a homely girl. Else, it is plain hypocrisy.

Then comes this whole expectation of being respected and what not for just being a woman, what have we done to earn it! If we want respect, let our deeds be worthy of it, not plainly our gender. Feminism means equality and equality has little space for undue respect and honor and we must refuse to accept it as well.

It has all been bothering me of late, hypocrisy dressed as feminism is something that was annoying me. Everything highlighted to be an agent of suppression of womankind is just mere stupidity. We are digging unnecessarily and probably meaninglessly trying to find an element of suppression in every little thing we come across. We have probably started looking for little things to drown ourselves in self pity and exclaim, ’No country for women’. There is a country for women, exactly the one we are living in. Things have been terrible, I know. Life is a lot harder for women, I know. However, frantically linking every possible thing as an attempt to oppress women is not the solution for it, either. It might lead to a stage where feminists are looked upon as a group of hysterical, men-hating lot. Like somebody commented on a similar discussion, ‘Now, it is better to avoid women like you avoid cobras.’ I fear this stage coming, and trust me it will not be a pleasant one. We need to end that war, pretty soon at that!

Why it’s not even half as bad to be single!

And she was expected to be sitting by the window wiping her tears; her friends were prepared to be ‘there’ for her. They had mentally prepared themselves to bitch about him, to talk about how big pain relationships are and to curse the entire fraternity with a penis to make her feel better. Surprisingly however, the consolations, the sympathies, the empathies… none of them were used. They did not even require to tell her the often quoted, ’Men, you know… all of them are dogs.’

‘Why the hell is she NEVER crying’, ‘She doesn’t look sad at all’, ‘She did love him, didn’t she’, it all started bothering them gradually. They were the official mourners, after all. ’Oh baby, you have to be strong’, ‘Show him that you can do wonderfully well without him’, ‘Give him the you-don’t-give-a-damn attitude’’, all these well-rehearsed lines were all going un-used.

She wondered about it too, just the way her friends did. Why was it not killing her. She was not having a casual fling. She was hopelessly and madly in love with him. She was the kind who’d cry themselves to bed each night thinking about why he didn’t treat her right. Why wasn’t the breakup ripping her apart then, why!

May be what she was struggling to do all these years finally happened… may be she finally ‘matured’ up. May be she finally realized that to stay in a relationship that is just going to add more tears in her life, is worse than not being in a relationship at all. May be she realized that to be stuck with someone who can never value her for who she is, is a mistake she must not commit. May be after all these years of growing older, she finally grew up. May be in the process of growing up, she also became stronger, way stronger and realized that sometimes the only person that she needs in her life is herself. May be she realized that if she has to be in a relationship, it should be maddeningly passionate love …  love that is above distances, time, conditions and circumstances. Love that surpasses all of it, intense enough so that she doesn’t even contemplate breaking apart for a moment. Everything else, is a farce, a sheer waste of time, emotions and an insult to love.

She was awed by the plethora of boxes left to be opened by her. So much that was left unexplored in life. Those wonderful novels stacked in the corner, which she always wanted to read...but couldn’t find enough time in the midst of wiping her tears every two minutes. The great internship opportunities she could seize, the amazing online tutorials that are left unexplored, the book she always wanted to write, the library with a zillion books which she wanted to dive into. All of them seemed so much more rewarding and pleasurable than contracting her entire world to the way one person chooses to treat her. Naïve woman, she once was! There was so much to do in life, so much to learn, so much more than thinking about the hows and whys of why it didn’t work out. Life suddenly seemed so much more intriguing to her.

And then, there was this new found freedom. A new found feeling, that her soul is independent, free from the clutches of another soul which tried to own it at some point. The soul that could breathe more happily, because now its happiness was dependent on little and big joys of life; not solely on how it would be treated by another soul.

Then, there was this hope… this hope of coming across the correct definition of love someday… to be able to experience it and say to herself, ‘I know what it feels like to be truly loved’. Oh no, she did not stop believing in love… love is a beautiful thing… someday, she’ll just stumble across it and know what it truly is. Oh, yeah… she was happy. She felt free, like the independent young woman she always wanted to be.

The Small Town Girl

I was talking to old school friends studying and settled in big cities today. Random conversations about 'cute' guys and 'hot' chicks were picked up. We spoke about college, crushes, flings and relationships.
One casually remarked that she'd be going on a date with Mr C--, it confused me because she was dating  Mr A-- . I thought maybe I heard her wrong, and I asked her again,"Did you say C". She told me that I heard her right, that she was in a relationship with another guy and going on a casual date with someone else. She told me that her relationship didn't mean much to her, that it is a very casual affair and her guy knows that as well, so she isn't 'cheating' anyone. It all seemed very amusing to me on a superficial note. I was thinking deep within however, about the big things about commitments that she used to talk about when we were younger and 'small-towners'.
I spoke to another when he told me that he was in an 'open' relationship with a girl. Now, I have never been able to understand the whole need of an 'open' relationship. What is the need of being in a relationship if it's not exclusive. What is the need of being in a relationship if you don't love the other person. 'For the fun of it', 'to avoid having any strings attached', I am often told. How can uttering 'I love yous' to someone whom you don't feel to be fun, I wonder. Moreover, if at all that kind of 'fun' is something you must experience, then why is getting into a relationship such a necessity. One can surely go around flirting with all and sundry without the tag of an 'open' relationship as well. Why bother being in a relationship at all...for the feel of it, seriously! (I know I'm sounding like a nagging 50 year old sermonizing little kids...but, just bear with me!).
Another conversation which disturbed me was when my friend told me about the 'friends with benefits' relation which was no longer a big deal in his group. 'No feelings, no baggage, just fun', that was his take on it. It disgusted me. The very thought of getting intimate with someone whom you don't feel for romantically  made me despise him for a while. Wasn't it all supposed to be a beautiful part of love. Wasn't it yesterday when getting intimate was purely an act of deep emotions, passionate love and just that. Isn't it maligning the beauty, the purity of friendship and love as well. Or maybe that is how I look at it, maybe I am wrong, very wrong. Maybe!
These conversations got me thinking. They made me feel like there's something extremely wrong that's happening to my people, to the younger generation around me, to my India. Have we blindly started aping just all the ugly and convenient western concepts. Have we lost our conscience, our respect for love, for friendship. Or is it just a new idea of fun that we have accepted.
I wonder if it is just me to whom it seems odd. I wonder if I'm overreacting to it all. Maybe, I should have just reacted saying,'Oh, we're young...this is the time to have fun'. But, no matter how hard I try, it just doesn't happen. It frustrates me when people use YOLO (You Only Live Once ) to justify everything that they ever do in their lives. What a shame to have such a limited idea of fun!
I fail to relate to it, but I'm trying hard to understand. Maybe this is another idea of liberalization. Another idea of freedom which is very alien to me. For me physical intimacy was always an act of deep emotional bonding. Just when the emotions got separated from it, is something I fail to understand. I want to though...I really want to. I want to develop a deeper understanding of it. I want to act all liberal and 'cool' about it. I fail to, though. 
I wonder when the ideologies of people started changing. Maybe, it's all of the hormones to be blamed. Come on, let's just all blame it on estrogen, progesterone and testosterone. We're all their slaves, aren't we!
Maybe, I've been overreacting to it. I totally understand that people have different ideologies of leading their lives. I am no one here to sit and moralize. These are simply my ideas which I wanted to bring up.
I am scared that this drifting away from the conventional relationships will put us in constant fear of long term commitments and strong emotional bonds. I fear this is not a very pleasant thing that might happen. Maybe it is the 'Allahabadi' morals drilled so deeply into me that are doing all the talking. But, a huge part of me feels that they are right.

The third gender!

I must have been seven, when I heard the word 'hijra' for the first time. We were all playing hide and seek, when I saw a huge group of them walking towards our colony. I was the one left outside while my friends were in the hiding. I couldn't quite decide whether I should rush back home or stay there. They scared me for some reason, maybe it was their body language, or the dark make up or maybe or the way they looked so different from the rest of us. I rushed to look for my friends, found three of them hiding under the staircase. I told them about the sight I just witnessed.

"They are hijras", one of my friends said. "They have a partially male and partially female body structure’, told another. ‘You shouldn't ever annoy them, because if you anger them, they might curse you. And trust me; a hijra’s curse is fatal." It was from my friends that I got my first information on transsexual people. All I could figure out was that they were intimidating people from whom you should just avoid at all costs.

I grew up to come across transsexual people more often. I noticed that they visited happy homes, newly wedded couples or new parents. I understood that they haven’t got anything to do with scaring little kids. I understood that they were not even distantly related to witchcraft and wizardry. I understood that they were not evil. I understood that a huge portion of what people constantly kept telling me about them was false.

Years later, on just another busy Monday afternoon, I was stuck in the Delhi traffic jam. A ‘hijra’ knocked at my window. I took out a Rs 10 note that was clinging to my jeans pocket. I inadvertently smiled at her while giving the money, apologizing for not being able to give much. She looked dumbstruck by my smile. I couldn't clearly figure out the reason, but then I guessed that smiles were a rare thing for her. I could notice her face brighten up and she was certainly not faking it. She looked genuinely touched. She leaned forward, put her hand on my head and said a prayer. You know the thing they say about you getting to know right from the look in someone’s eye when they actually mean something they say, it is true. I could read the genuinity in her eyes. The traffic cleared a little, the car moved. The incident moved me. It set a thought process into action.

Was wondering why we couldn’t live together in harmony. Why a life this hard should be forced upon them! Why should our birth determine everything? Why! Meaningless, futile questions!

The ritual of going around asking for money, sometimes by going as far as threatening people with a fatal curse, probably sprung from the fact that this was all that they were left to do for a living. We were so busy hating them for being physically different from us that hatred is what we got back. It’s like settling scores, I presume.

Being friends with them and accepting the fact that they have as much right as anybody else to enjoy every joy of life-be it giving them place in educational institutions, public parks, private malls, restaurants and most importantly in our lives, might be a distant dream, which maybe my grandchild will be able to realize. Till then, we can just begin with a smile. Maybe, we won’t get one back in return. But, then…we might just do our bit. I don’t think it’s all that hard.

I think I overthink !

I was standing on a cliff overlooking the sea with a friend. My feet slipped on it a bit, was about to fall but then he held me and I got back my balance. ‘You better stay far from the edge, because I can’t swim and if you drown in that sea…I don’t even know if I’ll jump to save you,’ he said. A seemingly harmless line. It wasn't though. It was the originator of a complex thought process in my mind.

Me: ’You wouldn't  You’d watch me drown! I would have definitely jumped to save you if you’d be drowning,’

Him: ’That’s because you know how to swim Charul, I would have jumped to save even a random person if I knew how to swim. It’s just that I know that I will in any case not be able to save you.’

Me: ‘But still, how can you just watch me die! Wouldn't you try! How can you not!’

Him: ‘Charul, you’ve lost it. Can we talk about something else. You’re not dying, okay? Stop creating stupid hypothetical situations and expect me to act like Hrithik Roshan in Kaho Na Pyar Hai. This is life. I really don’t know how I’d act. I might jump. I might not. I’d want to save you, but the fear of losing my own life may stop me from jumping. I really don’t know. Now, please stop it.’

And, then I was lost thinking about my Mr Perfect. Kept thinking and rethinking what his answer would be. Would he jump to save me, knowing that it might mean his own death. Could my life mean more to him than his own. That’s what true love is, no. It’s foolish, passionate, impractical, selfless and crazy.

I think he would jump. He should. Maybe, he won’t. Maybe, he will. I think he will. He should. I don’t know.

I think I overthink. I most certainly do. Someday, it might drive me crazy, or may be it already has. Another criteria added to the ‘must-haves’ in my Mr Perfect- ‘He must jump to save me if I’m drowning, even if he doesn't know how to swim.’

Those tears that fell !

And, I was left there alone with misty eyes wondering what went wrong, how exactly the pieces of the jigsaw got messed up. Wasn’t it yesterday that I felt it was forever, wasn’t it yesterday that world without you ceased to exist for me, wasn’t it yesterday that you could fight the entire world to catch those tears that fell, wasn’t it yesterday that I started believing in a perfect world…in the rare possibility of it existing and me being a part of it.

 Those days seem close…yet too far. Close enough to bring back transitory smiles on my face but too far to make me feel that life could be as beautiful again.  I look around myself...the beauty of nature, the smiling faces everywhere, couples stupidly in love drowning madly into each other’s eyes…there’s this hint of envy that sweeps through me. Or maybe, I’m not sure which feeling it is…envy is an evil feeling…I shouldn’t be getting that from other’s happiness. Maybe, it’s grief, or nostalgia or maybe hurt…maybe, it reminds me of the beautiful times that were and it hurts to know that there aren’t there anymore. But, you know what…these happy faces also give a peek into the lovely past…oh, yes…those were wonderful days, truly wonderful!

 I was figuring out where exactly it went wrong. Where could have I made amends, how could have I saved it. Hopeless, futile questions! The worst part about being loved too much is the fact that you get used to it. It’s hard, very hard to accustom yourself to indifference once you’re so used to attention, that too, too much of it. But, funny thing about life is…that is doesn’t give you much of a choice.

Those things you thought you can never live without are suddenly pulled away from you one day…and you’re forced to live without them. And, the amazing thing is that eventually we learn…we learn to live without them. And, what is better, eventually we smile…we learn to smile without them. And eventually, they’d be happiness…they’d be happiness, even without them.

I’m sure it’ll happen. Eventually, it will all be fine…not perfectly. Maybe, almost-perfectly fine!