Hammering it in
Circa 1987; Thiruvananthapuram
A sunny late afternoon
I was at school. To be more precise, I was on a stool, in my classroom, hammering in a banner, at school.
A sexagenarian schoolmaster stopped short at this sight. “Pattathi kuttiyalle (aren’t you a brahmin girl)?” he asked. “How come you are doing this?”
My jaw dropped at this question.
I was a 14-year old proto-feminist, struggling with Gandhian philosophy and passionate about Communism, but none of these had a bearing on my being so occupied that afternoon. I was working on the following uncomplicated logic: there was the banner, a few nails, a hammer, a stool, need for the banner to be aloft, no volunteers, and yours sincerely, able-bodied. Ergo.
I suppose the master’s question could be rationalized—he was, after all, a provincial schoolmaster, on his post-retirement second stint, a representative of a crazy age that was on its kamikaze way of being irrelevant. It was just ironic that he was objecting to me wielding that Marxist symbol, the hammer.
But I was struggling.
My post-puberty life had become a long nightmare of ridiculous restrictions. My father had recently started throwing incredibly stupid fits at me wearing the salwar-kameez (considered unbelievably decadent in the village I grew up in), cutting my hair, joining a youth club, laughing out loud in public, being out after 6:00 pm and a list of other things that made no sense.
My friends were facing similar problems. My friend’s father wouldn’t allow us to learn cycling. Sports had pretty much died for us around that time. Even running was frowned upon.
My school was acting crazy too. In a so-called co-ed school, they had herded us girls into a sequestered class of our own, frowning upon even an innocent exchange of study material with the animals with raging hormones in the next classroom, a.k.a. boys.
And suddenly a variety of aunts/well wishers were spouting metaphorical crap such as, “It doesn’t matter whether the thorn falls on the saree or the saree falls on the thorn—it’s the saree that gets damaged.”
But the schoolmaster’s comment made me realize that life had just become a tad more complicated. I had gender-based restrictions and class-based restrictions. While guarding my chastity against the million pitfalls that could make me a whore, I was also expected to uphold good brahminical values.
Bully to You!
Circa 1992; Madurai
Early morning
I opened the Tamil newspaper with great anticipation. I have been looking forward to the coverage of our brave new protest: a bunch of us from college had gone around the town, painting obscene posters black and talking about exploitation of women in the popular media. We had met the press as well.
After almost a week, there it was, on Page 7, left bottom corner, a one-column coverage. The reporter had ended his report with, “girls wearing modern clothes such as salwar kameez made this protest.”
When I spluttered with indignation at this trivialization and insult, my father laughed it off saying, “It’s a token protest anyway.”
Of course, as students of an all-girls college, we had no existence, importance or voice outside.
Inside, we discussed things big and small—from depiction of women in movies (“Why do our movies always make the rape victim marry the rapist?”) to the role and place of women in the society. We organized seminars, celebrated International Women’s Day, wore shorts (to be changed before you leave for home in the evening) and shared dirty jokes.
Inside, we were safe, because the gates of our college were always locked. Even with us inside—especially with us inside.
We weren’t allowed to go home halfway through a college day even if we took ill. We had to go to the college clinic, be attended by the ancient nurse, and could go home only after college was over. The resident scholars were in a worse state.
After lot of cajoling and begging, we got our parole to participate in intercollegiate competitions. We might not have bothered.
Our first outing was to the Engineering College, one of the biggest events in the region. The booing and catcalling started the moment they announced our college name. As we went on stage, the 800-strong (predominantly male) audience erupted in a cacophony of deafening noise. Teachers and authorities stood-by helplessly as centuries’ worth of prejudice descended on us, drowning us in jeering yells.
All my friends lost their nerve and were ready to forfeit participation. But I couldn’t move. I felt rooted to my place, mike in hand. This was not going to scare me.
I told the audience that I was not going anywhere. I will stand there all day, but hear me, they must and they will.
I guess it was a blinking game. I won. The yells eventually died down and we did our piece.
We didn’t get a prize, of course.
Unsweet Nothings
Circa 2003; Bangalore
A cool evening
I sat across the slightly portly man, America-returned, with a string of degrees following his name. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a pleasant face, and a shy demeanor. We had been asked by our respective parents to talk to each other while they waited outside, tense.
‘Go on,” I willed him, “Ask me a question that will redeem you. Ask me a question that will help me forgive you for making me travel all the way from Mumbai and my parents from Madurai to take part in this charade. Ask me a question that will make me realize that my dad is right—that marriage is a tough business and one has to make compromises to get high returns. Ask me a question that will raise you above your abominable parents who behaved as if they’ve done us a favor by siring a son.
Go on; ask me a question about my interests. Ask me about my ideas, thoughts, and philosophy. Ask me about politics, conservation of wildlife, future of Bharatnatyam, or Douglas Adams. Ask me anything that would make me see that you are interested in me, as an individual, with a fully functional brain.
Ask me a question that will lead us to a conversation in which I can ask you some questions in return: why did you choose arranged marriage? Why did you bring your friend along for this “girl seeing” session? Why didn’t you offer to meet us somewhere halfway for both parties?
I am not going to help you because I detest you. But go on, I am willing to be surprised.’
He cleared his throat and asked me, “Do you like to cook?”
What I really couldn’t get was my family’s effort to convince me afterwards that he really could be my Prince Charming. “I can’t imagine myself having sex with him,” I told them.
Perhaps I was fishing in the wrong pond. Or more to the point, according to my astrologers, I wasn’t fishing at all.
“We’ve stopped attending family weddings because everybody is asking why we have not married you off yet,” my parents say.
“You are young now, but think about when you grow older. Who will take care of you? Even now, whenever you fall ill, who is there to take care?” friends worry for me.
“So any improvement in your life?” an old classmate in the US asks me when I give him a call to say hello.
“How do you feel now that younger cousins are getting married?” older cousins ask me.
“How is it any of your business?” doesn’t seem to cut at all.
In my thirties, non-conformance has diminished from a virtue to a nuisance. Uncompromising commitment to individualism has become a self-destructive streak. Foot-loose and fancy-free has become a pitiful state. Singleton-hood has become a reason for discrimination.
Stupid is the new rebel.
Judgment Day
Circa 2008
“So what’s so great about your struggle?” asks the 19-year old. “I don’t think it was radical at all.”
I draw in a deep breath, grope in my bag of repartees, and take out the old-trusted, worn-out, oft-repeated declaration: “Power to you dude, but what you think is irrelevant to me.”
And with a sigh, gear up for The Struggle, reloaded.
Circa 1987; Thiruvananthapuram
A sunny late afternoon
I was at school. To be more precise, I was on a stool, in my classroom, hammering in a banner, at school.
A sexagenarian schoolmaster stopped short at this sight. “Pattathi kuttiyalle (aren’t you a brahmin girl)?” he asked. “How come you are doing this?”
My jaw dropped at this question.
I was a 14-year old proto-feminist, struggling with Gandhian philosophy and passionate about Communism, but none of these had a bearing on my being so occupied that afternoon. I was working on the following uncomplicated logic: there was the banner, a few nails, a hammer, a stool, need for the banner to be aloft, no volunteers, and yours sincerely, able-bodied. Ergo.
I suppose the master’s question could be rationalized—he was, after all, a provincial schoolmaster, on his post-retirement second stint, a representative of a crazy age that was on its kamikaze way of being irrelevant. It was just ironic that he was objecting to me wielding that Marxist symbol, the hammer.
But I was struggling.
My post-puberty life had become a long nightmare of ridiculous restrictions. My father had recently started throwing incredibly stupid fits at me wearing the salwar-kameez (considered unbelievably decadent in the village I grew up in), cutting my hair, joining a youth club, laughing out loud in public, being out after 6:00 pm and a list of other things that made no sense.
My friends were facing similar problems. My friend’s father wouldn’t allow us to learn cycling. Sports had pretty much died for us around that time. Even running was frowned upon.
My school was acting crazy too. In a so-called co-ed school, they had herded us girls into a sequestered class of our own, frowning upon even an innocent exchange of study material with the animals with raging hormones in the next classroom, a.k.a. boys.
And suddenly a variety of aunts/well wishers were spouting metaphorical crap such as, “It doesn’t matter whether the thorn falls on the saree or the saree falls on the thorn—it’s the saree that gets damaged.”
But the schoolmaster’s comment made me realize that life had just become a tad more complicated. I had gender-based restrictions and class-based restrictions. While guarding my chastity against the million pitfalls that could make me a whore, I was also expected to uphold good brahminical values.
Bully to You!
Circa 1992; Madurai
Early morning
I opened the Tamil newspaper with great anticipation. I have been looking forward to the coverage of our brave new protest: a bunch of us from college had gone around the town, painting obscene posters black and talking about exploitation of women in the popular media. We had met the press as well.
After almost a week, there it was, on Page 7, left bottom corner, a one-column coverage. The reporter had ended his report with, “girls wearing modern clothes such as salwar kameez made this protest.”
When I spluttered with indignation at this trivialization and insult, my father laughed it off saying, “It’s a token protest anyway.”
Of course, as students of an all-girls college, we had no existence, importance or voice outside.
Inside, we discussed things big and small—from depiction of women in movies (“Why do our movies always make the rape victim marry the rapist?”) to the role and place of women in the society. We organized seminars, celebrated International Women’s Day, wore shorts (to be changed before you leave for home in the evening) and shared dirty jokes.
Inside, we were safe, because the gates of our college were always locked. Even with us inside—especially with us inside.
We weren’t allowed to go home halfway through a college day even if we took ill. We had to go to the college clinic, be attended by the ancient nurse, and could go home only after college was over. The resident scholars were in a worse state.
After lot of cajoling and begging, we got our parole to participate in intercollegiate competitions. We might not have bothered.
Our first outing was to the Engineering College, one of the biggest events in the region. The booing and catcalling started the moment they announced our college name. As we went on stage, the 800-strong (predominantly male) audience erupted in a cacophony of deafening noise. Teachers and authorities stood-by helplessly as centuries’ worth of prejudice descended on us, drowning us in jeering yells.
All my friends lost their nerve and were ready to forfeit participation. But I couldn’t move. I felt rooted to my place, mike in hand. This was not going to scare me.
I told the audience that I was not going anywhere. I will stand there all day, but hear me, they must and they will.
I guess it was a blinking game. I won. The yells eventually died down and we did our piece.
We didn’t get a prize, of course.
Unsweet Nothings
Circa 2003; Bangalore
A cool evening
I sat across the slightly portly man, America-returned, with a string of degrees following his name. He had salt-and-pepper hair, a pleasant face, and a shy demeanor. We had been asked by our respective parents to talk to each other while they waited outside, tense.
‘Go on,” I willed him, “Ask me a question that will redeem you. Ask me a question that will help me forgive you for making me travel all the way from Mumbai and my parents from Madurai to take part in this charade. Ask me a question that will make me realize that my dad is right—that marriage is a tough business and one has to make compromises to get high returns. Ask me a question that will raise you above your abominable parents who behaved as if they’ve done us a favor by siring a son.
Go on; ask me a question about my interests. Ask me about my ideas, thoughts, and philosophy. Ask me about politics, conservation of wildlife, future of Bharatnatyam, or Douglas Adams. Ask me anything that would make me see that you are interested in me, as an individual, with a fully functional brain.
Ask me a question that will lead us to a conversation in which I can ask you some questions in return: why did you choose arranged marriage? Why did you bring your friend along for this “girl seeing” session? Why didn’t you offer to meet us somewhere halfway for both parties?
I am not going to help you because I detest you. But go on, I am willing to be surprised.’
He cleared his throat and asked me, “Do you like to cook?”
What I really couldn’t get was my family’s effort to convince me afterwards that he really could be my Prince Charming. “I can’t imagine myself having sex with him,” I told them.
Perhaps I was fishing in the wrong pond. Or more to the point, according to my astrologers, I wasn’t fishing at all.
“We’ve stopped attending family weddings because everybody is asking why we have not married you off yet,” my parents say.
“You are young now, but think about when you grow older. Who will take care of you? Even now, whenever you fall ill, who is there to take care?” friends worry for me.
“So any improvement in your life?” an old classmate in the US asks me when I give him a call to say hello.
“How do you feel now that younger cousins are getting married?” older cousins ask me.
“How is it any of your business?” doesn’t seem to cut at all.
In my thirties, non-conformance has diminished from a virtue to a nuisance. Uncompromising commitment to individualism has become a self-destructive streak. Foot-loose and fancy-free has become a pitiful state. Singleton-hood has become a reason for discrimination.
Stupid is the new rebel.
Judgment Day
Circa 2008
“So what’s so great about your struggle?” asks the 19-year old. “I don’t think it was radical at all.”
I draw in a deep breath, grope in my bag of repartees, and take out the old-trusted, worn-out, oft-repeated declaration: “Power to you dude, but what you think is irrelevant to me.”
And with a sigh, gear up for The Struggle, reloaded.
Comments
In spite of the risk of poking into your affairs or even worse, influencing it, here goes:
Every one of the incidents, prejudices, parochialisms etc etc etc you mentioned is demeaning and justifiably puke-inducing. But, when you write this just as a rant, you open yourself to further bullshit-carting from those asshole cousins, parents, and assorted cunts (pejorative not gender specific). And while you are entitled to this being a rant first and foremost, these idiots will hold this very same piece as something proving their point, not as the catharsis that you might have intended it for yourself. "Fuck'em" is a good philosophy to adopt toward these turds...against everyone, come to think of it....I just wanted to warn you.
More power, say, to your ilk?
What you do, who you are, and how you think is more important than having a husband who marries you for your cooking. Boo to all the orthodox, mind-numbing idiots who contrive make life difficult to anyone who is different. You are worth more than that...
I see myself in you, but fortunately or unfortunately, I have met many good men(and women!) all the way in my life.
I have learnt, reality is ridiculously funny, as much as my own self and identity, and never as dry and predictably despicable as I imagined myself and the world to be, when I was young :)
Now I believe life is really fun exploring. It is just god damn funny, on days, it is not all that fun! :) Including inter-gender relationships!
Oops, slap me once if I sound like advising. I think I am just talking to myself that I see in you. Sorry for taking you for granted.