Disgust

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Around her the crew members were buzzing with activity fixing lights, testing the sound system, shouting, giving and receiving instructions. The choreographer ran up to her panting “Let’s try the new moves for today’s song Ma’am. She sipped some juice, swept up her hair in a ponytail and took her position. She watched the steps being demoed. Now it was her turn.

All eyes were on her, the beautiful supermodel tuned actress. “One, two three….” Loud Hindi music filled the entire set. The lyrics and notes blared into the cool morning air. The song went on to describe the heroine as a piece of tandoori chicken, one whose snap was worthy of being glued to one’s chest. The crowd that had gathered to watch whistled and hooted, pleased with the flowing words that objectified women, depicting them as just an easy means of pleasure.

She was horrified upon seeing people laughing and cheering at the cheap lyrics. She didn't find it amusing at all. In fact, she found it disgusting. For the first time in her acting career, she found herself reflecting about the roles she had portrayed so far. What was it about the twists and turns of her hip, songs with repulsive lyrics and women in arm candy roles that attracted such a fan following?

She was in a fix. But ultimately she decided to bow out of the assignment. She knew of the risks. The labels that would be slapped onto her. Betrayer. Arrogant. There could even be legal issues. Worse, offers to do films would dwindle. But she was sure she didn't want to be a piece of chicken or jalebi anymore.







Linking to 
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Henpecked!

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To my dear henpecked husband,

No I don’t intend to insult you, unlike our society ever ready with many tags that aim to degrade you, to question your testosterone levels and to reinforce its archaic, misogynistic beliefs on you so as to snub out the slightest glimmer of hope for change. To me the word “henpecked” brings renewed hope, and pride in having a partner who truly cares and believes in equality ignoring the rants and grunts of people around. A partner who dares to stand by his convictions least affected by society’s screwed up ideas of what makes a man “man enough”.

You are special my dear henpecked husband, a rare gem among a million “Indian men” out there. You actively share the boring house hold chores making them a fun activity. I can freely ask you to do the dishes without having to feel guilty (mama’s boys don’t do house work, it is meant for girls) or to press my legs when they ache. Of course you too seek my help with office work and other things.

I like it that you don’t sit snugly, propped up by pillows, watching T.V with other men while I prepare tea or clean up. I have never had to scream in my head “You are the host too!” when we have had guests. I feel loved, my presence in your life respected, when you never follow the “let men eat first” rule and make sure we eat together. You are the man of my dreams, for whenever there have been little sacrifices, they have been mutual.

Domestic chores thanks to you don’t get pushed into “woman’s domain” in our house. It is our home so together we work to keep it clean. We all feel hungry so we think nothing of sharing kitchen work. We are both educated having thoughts of our own, our own interests and ambitions. We defend and safe guard them for each other. I want you to know my henpecked hubby, that I love it that you don’t interfere in my career choices. You realize that beyond the umpteen roles I juggle, there is another me, just me with dreams and desires for myself. So do I. I promise you we will do what we love to.

Much to the displeasure of our society, you love to spend time with my parents as much as yours and realize how important it is for me to know that they are happy and well. And because you are special, you don’t expect to be showered with gifts and given a lot of importance by my family just because of your Y chromosome. You involve me in the decision you take and the choices you make.

I am truly blessed to be holding your hand in life knowing for sure that you’re real with all your imperfections. A real person with emotions that are not locked up in false perceptions about manhood (men don’t cry) with ambitions whose reasons stretch beyond the need to be a provider to the family. Love, this, let me say, is what I find most appealing in you.

These you may feel are too trivial to be written about, but I have no words to tell you about the solace they bring. It is not very easy to be a twenty first century- married- Indian -woman(feminist) with a career. It is like living in a pressure cooker forever. Those who yield to the pressures and live a life of conformity may seem to be happy, but the compromises they endure for the make-believe peace sets off a turbulent storm in their heads that rages for a lifetime.

So be proud of that label dear husband, go ahead and flaunt it.

Your Happy Hen ;)

Participating in the Ultimate Blog Challenge.

Linking to : http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/

My Home away from Home

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It is difficult to tell you my story without choking on my words and wetting my eyes. Nevertheless I’ll give it a try. I am an ordinary person just like you. I dream, hope love and want to be loved, just like you. Aged twenty, I live with a group of like-minded people whose stories are different from mine, yet astonishingly similar if you care to pay a closer look.

I always knew I was different. Of course, we are all different, that’s not what I mean. I was different in a way people found unsettling and imperfect. Have you ever wondered what it is like to feel and think like a woman but to be expected to behave like a man because of a cruel, sadistic game of fate? I doubt it. Well, I was intimidated beyond measure that I wanted to shrink to the size of a speck of dust and freely fly around unnoticed.

I may have looked like a man but I always wanted to be a woman; I am a woman. My parents never understood me; I feel they never tried to. To them I was a cursed lump of flesh that grew in my mother’s cursed womb just to bring shame and ill-luck to the family. Taunted, teased, bullied and assaulted, I was the tip of many a rude joke. The wounds family and society inflicted mercilessly on me still feel fresh and the pain, searing.

Unable to bear it any longer, I fled with no particular destination in mind. I began my journey of escape. I soon found people like me and I can’t explain the relief I felt to be taken into their fold, to be seen as part of family. They took care of my needs, taught me how to earn a living and loved me for what I was. I find it strange that my own family saw me as a stranger but a group of strangers made me a part of their family. This was where I belonged, before my soul lost its way and entered the lump of flesh in my mother’s womb by a fateful error.

For the first time in my life, I felt at peace. It felt good to be back home, away from home.

This post was written for the IndiSpire prompt
Write a story ending with "..... It felt good to be back home."#MyStory

Linking to : http://www.writetribe.com/write-tribe-pro-blogger-challenge/
and http://ultimateblogchallenge.com/ 

The "good girl" illusion

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My dear granddaughter,

As I write this, the house is in total silence; you are definitely up to some mischief. You have not bothered to slip into the pink frock mummy has given you. Your focus is on the unscrewed door knob which you are struggling to fix with a screw driver, ignoring pretty Barbie. I silently pray that in the years to come, you stay the same, doing what you love without getting trapped in the illusion of being a “good girl”.

I have talked to you about good manners, good habits and good behaviour. But I warn you, the “good girl” image that society will doggedly police you to attain, is a dangerous one. I hope you never end up being one, for it is a black hole that will suck out your dreams, vision and self-worth. You don’t believe me? I talk from experience, because till a few years back I was that good girl, chiseling out from myself my ambitions, ideals, likes and dislikes to smooth myself to fit into society’s definition of a “good girl”.

I know you’re confused. Let me explain. In my childhood, in order to be “good” I had to be subservient, suppress my loud laughter, take dance lessons in spite of my liking for sports, clean my brother’s room while he played cricket, among many other things. As a teenager, I had to learn to cook and embroider though I was not interested, take up arts in college though I dreamt of becoming a mathematician and eat only after the menfolk had eaten, no matter how hungry I was. When I adhered to all these expectations, I became a “good girl” and I thought I was happy.

When I was in college I got my first love note and once, a man stalked me passing lewd comments. But because I was a good girl, kept quiet, changed my wardrobe instead and wore winter clothes in scorching summer as I was told that women who wore skirts and sleeveless tops “asked” for rape. When a stranger came to see me with his family to seek me in marriage, I agreed without talking to him or worrying about my education that would remain incomplete. The elders in the family were pleased, they called me a “good daughter” and I thought I was happy.

Marriage too was about adjustments (to say the least) and they inevitably had to be from my side. I juggled multiple roles and was taken for granted by my husband, in-laws and even my own children. Soon I forgot my tastes in food, clothes, movies, hobbies and everything else. I blindly practiced customs and rituals, knowing too well that they had lost their relevance. I hardly met up with my friends and when I did, I wondered with guilt if my family was running smoothly in my absence. When I lost myself in devotion towards my family I was called a “good daughter-in-law” and I thought I was happy.

Now when I look back at the life I've lived, I see only unfulfilled desires, shattered dreams and a totally different me. It pains me to think that I was just a puppet, in the hands of my parents, husband, in-laws and society. I danced to their rhythm, because a disobedient puppet with a mind of its own is a considered dysfunctional and would be discarded. I wanted to be loved, appreciated and belong. So I danced when the strings tugged at me.

When I realized my folly it was too late. So here I am, a “good grandmother”, writing to set you free from the strings society will bind you with. Remember that “good girl” is a mirage, a trap, a mere tag you get in exchange for your life.

Set yourself free,
Granny

This post was written as part of the Ultimate blog challenge and Indispire 

Define good girls... Everybody has an opinion about a good girl...so whats yours? #GoodGirls

Pink, Blue or Purple?

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She was different from all the other girls in my class. Bold, daring, extremely energetic, defiant at times and almost always shabbily dressed. The contrast was glaring, right on one’s face. While most girls  flaunted well-oiled plaits and pigtails secured by black ribbons, washed and powdered faces sometimes highlighted by a bindi or a smear of kohl and neat uniforms, notebooks and bags, this one just did not yield to such expectations. At first I found her queer, the odd one out, a girl with whom one could never associate the colour pink (as is ingrained in us by the media, garment and toy manufacturers and almost everyone in the whole wide world). She would chew gum in class, laugh out loudly, pick fights with boys that sometimes turned into physical brawls, roam around carelessly not the least bothered by homework and assignments, jump walls and climb trees. One could never find her gossiping with other girls about make-up, boys and the like. She was so different.

I soon developed a strong liking for her. May be because she reflected a part of me that was left unexpressed because of the way our family and society moulds girls. There are so many gender stereotypes and roles assigned by the society we live in, that it is really hard to escape being victim to at least a handful of them. She loved sports. That was her world.That was what kept her going. She championed in any sport she took part in. Athletic and agile, determined and dedicated, she was made for the playgrounds, and the tracks marked with chalk. The sound of the whistle, the gunshot that marked the beginning of a race, applause and cheers from the audience and the clinking of medals and trophies were music to her ears. In her I saw my unfulfilled dreams come to life.

However, the boys teased her and called her a “man”. They teased her mercilessly about having doubts about her sex. They invited her to “guys only” parties. The girls too did their bit. They didn't allow her to be their friend. They made it clear that she was not worthy of hanging out with. A friend who could never be introduced to one’s parents. She became an outlaw in my class and I watched helplessly. Gradually she was labelled a tomboy. Jokes about her floated everywhere, managing to creep up till the staff room. Teachers and well-wishers advised her to behave like a girl if she wanted to be loved and respected. Her mother was summoned for a meeting that saw the tormenting of a poor, hapless woman by some teachers. As I watched the mother leave the school in tears, I decided to do something about this. We had a class discussion where everyone spoke openly and freely. I stressed the importance of tolerance to diversity and the need for all of us to bust certain gender myths that plagued society. The students responded well and promised to be her friends. I desperately hoped it would bring about some change in attitude.

Of course it did. By the end of the year Sharmila became truly sharmeeli(shy), stopped going for sports and other activities, confined herself to her girlfriends and their gossips, never answered back or questioned me, came to school with oiled hair, clean nails, colourful bindis and “behaved herself” as the other teachers told me. Everyone except me seemed to be happy about her turning over a new leaf. The boys in class were happy as she had been “tamed” and was no longer a threat (as she was stronger than some of them); the girls were now ready to take her into their fold. She was not the same person any more. Instead of bringing about a change in mind-set of the society, she had erased her own identity and individuality. She seemed to be happy to be loved and accepted by everyone. But the part of me that had come to life after a long period of dormancy shrivelled. May be there will be a time when one can express oneself freely, without the fear of being isolated or rejected. I eagerly wait for that springtime where there is a little cosy space for everyone in this world.