Fading Façades

It feels like am almost on the verge of treading the beaten track, what with no blog posts for almost a year, and what’s the only reason? My son? How typical, right? That’s what all you guys and gals out there are mouthing mentally, I know. Well, I can even see a wry (rather triumphant) grin on a lot of faces that challenge my feminism and yea, there are an equal number of welcome back smiles. Anyway, this blog post is another birthing of sorts, if some of you can get what I am getting at. :)

Ok, in trying to steer into the unbeaten track, unbeaten, am gonna attempt things that I have never done before. One of them is writing about some of my facades, such as how I hate Gautham Menon movies (which I do, but only with some reservations), how I love shopping at the big malls, how I really do break down when I watch young moms beg on the street with very young babies, how I have a thing for very dark men (yes, dark men make my knees go weak and fair men don’t even stir me), and how I am the world’s biggest shallow, narcissist! I know by saying all this, I have miffed a lot of you out there, especially those of you who have had great ‘hopes’ for me or didn’t know me enough to have looked through the façade! 

Let’s look at the first façade. Yes, I like Gautham Menon movies, despite their clichés, their stupid nationalism, and chivalry. Let’s get to why or what I like about them. Firstly, he kind of somewhere manages to get the idea of ‘understated’ into Tamil movies. But, only kind of, because he really doesn’t make the cut; he’s perhaps too busy or distracted by the packaging, the beautiful locales, the doling up of his ladies (who are these very educated, English-speaking, all womanly women waiting to be swept off their dainty feet by rugged self-made metrosexuals in their bikes/jeeps and teaching them how to kiss! As if, kissing is something only a man can teach a woman), or panning his camera a wee bit on the higher side. Secondly, I believe he manages to create some sort of a ‘space’ for the woman, however flawed it may be. Yes, it’s quite nerve racking to see all these so-called independent women waiting to be kissed by this absolute male for the first time (Jo in Khaka Khaka) and all that. However, it was lovely to see a woman of 24 stay all by herself in a nice cozy apartment and also go out with male friends late in the night to watch a movie. Such touches can come only from a mind that believes in a truly ‘safe’ world where men and women interact as individuals with identities that go beyond the ones defined by biology. On the other hand, Gautham, it was a dagger straight to my heart when this woman was reduced to a lunch-packing housewife in one of the two endings. Now, you know, which one I chose. 

I know, a lot of you might do an internal eye-rolling, daring me to go on a similar rambling about another of his movies, vettaiyadu vilayadu! Mmm...I hated the movie totally, and this is no façade and I also don’t think it was a director’s movie at all; it was something that probably crawled out of one of the hero, Raghavan’s orifices!

Ok, now, it’s VTV’s turn now. I refused to watch it for a very long time only to stop an internal puke hemorrhage that happens to me each time I see at that illustrious son of a bear, Simbu! But, then, after NEP (neethane en ponvasantham), I took a chance just for the director’s sake. And, truth be told, it wasn’t very bad, actually. Perhaps, the authenticity of the shallowness in the characters appealed to me. I guess it takes some effort to deftly capture the depth of shallowness in characters like Jessy or even Karthik. Isn’t this how ‘real’ (or should I say, urban) love stories happen? Yes, there are problems like the language they speak in the film. But, beyond that, the movie is set in a certain ‘class,’ which is even more problematic. This legitimizes or rather essentializes the ‘success’ of love relationships to have them happen only within a restricted class (which is a just a sanitized version of caste). That’s perhaps why movies as these will never become classics like may be a Julie or a Bobby, which were also love stories that tugged at one’s heart strings, but yes, they got a little down and dirty! Something prevents Gautham from pushing the boundaries and he seems rather too happy to work within the confines of class. Me thinks, he works only for the paisa, and he goes just as far it takes to rake in the moolah and no further. After all, he’s not out to change the world or like a real artist shock it at least. However, what he effectively does is get all the single (unkissing; ugh! so catholic) women (we get your convent hangover, director) to not engage or interrogate their own independence, but wait for their princes in shining armor and slide without complaints into roles dictated by patriarchy and their particular caste. 

And, finally, NEP, the game changer for me! Firstly, yes, the setting gets straight As. Secondly, what was so endearing was the glimpse of female desire. Of course, it’s not really anywhere close to the real thing. The fact that the girl was in control of the relationship was nice for a change, but the pukey scenes/dialogues where he says I’ll only pay for us! (Barf! Who paid for her car that you drive around, dude?) and, yea, the faltu tension he so desperately tries to create after his brother’s bride-viewing actually seemed a wee bit comical! But, yea, something I liked was the fact that the heroine had two sisters, which is a welcome change to see in Tamil movies, where most of the houses will have only a boy-girl combination for siblings. And, yes, the sister bonding, something so precious and so incomparable and so rare was so deftly captured. Yes, it was simply irritating (read mortifying) to see the woman do nothing much than  wait around till the prince in shining armor could put away enough money to buy his horse to sweep her off her feet! Of course, it was unbelievable that one would carry a candle for over 4 years! I wouldn’t; not even for a month, especially after such a ghastly breakup! Despite all this, I liked the movie because the woman had some semblance of individuality and independence. 

So, ok, the verdict, I do like Gautham Menon movies, especially when viewing them in the backdrop of some milestone Tamil movies like Nadodigal, Sundarapandian, or even Sethu!

More Fading Façades later...

At My Garden, Today

For oft when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude,
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the Daffodils.

William Wordsworth

Even as a 10-year-old when I first learned this by heart to be recited at a competition, I knew deep within that these words were meant to travel with me forever. Though I didn’t know how a couch looked like, or what being vacant or pensive meant, the words had the power to capture a child’s imagination. Thus, they stayed with me and have returned on and off. And, today, is one such day.

About 2 years ago, on an impromptu trip to Trichur, I had collected some balsam seeds. Now, for those of you who think balsam is some fancy plant, it’s a small, ornamental plant native to India (at least that’s what the Internet says!). It grows to only about 1 to 2 feet and has some most beautifully colored flowers. Bright pink, white, and muted pink are its common colors. But, in Trichur I saw this brilliant violet that took me by surprise and what happened next is of course anybody’s guess: I was on my fours collecting the seeds to grow them closer home.

It’s almost 2 years since that day. Only a couple of months ago, I cleaned out an old bag and threw some aster seeds I had bought in a store. In just about two days, I saw familiar little leaves sprouting. In a week’s time, I knew they were balsam seeds; did the shop guy give me balsam instead of asters, I thought. I waited for some more days, and in the morning today, on our (my son and I) garden stroll, we spotted the bright violet balsam smiling at us. Kavin smiled, gave one his rare focused stares, almost asking me the story behind my ear-to-ear grin. Maybe one day, he will read this post and get his answer. Until then, he may have to wait…

Balsams were introduced to us by mom, who ensured that there was at least one tiny plant, could be anything (an onion, roses, chrysanthamums, etc.) growing in the vicinity. And, she swore that it was dad who had a green thumb, and the poor man was always egged on to plant the seeds, which he did with at least a particle of annoyance, but also with a secret thrill that the plants will definitely come out. So, at one such gardening activity, daddy planted some balsam seeds and in just few days, there were hundreds (ok, am exaggerating) pink and white balsam flowers. Dad and I grinned ear-to-ear on that day. Just the way I grinned today as Kavin smiled. Was it the same handsome smile of daddy that often comes to the inward eye when I on my couch lie in a vacant and pensive mood? Maybe yes…dad lives, his memories return in ever so many beautiful ways.

This balsam is for you, daddy. Will call it the Tom Balsam. 

And, I saw Ilish in Chennai…

Ilish, for the uninitiated, is a fish from the bangla hinterland. But she is not another fish in the sea to be simply dealt with; say with some sesame oil or tamarind (god, forbid!) or some onions or even tomatoes! Ilish, at least to me, is the queen among fishes. And, therefore, should be treated like one; with minimal seasoning and very little cooking so that her inner glow simply shines through and a mere brush with your lips can transport you to worlds that you only dreamt of. 

Ilish to the bongs and hilsa to all non-bongs swims upstream during the monsoon to spawn. Though some dismiss her as a fish with just bones, it’s the discerning tongue that knows what it’s talking about or tasting! Ok, so much for fawning over the Ilish. Let’s get to the real story…

Though a lover of sea food, I don’t much care for the south Indian way of cooking fish, especially with gallons of tamarind and onions and what not! I think this way of cooking completely denatures the flesh and strips fish of its natural juices. It’s of course a different matter that I am also a lover of the Kerala cuisine thanks to my partner’s eternal love affair with Kerala. We’ll deal with that obsession on a different day.

So, back to ilish for now. Back in Delhi when I first heard of cooking fish with mustard, I was a little surprised by the novelty. And that’s because the poor mustard in the south doesn’t get beyond being sputtered or used as a filler in pickles. And of course I was filled with stories (by southies of course) about the strong, revolting flavor of the mustard. So, when presented with the Ilish in mustard sauce (slightly burned though…lovingly of course), I took my first bite rather gingerly. To say that I was in love with the woman who cooked that dish for me is of course an understatement! I was conquered! I couldn’t believe how just some mustard paste, mustard oil, and green chillies put together in a cooker could produce something so out of this world. That day, I was initiated into the beauty that was Ilish. Then, I slowly learned to cook it myself and cooked it at least a 100 times before leaving Delhi for good. And, Ilish joined the list of the many things, besides khadi kurtas, janpath, palika, kebabs, NSD plays, and winters, that I miss in Chennai.

After searching for Ilish  for almost 3 long years, yesterday, at the fish shop, as my eyes fell upon the glittering scales, I almost shrieked at the guy and said, this is Ilish!. He just waved me off absentmindedly and said, yeah, so, you want it? For a split second, I stood there motionless suspended between reality and fantasy (reality being the price and fantasy, holding Ilish in my own hands!). I took it bracing up for jaw-dropping responses back home about the price. Well, that’s just a small price to pay for Ilish. Ain’t it?

So, humming a happy tune, I set off to the kitchen to make ilish. I had to use the sad weikfield mustard powder because white mustard is not available in Chennai, and I don’t quite like using the black mustard. The dishes I finally made were Ilish bhapa, Ilish  paturi, and Ilish  fry. Ilish bhapa is a gravy made with just mustard; paturi is made by wrapping Ilish in a banana leaf (from my garden ;)) and steaming it on a tawa or hot girdle, and the fry of course is with just turmeric and salt and importantly in mustard oil. After a long time, I found myself happy just cooking. It perhaps means good times are ahead…

A small note on the recipes…

Ilish bhapa

Ingredients

Few pieces of Ilish

Some mustard powder (I used weikfield mustard sauce powder)

Few green chillies

Turmeric

Few tablespoons of mustard oil

Method

Wash the fish, pat dry, and keep aside. In a bowl mix a generous amount of mustard powder (you should find this powder in nilgiris, the department store), turmeric, and salt. Take a couple of green chillies and grind them along with this powder, adding some water and some mustard oil. Use this mixture to marinate the fish well and keep aside. Taste the salt. (if you feel yucky tasting raw fish, you are on the wrong page…;)). Then, in a pressure cooker, add some mustard and sputter some finely chopped green chillies, then arrange the fish pieces neatly followed by two slit green chillies and very little water. Shut the lid, simmer, and leave for about 5-10 minutes and switch off.

Ilish  paturi

Ingredients

Few pieces of Ilish

Some mustard powder (I used weikfield mustard sauce powder)

Few green chillies

Turmeric

Few pieces of coconut

Banana leaves

Few tablespoons of mustard oil

Method

Wash the fish, pat dry, and keep aside. In a bowl mix a generous amount of mustard powder, turmeric, and salt. Take a couple of green chillies and some pieces of coconut and grind them along with this powder, and some mustard oil. Do not add any water. Smear this on the fish and wrap them in banana leaves (if you have lots of banana leaf, you can simply fold them into each other or if you don’t have enough banana leaves, just secure them with tooth picks. You could also use turmeric leaves if you do not have banana leaves). Heat a tawa and arrange the banana packets, simmer, and keep turning them over sprinkling some mustard oil on all sides. It shouldn’t take anything more than 5-7 minutes to cook. What signals complete cooking is of course the shriveled look of the banana leaf packets.

Image courtesy

1.       http://www.cityofmine.in/shorse-ilish-a-finger-liking-bengali-dish-of-monsoon

2.       Photos by Saravana Raja (http://saravanaraja.in/)

Casteistic Colour of the Church

This was written exactly 10 long years ago when I still believed in many things; wrongly though. :) Found this buried in one of my old mails and sharing it here because not much has changed about the church even today.  Please pardon some of my assumptions, especially about the evolution of castes or the gross misunderstandings of class as errors of enthusiasm…

Caste has always been intrinsic to the Indian society. But what is Indian about the Church—the ‘called out’ group? This, I have always asked the self-appointed interpreters of the Bible and myself. I found my answers through introspection and by speaking to people outside the walls of the church and never from the leaders who preach and decisively and interpret the Word of God.

These are leaders who talk about or voyeuristically sensationalise the revered crucifixion with their graphic descriptions. They tell you how important it is for a woman to veil her head and not speak loudly in the church because the Bible says so. They also tell the women not to wear a bindi or sandalwood paste (even in marriages where it is offered to the guests) because it is Indian. There is also something that they drill into you.  If you are a true, born-again Christian you cannot or must not identify yourself with the Indian society because we are the citizens of the New Jerusalem. Fair enough? But, they are also the ones who want their children to marry within the same caste!

Why should only the leaders be blamed when most of the Indian Christian population both in India and abroad holds on to caste? It is because these leaders as the upholders of the religion have no responsibility in uprooting this unique, weird custom of India but become leaders or preachers ostensibly for the furtherance of God’s kingdom on earth! (Let me ask them a few things—is God Nadar, Dalit or Vellala? By the way did Adam and Eve belong to the same caste? Isn’t God and Kingdom of God above caste and Gender differences?) Isn’t caste HINDU? If you cannot tolerate a silly dot on the forehead and have the audacity to quote the scripture in Exodus 3: 2, how do you advocate caste? Did you know that the Hindus themselves whom we Christians dismiss and conveniently categorise as idol worshippers are slowly looking down upon caste?

The majority of Indian Christians hold on to Caste. What is it that makes a born-again Christian cling to caste despite following a religion that is above caste? And what is this caste system? It is the pattern of social classes in Hinduism. According to this, the Brahmins are placed at the top followed by the kshtriyas, the vaishyas, the sudras and the outcastes. The Bhagavad Gita lists the various duties and qualities of the people belonging to each caste. To give you an example, the Brahmin is endowed with qualities like loving-kindness, vision and faith, while the duty of the sudra is service! And what kind of service are we talking about? Tasks that involve too much pollution to be done by the caste hindus—dealing with the bodies of dead animals, manufacturing leather goods (to be worn by the caste hindus, ofcourse!) and cleaning up human waste.

So, how did it all this begin? One of the popular theories about the origins of caste is the Purusha Suktha in the Rig Veda. It is about how the people of the four castes came from each organ of brahma, the hindu god of creation. According to the legend, the brahmin came from the head, the kshatriya from the chest, the vaishya from the stomach and the sudra from the feet. Given a choice, I wouldn’t want to materialise out of any of his organs. I would prefer to be made from mud! Then according to hindu mythology I would be called a chandala, whose mere shadow would pollute the caste hindus even from 64 miles! In today’s situation, I wouldn’t be bothered about it. But it was not possible for the dalits or the low caste sudras who were tortured in the name of caste in various parts of India centuries ago? Now, I would like to add here that the lifestyle and livings conditions of the dalits and the sudras did not vary much, except for the fact that untouchability was practised on the dalits and it was not on the sudras*. That was again because the dalits killed, skinned the cows to make musical instruments and ate beef. And as it stands, if you like beef and eat beef you are a chandala!

The dalits and the low caste sudras couldn’t enter temples and didn’t have enough to eat and basically did not have dignity both in life and death. There were times when they couldn’t wear an upper garment and were ridiculed all the time for their so-called lowly birth. When this people came across a God who said “Come to me art thou heavy laden, I will give you rest”, the oppressed sections of the society converted and threw away everything that reminded them of their misery except the memories of stratification of the society. But how has it survived among the Indian christians for over 2000 years? The caste system I believe basically thrives because of the primal human feeling that constantly makes you think that you are always better than the other person. In some cases this feeling helps you to perform and work hard and rise up. But on the other hand with caste system, if you belong to a so-called ‘upper’ caste, you can afford to be lazy and not work. This primal feeling continued in the christian converts and the low caste sudras considered themselves to be above the dalits and started to do to the dalits what was done to them by the ‘upper’ castes before they converted. Thanks to all these people within the church, casteism has survived in certain christian families in such a manner that it will put to shame even the orthodox hindu brahmins!!

Now what kind of examples are we setting up for the future generations? No wonder the christian population according to the 1991 census is 19.6 million which amounts to a measly 2.3% of the total Indian population. And we are content with singing songs with the following words: Parologathai indiargal nerapuval thuthiungal (Indians will fill heaven, Praise). I remember somebody saying, “If christians in India lived as christians, there would not be any other religion in India”. This goes to prove only this, we the christians have not lived like christians, despite having to follow only two commandments—“Love the Lord your God with all your heart, with all your mind and with all your strength and Love thy neighbour as thyself”. Infact, to illustrate who the neighbour is our Lord related a parable where a samaritan (today’s dalit) helps a man in need. With that Jesus removed class differences and in the Indian context, caste differences. So, how is that we who have chosen to follow christ can afford to be caste-conscious? Don’t we consider ourselves to be the products of the revolution Christ spearheaded 2000 years ago against rules that tied down people and the sectarian outlook that granted salvation only to a select few?

If we can’t act now, it is pointless to be christians and doing all kinds missionary work converting the tribals, but by no means letting them into our families because of caste. The time has come for us to wake up and identify our sin and to sin no more. Otherwise it is only fair that the christians who cannot give up caste reconvert to Hinduism where you would atleast have a religious basis to profess and practise caste. That way, the rest of us would be able to worship the Lord in oneness of spirit and truth.

Hannah Jayapriya

(hannah_j@rediffmail.com)

This day that year…

This day that year…

They brought the beautiful man dead

Dead as dead can be

He didn’t flinch as they shaved his beard

Didn’t wipe the torrential tears

That poured

Still pour

Each time the foot dashes a stone

For no hands remove the stone

Or

Heal the bleeding heart

That cries, bellows, cringes

At the beautiful man shaped

Hollowness deep within

No tomorrows…

In a sea of dark water

Amidst the ruthless, acid rain

Steering a rudderless boat

Filled with decaying, broken

Bones of dreams

Swaying and chipping away

As the salt of tears

Wipes away the remnant

Peals of painted hope

And ushers in the sink hole

Of acid springs

And

No tomorrows…

The Show Must Go On…

The other day, I came across a music company that went by this name, and it got me thinking. Whose show were they talking about? Is it the individual’s or the team’s? Or, did they mean the show will go on, no matter what happens to the individual/team? The more I think of it, the more convinced I am that it’s the latter; no matter what happens, the show always goes on.

We have actually traveled a year away from the dreadful events around the tsunami and earthquake that shattered normal life in Japan. Despite such a catastrophe, life simply goes on, without any compunction to stop for the dead, the injured, the shattered, the depressed, or the immobilized. Most of the times, when one negotiates such crises, it almost seems like the unseen hand of fate moves mysteriously and sometimes even with accurate precision to corner a single person and cause irreversible damage. I guess, it is in such instances that the oppressed/broken soul seeks help from equally mysteriously (most often spurious) sources, such as astrologers or gods. After all, materialism and atheism have become the luxury of the affordable classes, and of course it is completely another matter that god men and religious idiosyncrasies abound among the rich.

I have been wondering what it is about humans that we continue to go on without ever stopping or dropping anchor in the sea of life? Is it because we have no anchors or is it because the only way to stop would be to completely abdicate all claim to life the way we know it?

I still remember the early morning phone call I had with a close friend immediately after my dad’s funeral. Though I don’t remember most of what we spoke, I clearly remember seeing that the color of the sky was still blue, the rising sun was still crimson, the leaves on the trees were green, and the morning breeze was still cool and soothing. None of these had changed just because something fundamentally had gone missing in my life and that my grief had immobilized me. It seemed at that time that one was on a dark, dark road with nothing to hold, nothing to feel, and nothing to see.

Of course time, the other component of this mysterious life, went by, and I found a way to deal with the grief and go on; after all the show does go on and whether we want it or not, we will be part of the bandwagon, and it’s a choice that we make whether to ‘enjoy’ the various sights and whoop for joy or let everything whiz past us while we wallow in misery and sorrow.

So, are we to assume that there’s anyway no choice at all, but to completely submit oneself to what fate brings to our life next? Can we or is it possible to influence one’s life events? I remember a long lost friend who used to say things like it’s in my horoscope that I will face ‘bad’ luck for the next one year! Whoa! And it was only my bad luck that I had to even share the planet with such people! I am sure such people will have the most idiotic questions, like for instance, they might ask, how could you have influenced and stopped the tsunami! Well, we may not be able to stop the tsunami, but we could definitely have stopped having built the nuclear power plant, if we ever bothered about nature and humans in the real sense.

The more collective energies we put into building this planet, I believe we will be able to even influence such events with precision and hold each others’ hands when a calamity strikes. Most often, even grief appears tolerable when there are people to share it with. But, what’s rather saddening is the fact that as the show goes on, we are becoming more isolated and alienated, which makes the going exponentially difficult.  If only we could build bridges instead of burning them all the time, if we could forgive and not hold on to grudges, if we could be generous and not petty, and  if we could be a little accommodating than demanding, the show might be a bit more enjoyable to all of us.

Ps: People, please be generous and not scathing with your comments because I have written this great difficulty, hoping against hope that I can restart my blog and fish out my old vigor and passion. 

Picture Courtesy: 1. Photograph from Mainichi Shimbun/Reuters

A tsunami wave crashes over a street in Miyako City, Iwate Prefecture, in northeastern Japan on March 11. 2. A photograph of a rose flower in a plant that I have nurtured for over a year now.

The Need for and the Danger of Slutwalk

A few years ago, I overheard a couple of feminist friends talking about surrogacy and the need for a more nuanced debate in India, and how a superficial engagement with the issue, without any deeper understanding, could easily pave the way for even more subjugation of the already marginalized women in third world countries. The issue in question was how some people, even liberated upper class women viewed surrogacy as a mere choice, without contextualizing it in the neo-liberal economy where market forces only exploit and strengthen the already structured inequalities in the system, though on the face of it, choice, liberation, and freedom for all seemed to reign supreme. At that time, thanks to the patience of the two feminist friends, I understood the need to contextualize any struggle, and think before jumping into any bandwagon of any ‘radical’ struggles.

The Slutwalkers of Canada

It is one such context that one needs to place the rather ‘radical and revolutionary’ struggle called the slutwalk. Prima facie, the visceral rejection I feel for the term is because I think the word is akin to Gandhi’s harijan, which completely lacked any empathy for the struggling masses and sought to blunt the politicization of the dalit people, thereby paving way for a long-term subjugation with the ‘happy and proud’ consent of the victims! Secondly, what’s the slutwalk all about? It’s quite simple (rather simplistic!), ‘you have no business to touch me, irrespective of how I am dressed, and even if I am dressed like a slut.’ Fair enough.

The Sex Workers of Kolkata

Then, what is the point in dressing ‘like’ a slut? Let’s just look at India? Who is a slut? How many of us have actually seen sluts? I have interacted with a couple of them from the devadasi community (the community of women segregated by the bloody brahminical caste system to do just sex work for upper caste men), and they were not different from any of the other women. Only that they did sex work for a living, while the rest of us did office work for a living; there was no other difference except for the difference in brutality that the class-conscious patriarchy had dealt with us and ‘them.’ And, today, the women organizing slutwalk, without taking into cognizance the brutality of patriarchy and its oppression on women who were termed sluts, seem to embrace the very word and even want to flaunt it! And, these are women who don’t do sex work for a living, but somehow want to embrace the identity; how convenient is that?

A Sold Cow

For years, people have been fighting tooth and nail to just legalize this damned profession, with no success, and now, people are fighting for a cultural legalization of ‘slutting,’ or at least shall we say a cultural acceptance of being a slut, or may be being dressed like a slut. And, how do they plan to achieve it? By walking in hordes in skimpy clothes, which in their skewed view is of how sex workers are dressed! Wow!
It’s not without reason that one begins to think that a hypocritical society can only produce hypocritical and selfish struggles! The slutwalk India doesn’t come into existence because women in Kashmir were raped by the armed forces or strong women like Thangjam Manorama were brutally assaulted by the Assam Rifles, or not even when women on city roads are habitually sexually assaulted, irrespective of the clothes one wears, but when a Canadian policeman shoots off his mouth! What about the policemen closer home, who constantly taunt, harass, and even murder women? How is that there’s no such outrage? Do these women (the slutwalkers) feel more in solidarity with the western (read white-skinned) women than our own women, who do cringe, cry, and even commit suicide when harassed and termed a slut? Perhaps, there’s a simple solution: women come out and accept the term slut and in fact look at it as a liberating experience to be called a slut and do sex work in a market where the consumers are predominantly men. Is this the limits of one’s imagination or understanding of women liberation? This is perhaps the death of imagination, or a more sinister, neo-liberal-market-economy-dictated imagination!

A 'taken' woman

After moving to Chennai, I have seen some struggles by working class women. Truth be told, as a feminist, it did unsettle me to see women or young girls dressed in the so-called ‘decent’ clothes, in a way that makes women conscious of their bodies all the time. In those struggles, I have seen girls adjusting each others’ dupattas or saree pallus so that nothing ‘untoward’ is visible. Even women who are part of democratic struggles haven’t exactly escaped what for many of us is a flippant issue (shame at one’s own body). This is the place where there is need for, if not a slutwalk but the awareness of the way patriarchy creates shame in a woman for being a woman and the need to break the shackles of modesty that patriarchy ‘clothes’ women with! And we need to not only break the ideas of modesty, but also markers of patriarchy on women, such as the magalsutra (thali), the damned sindoor (vermilion ), the toe rings, etc.

We need to also identify how the market keeps bringing back these as fashion statements and women actually take to these as if these really make them look good! And, again look good for whom? For men! Perhaps, more than slutwalk, what we need are perhaps some lessons from history about how the sindoor came into existence; how sold out cows were marked on their foreheads with the vermilion and today the taken women (married) women have a vermilion marker on their foreheads!
I believe more than a slutwalk, what we need is for women to create a shared space that unites all women who are pummeled every day by patriarchy in a myriad of ways and break the roots of patriarchy and identify its ever changing colors and deal with it. But, can all women across classes and castes be united, without giving up the privileges of class and caste?
If the answer is no, and that the slutwalk is being organized only to represent the aspirations of a certain class of women, then don’t claim to represent ‘all’ women or even the women who do sex work for a living, especially if you do not share their world view even by a decimal point. So much, yes so much work needs to be done before we could see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, especially for the Indian woman, and the slutwalk will only lead them into an even more darker tunnel that is conceived by the holy matrimony of patriarchy and the market.

Ps: Image courtesy: 1. http://www.flickr.com/photos/bbcworldservice/3512785840/in/set-72157617862244116/
 2. http://www.ibtimes.com/articles/166482/20110621/slutwalk-capitol-hill-neighborhood-in-seattle-women-in-provocative-outfits-capitol-hill-neighborhood.htm
3. http://www.india-forums.com/forum_posts.asp?TID=1708019&TPN=9

In the Island of White Sand

In an island of white sand
Come wafts of greenery
The scent of dry blood
Washed and cleaned
Blemish free
Amidst a sandy bog
Of mush and memory
Of a lost world
A blur of a face
Erased out
By tears and words
Within a labyrinth
Of hidden thoughts
Forbidden freedoms
Come alight
In a heart of darkness
Poems and mysteries
Of real love, bound
And tied
Only to be set free
In the island of lost hope
To stamp out any remnant
Embers of life
Within white sands
And myrrh
and white cloth
That curtained
And ended
In the island of white sand
Where greenery wafts
Between death by cross
Or words
Left unsaid and undone

Of Bygones…

In a land of alien
Where the tongue is sharp
And the mind blunt
The cry of the heart is
Deep scarlet
Muffled and snubbed
Crushed by the wheels
Of life gone by
Cries the embers
Of a leftover lifetime
Tears that dry at the corners
Refuse to fall
Or fuse
Amidst the life that gallops
And guffaws
At fools that trust
That stay back
That dry and wilt
And die and be buried