Bitter feminists

Being a woman is not that easy.

Yeah, we seem proud.

Yeah, We act feminist.

Hell yeah, We are willing to fight and burn our brassiere and wear some Pink Chaddis.

But way before this happened, and somewhere deep down, we hated being women. I, for one, have time and again, hated being a woman.

I hated being a woman because being born was the first favor that was done to me. The first moment of judgement. (I don't remember it. But I read and watched and learnt. And I know you didn't pat my mother on the back the way you would, if I had a penis.)

I hated it because I was told that I shouldn't laugh too loud at home. That laughing on the road would make me seem too "easy". That I must walk like a woman. That spreading my legs is just such a wrong way to sit. After all, it reflects on my character.

I remember boys in our classes cribbing about how women always studied too much. They were too serious to be fun. I hated that I didn’t have the option to be “fun”, because the education that was a given for you, was a luxury for me. Marriage was destined to be my ultimate goal. And procreation, of course. And when I tried to be fun, I was a slut ,or damaged or an attention whore.

I hated it because the first time you told me about my period, you made sure that I asked no questions. That daddy never saw the "Period Shopping". That no one found out about this dirty secret of mine. That I didn't touch the jar of pickle, or it would rot. That I couldn't pray while I bled and writhed around in pain, because I was too unholy to sit in a Puja. Even the advertisements, splashed across by free media, had blue ink in test tubes, being poured on sanitary napkins. The blood clots, the cramps, the hormones that changed me into a person I didn’t know, were all replaced by a larger need to be able to wear white pants and play games, without letting people know of the filth going on underneath.

I hated being a woman because everything I did (and do), reflects on your definition of my character. I hated it that I could not curse freely. I hated it that you cursed so freely. And you cursed about us. I hated it that your love towards me was determined by the number of people who have touched me. And my character(whatever that means) gets determined by how many people I touched.

I hated it because I got beaten up for talking to the electrician. For that better looking guy writing on my Wall. For the number of my partners being too high. I hated it because I remember you boasting about your number. I hated it because I got beaten up and no one protested. Because your mother thought I had it coming. Because the police thought it was my "over-friendliness".

I hate how easily you call me a slut. And I hate how it makes you a stud.

I hated the possibility of being born in Somalia or any other nation that didn't allow me a clitoris. Pleasure always seemed too luxurious for a woman. I hated wearing a Ghoonghat or doing Purdah, while you walked around in your vest. I hated  looking at that peeking chest hair while I had to get my arms waxed.

I hated it that I never looked as cool as you did, when I made smoke rings. I hated it when your men beat me up outside the club. That I must get a B.A. so they ask for a lesser amount for dowry. My parents paying a man so he would marry me. You never valued that I left my family, my people and came to spend my life in your house. The change I am expected to make, including my name, to validate your proprietorship over me.

I hated being touched and groped. I hated it that I couldn't get you punished for the touching and the groping. That it was okay for you to do so because the sun had already set. I hated it that my "character", the one you defined, decided the validity of that drunk man raping me. Of that sober man raping me. Of that "minor" raping me.

I hate it that you don't understand me. That you dedicate websites and pages and jokes about how inscrutable I am. I hate it that you never see what made me into this.

Everytime I go on a rant like this, I can see those sniggers. Those nods you reserve for “feminists”. And I know you pass me off because you label me a feminist. But over the years, I have learnt to love it. Not because I enjoyed it. Not because you were kind enough to let me live. Because I fought.  And I built a character that is nothing close to your definitions. With my mind and my books and my Malala and my Slut walks. Because I no longer care for what you "character"ise me as. Because I know you wouldn't be this simple and base in your crotch digging, beer burping, masturbating needs, if you were in my place.

If my mere voice makes me a feminist, yeah, fine then, I am a bitter feminist.

Saga of The First Compartment .

To the Delhi Metro and the women it empowers
Unfortunately, and at times, fortunately,I happen to be spending a lot of time in Delhi. The city people have none of the honesty of the small town people(yes,offence), but it is a nice city otherwise.

And we don't need to go to Lucknow everytime someone feels like having brown bread.

 My experiences with this city have been distinctly unforgettable, but I am not going to recall them as of now.This is about a small everyday experience in the Delhi Metro, that somehow, gave me a glimpse of the smaller minds of a bigger city.
So, when the Delhi Metro decision makers planned on a special compartment in each train for us women,their motives were (hopefully)noble. They wanted to cut down on the eve-teasing, groping and the barrage of objectifying looks that get shot at the women. And of course,since men are uncontrollable,what better way to save women than by segregating them, right?
Anyway, in all their saviour swag ,they introduced the  pink -arrowed, first in the line, ladies' compartments.
Men were jealous, women were relieved, and the couples," oh! the couples", were bereft of their better halves.The mean men of the Metro corporation might have tried their tactics of separation, but the heart wants what it wants.
Plus, we are Indians. You ask us to pay for electricity, and we will steal it from our neighbours.We do not give up that easy.
So, the crazy in love couple. The heartbreaking sight of a girl, sitting on the last seat of the compartment, while her lover stands at the very beginning of the next one . He nonchalantly tries balancing himself, against the inertia that his body faces, everytime the brakes are used.And he covers up his lack of balance with a naughty smile The sexual tension is intense. Every woman in the compartment has the all consuming look of envy on her face as she stares at the giggling,hair-strand twirling girl and the "trying to stare down her top" boyfriend.A very typical trait in women is that they mask all their envy as judgement. So a lot of times,when you think you notice judgement on the women's faces, it's actually,just envy.

But that's not it. The evil Metro people won't stop at separating the Yash Chopra- fathered minds. The ladies' compartment has set loose, the "evil eye of the Aunties". If you have ever had access to late night television, you will recognise these aunties as evil twins of the brilliant actresses that feature in advertisements for Evil Eye Protection(a.k.a. NSK).
Just the other day, a group of young  college freshers entered our compartment. I am sure they were freshers because they were more excited about college, than a woman on cocaine is, about being excited. Suddenly these two women, absolute strangers, sniffed the judgement, envy and archaic thoughts in the minds of each other. It was an instant connection between the two aunties. And then began the conversation that made it tough for me to control the urge to throw a brick each at the Aunty Ji-s. After the ritualistic looks of judgement (and red coloured laser Buri Nazar/Evil Eye), they promptly start discussing the new generation. They comment on the clothes, the conversation and the excitement of the girls. And once they are done with all that they could visibly comment on, they move on to the families and upbringing. They then smiled at each other,convinced with their opinion that their kids never talked or smiled in public, thanks to their immaculate upbringing. While I cringed at the thought of those poor kids' lives, I additionally felt bad for the envy that I knew was being masked by the smugness of the Dynamic Duo.
It isn't a new phenomenon for the generation gap to come in the form of such judgemental (read,envious) feelings. But I used to think that women in smaller cities were more indulgent of the activity, owing to the lack of entertainment options. Unfortunately, our gym-going, kitty party bound Delhi aunties are no less.At the end of the day, the aunties went home with bags of shopping and a feeling of self fulfilment at having been redundantly judgemental. And the overpepped college girls really couldn't care less.

The bereft couple at the end of the compartment was replaced by a new one. The new couple was apparently in the middle of a staring competition. The girl won when the boy tried to sneak a look down her top. And she was duly promised a chocolate for this victory, and a burger at Mc Donald's. Meanwhile, aunties across the metro continued to envy the girl and her future bound chocolate.

Village Stories-I

I am a villager.
That is the one truth about myself that caused me to fall in love with me. No one can understand how lovely it is to be born in a village( or a small town that is right on the cusp), except for a villager who has also seen city life. Everyone knows you( I still don’t know why that’s a good thing). Everything is way cheaper than the cities(since all you get IS the cheap stuff). And the people are a beautiful combination of simplicity, ignorance and perfect candidature  for a psycho-sociological study on weirdness.
Today’s study on the village covers a highly important part -THE (absent) INFRASTRUCTURE. We shall see how beautifully the village works in sync with its beautiful cement/gravel/mud tapestry.

 The concept of roads is quite synonymous with the concept of ,say, a parking space for cows. We don’t have dividers on roads. Who needs them?
We have cows.
 They stand in a line.
 For hours.
 And they were never even trained.
 I remember once the poor government chap tried to construct dividers . They got constructed. Hand to god, there were cows on the dividers.
 In a line.
 For hours.
They were not trained.

Also,  The roads are abound with nature . More fauna than flora, though .I doubt manure is good for gravel, but if it were, Amazon would be put to shame. And it isn’t just cows. There is donkey faeces and dog shit and goat turd and a lot of human urine. But you don’t really have to worry about it staying on the roads. One nice shower from heavens above and it is all nicely sedimented at the bottom of the potholes in the road.
 Life is simpler.

Before you start passing  judgements with your silly little bratty city heads ,let me tell you how cool we are.

My hamlet has a flyover. And are we proud of it!

Every Wednesday, when the people from the even smaller villages flock our town for the market, they come to see the flyover. They also carry along little plastic picnic baskets. The flyover brings us tourism. And it’s not like your silly run-of-the- mill flyovers. It is a very differently constructed one.
It is special.
It has more curves than a  Pregnant South Indian woman.There are parts where the flyover literally acts as a second railing to duplex balconies. It’s our answer to elevators and roller coasters.

Talking of roller coasters, there is also the railway junction.
It’s far from my home.
 I once went to the railway station(junction), realized I had left my ticket back home. I went back , picked up my ticket (after climbing three flights of stairs) and went back to the railway station(sorry, junction).
 It took me a total of six minutes.

I told you we lived far from the station.

Conditions.

Ever come across that person in your neighbourhood/college/bar/toilet who makes you wonder why they are so weird?
 Well, i am their God. And no, they don't know me.
 There are facets to me that Freud wanted to analyse. I sometimes feel like i was made for another universe.

 My mind makes connections in very weird ways.  Every time I hear Led Zeppelin(respect) or even if someone names them around me, I picture a lizard.  Everytime I hear of cranberries, I imagine, a rather optimistically carved ,Mills and Boon type shirtless carpenter. Ramzan reminds me of razia sultan. Sultan reminds me of udders. (yes, udders ). Circus reminds me of Cervix.

 I thought about it one fine day.

 I sat with a cup of tea that had a murky top layer by now, and thought.  And even though I knew where it came from, I refused to believe my mind can make such silly links. It’s the common letters and sounds that somehow connect them (and yes, udders are called ‘thhan’ in hindi). Whatever it is, it is random and somehow very predictable once I start thinking of it.
 It is a very dumb activity for a mind as brilliant to pursue.
Or maybe, it is not as brilliant a mind.
But then again, it may not be that silly an activity.
 Maybe I think a lot.

 Sometimes I think it may be a condition I have. I like believing myself to have conditions. I think that’s a condition. And somehow once you believe in the existence of a condition(it may be in your own self , your ex ,your boss, a random chick you heard of suffering from a condition) , you start to see signs of it.
 I had never noticed my hands until my dad told me I moved them around way too much during conversation. Somehow I suddenly don’t know what to do about them.
 What is the right way to keep your hands ? Hands on hips makes me look like I want to scold the little child who ate my lipstick. Folded behind the back makes me feel like I am a child who ate the lipstick. Just letting them hang there makes me feel like I am the wretched lipstick, useless after being eaten.
 I want to have a purpose. But then, really, does anyone have a purpose? For the majority who just want to be rich, money is the purpose.Or maybe, to put it on a capitalist spiritual level, success is the purpose. For them hippies, writing songs about peace is the purpose. For my mother, a government job is the purpose (It's our typical Indian village dream). Why don't i have any of these purposes?

Purpose reminds me of roses.

I told you Freud wanted me.

Freud reminds me of fish.