Second Thoughts

Guest post by Rekha Kamath

Introduction: This is an account of what happened when four of us (all women), decided to go to Goa on a weekend. Events during our return journey prompted this write-up. Reflecting on this trip brought to my attention a staggering number of moments when I felt anger, exasperation and sadness.

“Why do you need feminism? Why that word?”

“You have all your rights. Why do YOU need to be a feminist?”

“Women like us don’t need to call ourselves feminists.”

“You pseudo-feminist. You don’t have to face half the trouble some other women have to, and you call yourself a feminist?”

Time and again, questions like these get thrown at me. Time and again, people try to convince me that I don’t need feminism. That it’s Wrong (yes, with a capital W) to call myself a feminist. Feminism has become another f-word that shouldn’t be uttered out loud.

Today, if you were to ask me why I need feminism, I would tell you this- It is because I have a meek but compelling voice inside my head, which constantly utters second thoughts. My actions are outcomes of constant tussles with this voice. I shall elaborate.

“Let us go to Goa,” suggests one of my roommates. Long weekend, why not. We decide to bundle up our battered work-stressed selves, and start planning. Trains are booked, buses are expensive. “Let’s hitchhike or figure out as we go!”, suggests N. Sounds exciting, until the voice inside my head pipes up. No, what if we get raped/molested on the way? No way. I book the tickets.

Friends suggest we book our stay when we get there. “I have asked four people already, they all say the same thing.” Okay. Fair enough, people seem to have done this already. It is cheaper for us, and you can’t always trust online reviews of places. Wait. Maybe these people travelled with male friends. Will these places have good toilets? I might be menstruating. Let me take down phone numbers of hotels, just in case.

We get to Goa, finally. We find a hotel, close to the beach. N wants to wear a bikini top to the beach. Pretty, and comfortable. What if someone heckles? Very likely. Indian, wearing a bikini. Well, we don’t care. Screw them.

Later, at the beach, a group of 18 year olds call her Miss. Sexy and try to ram their car into her. I told you so.

Men are clicking photographs of bikini clad women on the beach. I hear comments made on us, on other women. I see cameras phone cameras turning our way too, occasionally. Turn your body. Don’t let them get your face. Warn your roommates. Someone sings a suggestive Bollywood song. Ignore them. Confrontation will lead to ugly defensive fights and eventually labeling you a slut. Attention seeking b***h, they will call you.

Rest of the trip is spent frolicking on the beach, and dodging/tuning out hecklers. She is proud of me. Tired and rejuvenated by the sunshine and sand, we forget the heckling, the “Happy Holi *wink wink*!” remarks, and make our way to the Goa-Pune bus.

Chaos. Where’s our bus? Nobody is picking up our calls. The name on the ticket and the names of buses don’t match. Finally, one enterprising ticket checker helps us. Turns out, Christopher travels possibly had a religious epiphany, and sent Mahakali travels instead. Alright. We made it just in time. The cleaner of the bus is visibly annoyed. He looks us up and down, decides he could afford to yell in disrespect. Forty pair of eyes judge us as we walk in, mumbling apologies for not turning up ahead of time. Notice those eyes darting to your legs? Where’s the wrap-on I wanted you to buy? Oops. Rest of the journey will be spent ignoring stares and remarks.

Men are staring, says A. Ignore. Let them judge. We have practiced and perfected the art of ignoring.

Bus stops at a drive-in hotel. Those eyes again. Ignore this time. Don’t react. Hunger soon shuts her up, and our tired bodies contort themselves back into the rickety bus.

Everyone soon falls into tired slumbers- a bus full of potential contortion artists. A loud bam wakes everyone up, and someone groans about a punctured tire. The painful wait for a replacement bus starts. A group of men station themselves outside our windows, speaking loudly in Tamil. They assume nobody understands their obnoxious remarks, ignorant that yours truly and N speak the language. “Can I ask them to shut up? They are too loud.” True. I cannot sleep, and I desperately want to. But they are a group of men. What if they abuse you, call you names? There are different ways they could make your journey difficult. Let us not mess with strangers.

The replacement bus arrives, and forty adults run towards it, as though the seats would vanish. Everyone is probably occupying the previously allotted seats, I think, following the same serial numbers. We walk in to see a crowded bus, with people occupying any seat they pleased. There are people occupying the seats allotted to us. A woman holding an infant is pleading with a young man for her seat, and he casually remarks, “I wasn’t the first person to change my seat.” His voice progressively gets louder and angrier, and he storms off to the back as I stare in surprise. How easily can you adopt and adapt into someone else’s mistake?

The four of us struggle to find seats, and refuse to sit. The cleaner comes in, as per our request. “This a 45 seater Ma’am, there are 48 of you.” Men push me, to make their way to the back. I voice my refusal. Why isn’t anyone else expressing their annoyance? Forty adults in the bus, and maybe seven of us calling for common sense.

“Why aren’t people in their seats? Please ask them to go back to their allotted seats.” “Ma’am, aap log hi settle karo, humein nahi pata,” the cleaner promptly replies. (Ma’am, you figure that out yourself, I don’t know) “Fine, what happens to the fourth person? We have four tickets and three seats now.” “Driver ke saath cabin mein aa jaayiye!” (You can travel in the cabin with the driver). Alright. My brain mumbles a yes, and I am ready to grab my bags, when she wakes up. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Cabin in the front with the driver and three strangers? NO. If you get groped/molested/raped/abused, you will be called a slut. Your clothes will validate it too. She wins, again. I refuse, take up a seat with another woman, and sit down. The men outside our window are now behind me, being obnoxiously loud again. They snigger at my meekness. It’s okay. Safety first. Ego can wait. A and N struggle to put their heavy rucksacks on the overhead shelves. One of the men remarks in Tamil, “Somebody ask these girls to shut up and sit down!” Giggles and sneers follow, along with loud laughter. Very funny, of course. By passing a veiled comment snidely, you have proven your machismo.

She wants to pipe up, but instead I turn and scream, “I perfectly understand Tamil. Please stop commenting. Please stop commenting.” “Huh?!” “Yeah, please just stop.” Someone repeats my remarks in Tamil, along with a mumbled “They speak Tamil.” Even she has had enough now, for second thoughts are replaced with the oh-so-familiar feelings of anguish, exasperation and disgust. Around me, the obnoxious men have gone to sleep. Am I the only person sleeplessly pondering questions of self-respect? How do you have any amount of self-respect left, after having caused anguish?

For anybody who asks me why I need feminism, this is my reply.

I need feminism because I live in a world where all my actions are governed by second thoughts. Second thoughts that have perfectly internalized sexism.

I need feminism because fear for my own safety has become second nature to me.

I need feminism because if anything happens to me, it is because of my clothes, it is because of my face, it is because of MY actions, it is because I was reckless.

I need feminism because consistently, people tell me sexism is no longer a problem-that women are equal now. That because I was an “equal woman”, I had no right to talk about sexism. That every day, I had to take disrespect flung at me, in whichever form, and shut up. That if I dared to speak up, I would be called pretentious, phony, bitchy.

I need feminism because I am tired. I am tired of fear, disrespect, being judged, being called names, of having to learn to tune out and ignore these.

I need feminism because character depends on one’s actions, not on one’s clothes.

I need feminism because I deserve to feel safe everywhere, in spite of what I am wearing.

I need feminism because everyone deserves to be respected, and sexism needs to be called out.

I need feminism because as a woman with “equal rights”, I shouldn’t have to explain why I am a feminist.

I need feminism because I shouldn’t be spending sleepless nights in anger, while perpetrators of sexism sleep peacefully elsewhere.

I need feminism because I don’t deserve being called one of “those girls”. I need feminism because I shouldn’t have to write three pages on this.

I need feminism because clearly, the society is facing a crisis, where women’s lives are unfairly fraught with disadvantages of varied nature. If you could fix that and then tell me I don’t need feminism, I would gladly agree.

Disclaimer: I don’t mean, in any way, to sound misandrist. If I have come across that way, I sincerely apologize. There is no intention of portraying any one category of people in bad light. Whenever I have used the terms people/society, I have meant both women and men. While much anger has been vented out in this piece, I also fully am grateful to all the good people I have met.

Rekha Kamath is currently a Teach For India Fellow in Pune. She teaches second graders in the PCMC Corporation School. She describes herself as a Development Studies Student and feminist.

This is the link to the original article:

https://www.facebook.com/notes/rekha-kamath/second-thoughts/10151974183846987

I Am Not My Gender.

I asked my class today, how many thought Barbie Dolls were only meant for girls. A number of them put their hands up. Except for a few of them who had neutral or no opinions, everyone cumulatively agreed that boys shouldn't be playing with them. In fact, when Om confessed to having played with them, they laughed. The class also cumulatively stated that girls can't (/shouldn't) play football. When I asked them why (I think they call me 'Why Didi' behind my back), the responses I got, disturbed me. Girls are not strong enough, Bhakti said. Therefore they can't kick the ball, Ekansh added. Krishna said he knows that girls can't run fast. About cricket, Swaroop told me, girls can't lift the bat because the bats are heavy.

A couple of days back, Aditi came crying to me. Harshada had apparently scorned her for having worn 'shorts' one day. Aditi also doesn't go out to play because there aren't any other girls in her colony and the boys won't play with her.

Rohan wants to play with Harshada but is asked to go and play with the boys instead. Om's best friend is a girl and he often complains about how the class is mocking him. Krishna won't wear leggings (a part of the annual day costume) because he thinks only girls wear it. Bhavik won't hold Meenakshi's hand because she is a girl. The class sneers each time I mention how well Pranjal Bhaiya cooks. Boys cant cook, they tell me. They approve of me hugging Veda Didi but hugging Pranjal Bhaiya results in either high-pitched 'HAWWs' or sneaky smiles.

As much as this disturbs me, I dare not judge them. My kids are 7 years old. Some maybe 8. They are unaware of the boxes they've been in and/or have built around themselves. Already. Unaware that this where it all starts - Gender Stereotype.

I don't want to answer the million questions about why I've been talking about these. I am scared. It's difficult. Very. Rather, I don't want them to build more boxes. I don't want to tell them that boys also cook. I don't want to tell them about girls playing football. I don't want to tell them that girls can do 'boy things' and boys can do 'girl things', This is not what I want them to take away.

What I DO want them to learn is that it doesn't matter. That there are no 'boy things' and no 'girl things'. That I am not my gender. That they are not theirs. And while on one hand I am determined to do this, there is a lot of my faith which is being put to test.

It bothers me so much. To anybody who asks me how rape, sexual harassment and Violence against women have anything to do with upbringing and family, this is my answer.

This is my answer as to why I don't believe in capital punishment for rapists. This is my answer as to why rape is more cause than consequence. This is my answer as to how patriarchy is as oppressive on men as it is on women. This is my answer as to why I felt pity more than anger when a fellow biker lurched at me today and broke into a song while I was on the bike with Veda. This - is my answer as to why I feel guilty each time I feel extremely fearful of men around me.

I want to teach my children to make correct choices because of their will. Not because of their gender.

My big plan now, is to just give them as many examples. And let them figure it out by themselves.

Amen.

Nakul.

Ma’am, woh toh pagal hai. Uska dimag kharab hai - the first feedback I get about him from one of the teachers in the school. Everywhere I go, any conversation I have about him, this is all I get to hear. Uska dimag kharab hai, he is an abnormal child. Maushis, Kakas, teachers, staff. EVERYONE. They sometimes make the gesture of pointing their finger towards their head and twisting it when they see me struggling with him in class. I’d like to think they are trying to help me - make a pitiful face and tell me, it’s not your fault, it is his.

The psychology student in me cringes in pain, at first. I do what I can, ask them to speak politely about a child. But that is not the point. Whether or not I try to get all these people to be polite is secondary. The real battle is yet to begin. Inside my classroom.

He enters my class, two weeks after I have started teaching. Apparently, all this while the school has been allowing me to adjust and adapt. I wonder what’s the big deal. He comes up to me and with the widest grin, says, Good Afternoon Bhaiyaa. And at once, the whole of my class is tumbling down laughing. That is when I realize – this is the big deal.

After much thought, I consider my co-fellows’ suggestions, and discuss this in class. It is tricky terrain to walk on, I don’t want them to have sympathy and end up differentiating him. I only want them to empathise. To understand that he has different needs and that it is okay. They are 7 years old, and talking to them about this means putting my faith to test. It takes a long time, for me to get this clear in my head, even longer for them to understand what I am expecting off them. To start with, they stop laughing at him. He is now sitting among his classmates, something very new for him and for others. It’s been a month, and he still calls me Bhaiyaa sometimes. Until one day, when he walks upto me after school and says, ‘didi, ghar pe didi nahi hai.’

With instructions, the rest of my class has started to help him and help themselves. He still shouts incessantly and loves to draw. Publishing is his favourite part of the Writer’s Workshop. By now, he has two best friends in class, and loves them to the core. My class doesn’t laugh at him, but with him. I’m starting to think we are getting somewhere.

One day, during prayer, he jumps out in excitement and manages to push his best friend down the bench. The next day, I am called into the office and told that there has been a fracture and he may be held responsible for it. The next day still I am told he may be asked to leave school. The parent comes and screams at me for having her son sit next to ‘that boy’. A week later I am informed that he has been excused and that he can continue school, though this maybe his last year over here. He needs a special school, they tell me.

I need to keep telling my class time and again, reminding them to help him and each other. This is taking too much time, I think.

Orals begin. I ask my class to revise QUIETLY while I am taking orals. Except for I can hear Ekansh read the poems aloud. I look up, he is sitting with Nakul. Ekansh looks at me, “Didi, I tell Nakul, he learn.”

I call him over for his orals. Good Better Best, he starts. Good Better Best. Om comes over from behind and gives him the book, “See and read, Nakul. Yes, didi? Okay no.”

I smile. 36 tiny little seven year olds have restored my faith in humanity.

Mauna Vratham

The first thing I realized that people always assume that everyone can speak. And once they know you can’t, it turns into pity.

What starts out an attempt to be more self-aware and articulate, turns into a harsh realization. Silence is deadly. To both sides, the one without a voice and the one comprehending.

Silence is beautiful. I walk into a busy market with a bunch of close friends who guide me through every step. In about an hour, they learn my signals and it gets easier for us to communicate. I am getting to self-awareness, I think, at least a point one percent of it. I am extremely conscious, I’d like to say it makes me mindful too. I speak a few syllables by mistake (2 to be precise) and one whole sentence and curse myself for the same. The others say it is okay. I think to myself it is the first time.  I will gradually get there.

People at the market smile at me after they find out, I can’t speak. I’d like to say it is out of kindness. And not pity, but I’ll never know. Some respond to me in sign language. Some don’t respond at all. But all of that, only after I have communicated with them first. If I did not, I wonder if they will know.

I falter. I trip. It takes three times the usual to make everyone understand what I am trying to explain. It takes me a lot of time to figure out, before I start to explain. At some point it gets frustrating. My friends try to be as cheerful as possible. They are always cheerful usually too. At some point, I start questioning myself as to why really am I doing this. It is so much more painful to be silent than being inarticulate ad speaking too much.

But I can speak. God forbid something happens, I can scream. I can call for help. I can sing. I can shout. This is just one evening. Or maybe there are more to come. Silence truly seems to be beautiful.

But is it? In some corner of the world, there is someone for whom this is not just one evening, or twelve hours. For whom this is the way of life. She may not have friends. He may be in deep trouble. She may be crying out loud without a voice. He maybe singing full of love without a sound. Every single day of their life.

I don not now if this has made me self-aware. Or articulate. I don not know if this has been transformational. But has this evening changed my life? Yes, I believe. Yes, it has.

I am loved. And I wish the same for everyone. Voice or no voice.

Peace.

Starting Line.

My flight has been delayed by 2 hours, I am sitting at the boarding area staring joblessly at a 2 year old baby rolling himself in the dust of the airport floor. What an age to be in! Bored to death, I decide to read random articles and chance upon this- http://www.indianexpress.com/news/that-boy-in-yellow-nail-polish/1041760/0

I suggest all of you to read it. I love the way she has put forth the idea of cliche and anti-cliche.

Haha, it also reminds me of how we used to dress up Aryan, my nephew, as Radha. Such a cutie he is. Its a long story, I'll tell you some other time.

A lot of things have been happening around. The Delhi Gangrape case is blazing the news and social networking sites. And I can't help but relate the article to the case.

Where does it all start?

Gender stereotypes stem out from a child's social setting and most importantly, upbringing. Boy children are expected to only play with violent superhero toys, or cars, or you know, 'boy' stuff. Girls, are meant to play with barbie dolls and other dolls and other dolls and kitchen sets and basically 'girly stuff'. Boy clothes are blue. Girl clothes are pink. And so are the rest of their belongings, room, bedspread, towel, accessories, even stationery. Fairy tales teach little girls AND little boys that the princess is a weakling, a damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued by the strong prince charming. And in reality, the same little girls and the same little boys fall for this rationale. In a more conservative set up, the sole purpose of a daughter's life is to get married and serve her husband and cook for her in laws, while the boy is to grow up to be the man of the house, and step out of the house to earn a living - these ideas being enforced into a child's mind right from the time he/she are born.

While this trend is the most prevalent in this part of the world, given its patriarchal orientation, we have seen some change over the last few years. Attempts have been made to empower the girl, make her 'strong like a son'. However, like Lalita Iyer mentions in her article, we celebrate it when our girls do boy things and not enough when our boys do girl things. A very common thing we get to hear from parents of a accomplished successful girl is - "Our daughter is our son". On the other hand if the boy decides to take up a 'girl oriented career' (trust me, there are stereotypes related to jobs we are all aware of), he is often ridiculed at. Boys are not meant to cry, sensitive responses from boys are labelled as cowardice. The male ego is not born, it is made to develop.

At a lot homes, examples are set for children, the wives have domestic roles, she is meant to stay home, have babies, look after them. Her 'job' is looking after household chores. She is meant to serve her husband sexually and otherwise if required, not complaining and not asking for anything in return. She is expected to have learnt all of this from her mother. The husband is the provider for the family, he has therefore the right to do whatever he wants, go wherever he wants AND sleep with whoever he wants.

Besides these, there are other societal influences. Alcohol is a boy thing. Visiting temples is a girl thing. Going out is a boy thing. Sitting home is a girl thing. The idea of good and bad is mostly settled by the society and in this part of the world, anything 'good' for boys is bad for the girls.

When the same boy grows up to be a rapist, I wonder why the people get surprised. If you haven't taught a child to be sensitive and respectful of all other people irrespective of their identities, how do you expect them to respect the freedom of a woman?

I urge you to think deeply, the concept of rape is largely associated with power play. Though sometimes, it could be a case of revenge or sheer sexual impulsiveness, mostly it is about gender identities. It is about the man believing that he has more power than the woman. In these cases, rape becomes a platform to assert this notion of power.

In my opinion, rape is psychopathological. It is not normal, but with the kind of edge that men are given over women, the society seems to sanction it. And the society is made of people, like you and me.

There has been a very strong response to the Delhi case. Castrate the rapists, people say. Hang them to death, others assert. The rapists deserve the punishment too. In fact, I believe they deserve to frikkin Rot In Hell. But hanging them is not a solution. It is too easy a punishment. They need to be made to realise the gravity in their deed.

We need to dig deeper. We need to talk about eradicating rape. We need to stop talking about consequences but start talking about the root cause of it.

We need to sensitise people, especially men. Pathology has treatment, and if rape is a case of abnormality, there has to be a solution to remove it. The solution lies amongst us.

This incident left me shaken and crippled with fear. And learning martial arts will not remove this fear, neither will killing the criminals. Stricter laws need to be enforced, policies need to be changed, I agree. But what requires change the most, is the mindset of the people.

When I grow up, I want to have a daughter. And a son. And I am going to teach them to respect each other and the rest of the world irrespective of their gender identities.

The process of changing the society is very slow, the only way I can start is by changing myself. And so can you. And I hope someday change will happen, if not for me or you, for the strong girl fighting for her life at the Delhi hospital today and for hundreds of others who fight this battle everyday. I have this dream.

On an unrelated note, my flight is here, the food they gave me is horrible and I can't wait to get home. 

There is so much more I want to write, and will soon.

Teri Keh Ke Lunga...

*I wrote this as a part of my english assignment.*

Directed by: Anurag Kashyap

“Ik bagal mein chand hoga, ik bagal mein rotiyan,

Ik Bagal mein neend hogi, ik bagal mein loriyan.”

Gangs of Wasseypur is story based on real life incidents that happened in Wasseypur and Dhanbad across 30 years and 3 generations. Kashyap has kept the movie undoubtedly real - except for certain stances of dragged unnecessary scenes of humorous action - the ordinariness of it is what makes it extra-ordinary, the unconventional “evilwinsovergood” ending strengthening its ties to reality.

The plot is a very complicated story made simple. Gangs of Wasseypur is a story of revenge across generations. Set in Wasseypur, a village in Bihar, the movie initially revolves around the increasing differences between the Pathans and the Qureshis, while the Zamindars take advantage of this gap and prosper out of it. Ramadhir Singh, the most powerful coal mine contractor in town kills his sidekick Shahid Khan on discovering his plot to overpower and possess his own coal business. A witness to this is his perceived brother – ChachaJi and 7 year old son Sardar Khan. Growing up, Sardar Khan has only one resolve – to seek revenge and kill his father’s murderers – Ramadhir Singh and his aides -the Qureshis. And thus starts a legacy of payback and betrayal. A story expanding over families and sons and sons of sons, till Faizal Khan realizes that it should have all been over with Shahid Khan’s death - this, after he has lost his entire family, except for his pregnant wife and ChachaJi. It has certain masala movie nuances when children from the enemy families fall in love with each other but this can be explained away as an attempt to bring peace. This movie speaks of another important human action – betrayal. The movie ends with Faizal Khan’s half-brother ‘Definite’, this one man he trusted his life on, killing him. The irony however is important to be noted, while on one hand Definite betrays his brother, he does so to keep his mother’s trust. The good man dying while the bad survives- the perceived villain winning while the hero perishes – this ending is avant-garde in Indian cinema, something the audience might have been repulsed by, but it justifies the real life incident this movie is based on. The last scene is Faizal’s wife – Mohsina and their child dreaming away to a beautiful Mumbai Backdrop along with the most consistent character in the movie, ChachaJi.

The acting is at par or I could say above excellent. Richa Chaddha plays Nagma, Sardar Khan’s eccentric 22 turning into 60 year old wife and has stood out. Manoj Bajpai is true to his talent; Huma Qureshi has an important role to play in the second part and is scintillating with her dialogue delivery. The “parmisan lena chahiye tha nah” pierced through many hearts. The cast has done a brilliant job giving in to what Kashyap had expected and there are simply no complaints when it comes to that. The one man proving his worth has however been Siddique, his character going through the most transitions while he effortlessly juggles around. Even his ‘philmi-ness’ has managed to look real.

The movie was released in 2 parts, and unlike the first part, which is ‘perfectly fit’, the second certainly has some extra baggage – these relatively unreal sequences constitute around half-an-hour of the whole movie if put together. The scenes however complement the dialogues and the acting. In spite of the extreme amount of violence, this movie does not hurt the eye. It is explicit in terms of sex and vulgar use of language, extremely overt in the latter in fact, but the language has been used finely to create the required environment. Humour is immense and woven with violence; it adds to the unconventionality of the movie, something only Kashyap is capable is doing of. (Who else would call the characters of his movie Dephinite and Perpendicular?) Intricate human emotions are portrayed through relationships and romance. Although not shot at the original locations, the film will push you into almost similar surroundings of the standard Indian village in Bihar. The movie attracts mixed audiences given its language and outer appearance. This movie has explored unknown territories to emerge as exemplary in case of the “new” in Indian Cinema.

What stands out the most in the movie, apart from brilliant acting, is the sensational music by Sneha Khanwalkar. Khanwalkar has managed to fuse the west with the east, folk with classical, music with noise and create something refreshingly new and original. The explicitly ‘cheap’ innuendos used in the lyrics combined with the electrifying sound effects have given birth to a new genre in Bollywood.

Amidst the backdrop of revenge, betrayal and violence, Gangs of Wasseypur has a much subtler message to offer – the message of resistance and peace.  Despite instances of backstabbing, it speaks of being together through difference and of friendships beyond boundaries. And it speaks of love. It speaks of choices and wrong choices and most of all it speaks of human weaknesses and tolerance. Gangs of Wasseypur has no heroes and no villains. It is a story which begins with circumstances and ends with the same.

Social De-Construction.

(Chapter I)

When I talk of social constructs, nothing is right or wrong. Notions that we have learnt unconsciously through our social environment constitute a part of our personal life. Notions like, ‘a woman will always favour her daughter over her daughter in law’, ‘no woman will ever regret experiencing those defining nine months’, etc, I do not wish to assert that they are all correct, but just that there is a possibility of them being wrong also. The idea here is to consider alternatives. These notions pose a problem when they get converted into absolute ideologies which we start practicing in our public and private spheres. I think that these social constructs are what give birth to stereotypes.

What interests me about the study of psychology most is that it studies behaviour from a very subjective perspective. Unlike other sciences, it believes in individual differences. Two people might not have the same reason behind the same action or they might, but that does not prove that the third one will too. In some way I believe, psychology defies the idea of a majoritarian statistics giving space to minorities and exceptions. It is inclusive yet exclusive. It gives space to choice.

Coming back to stereotypes, let us take the example of love, the ‘idea’ is that love is conditional. My point is there is nothing universal about it. It could be conditional and yet ‘true’ love. (Or it could not as the obvious suggests) Life is more about what things are rather than what it should be anyway, right? And when people sign up for their actions attributing different causes to their behaviour, how universality matters, I fail to understand. I am not against generalization. There are a lot of universal laws pertaining to life – Rape is wrong, for example, nothing can justify it. But when I talk of subjectivity, I am talking of things which are more artless and emotional in nature.

No matter how much statistics argue against, we need to look beyond the obvious. We need to look at all possibilities. The general idea is it might make you broad minded, the subtlety lies in its ability to make you close also. See subjectivity?

This post may come off as a paper or textbook material, it may come off as boring, it may come off as a disappointment or a revelation even. Different people might have different things to take from it or nothing at all. Exactly my point, ma’am.

Photo Source : http://retrieverman.files.wordpress.com/2012/05/its-okay-to-disagree-with-me.jpg

Because I Am The 'Other' Sex

During winters, I walk back home from college everyday, mostly around 3:30 in the afternoon. It is a 25 minute walk through the shady and nearly empty lanes of Lajpat Nagar III  and with earphones popped in, I hardly bother to notice whats around. Except for, I can't help but notice the eyes of a zillion 'male' passerby-s sticking on to me, all at different places of course. Some of them sing cheesy songs, I can lip read  *Dil to pagal hai, dil deewana hai*. Some are 18 year old, some are 60.

I do not wish to generalise and state that they are ALL sex-hungry people ogling at me, and my face and every other 'interesting' part of my body (read- boobs and butts) gaining some sort of visual satisfaction out of the same. But do I have a choice? 

Tell me he's staring at my breasts out of envy, I swear I'd let him do so out of sympathy AND I'd also go and alter Freud's theories. 

Tell me he's singing songs just because he thinks I resemble one of Indian Idol's judges. *faints*

Tell me he's staring at my face because he deals in anti-acne and fairness creams and hopes I might buy them.

Tell me he's grinning because he can read what my Garfield bag quotes, and I shall take that as a compliment.

Tell me he is NOT staring at me because I am the 'Other' sex, because I am a woman.
Tell me so, it will make me happy. It will put me out of fear.

Do I have a choice, again?

Just some slight times, I might ignore, but mostly I look up and give them the 'come-touch-me-and-i-shall-kick-your-balls-off' look. It helps, it does.
But the truth is, I am not a karate kid. And I am scared.
And this is not my story alone.

A lot of people advise me to join Martial Arts. But I ask Why?
WHY do I have to take a step forward? Why do I have to curtail my choice of clothing? Why do I have to be careful and concerned while walking on the streets? Why am I instructed about everything?

Why can't he?

Next time, don't tell me what to wear or where to go or how to take care of myself. 

TELL HIM NOT TO RAPE.

The 'Girl Child' and Life

This other day while I was coming back home from school, I saw 5 children, most likely siblings or friends, the youngest one was about 4 and the others were say, 7-8 year olds.

Three of them were in school uniform, two of which were boys, and the third was the youngest one- a girl. They looked like any other under-privileged school going children. Shabby dress, torn bag, wrong shoes. However, it gave me a sense of pleasure that at least they were getting to go to school.

This pleasure was short-lived, as my eyes drifted to the other two, both girls. While one wore a torn frock, the other one was in a tattered salwar-kameez. The younger one was carrying a bag of vegetables. The second one, probably an year old,  was carrying a heavy pot of water. What irritated me even more was that it was very evident that they were from the same family or at least closely related otherwise.

The bus I was on, moved on but the scene I witnessed,has been on my mind ever since. There was nothing special about it; it was just another unnoticed random scene.

27 hours and 38 minutes later, the same scene is still pricking the shackles of my brain. It is not a surprise, but I fell extremely difficult to accept the fact that five children who are being reared up in the same background, who live in proximity, are not getting equal amenities.  There might be other reasons why the other two ‘girls’ have not been allowed to study, but my mind, it refuses to believe exceptions.

In spite of all the promises and the laws and rights and other political stuff, the reality has not altered. And, this reality is harsh. Even today, a girl is not exposed to education, she faces extreme discrimination irrespective of her religion or caste or economical background, because she is, erm, a girl. Even in urban educated families, women are forced to give up their girl child. Female foeticides and infanticides are followed as traditions in some villages. In India, on an average, a girl is raped every half-an-hour. The dowry still prevails, in some places as a compulsory custom, in some places as another way to make money. Flesh trade, Child marriage,  marital rape, the list is endless. The fight against women, by men, by women themselves or by the society has turned into a never-ending war. The woman, today, is not much different from where she was yesterday.

This harsh reality definitely compels me to raise this question.

Which is worse - Female foeticide, Female infanticide, Rape, Gender Discrimination or BEING BORN A WOMAN?