Envy

A drop of water, leaked forth,
crevices of lifeless platitudes
seethe in colourless contours.

She looked at me-masked in
life's vitreous glory, the green
and blue spinning turquoise
in my lush fertile abundance.

I giggled, basking mercilessly
in her obvious envy; barren,
broken, wobbling in despair.

Bleeding, the profuse tragedy
of humanity, I scream. Green
to brown and dust, my womb
empties into ashes of destiny.

She shivered, helpless to share
my fiery heart, molten in iron
and irony. The moon trembled.

The Pathology of Culture

Two phenomena have captured the frenzy of the media lately. One would be the Slutwalk being organised in New Delhi and the other is the unfortunate assault on an IT professional from Kochi called Thasni Banu. Both very different from each other but interrelated to an extent where it becomes imperative to understand one to understand the other. What I want to do here is not writing about moral policing alone, as such, but about how these two are connected and ask some questions.

First off, there are the similarities. One, we have a girl and a guy, traveling alone at night and slapped around for not having a ‘Kochi culture’. The other, we have millions of women in India, who walk the streets every day, being taunted, teased and being the victims of ‘Indian culture’. Two, there are questions raised on the character of Thasni Banu. After all, what Malayalee woman would travel alone at night with a friend! On the other side of the coin, victim blaming plays a very important role when it comes to all those cat calls and vulgar comments passed at women, those skillful hands groping your back. The major facet of victim blaming is always the dress. Yeah, she asked for it alright. Look at her hips go in those tight jeans, aren’t they tantalizing? They seem to be asking men to grab them. Never mind the fact that curves are accentuated more in saris or that the tissue thin blouses show every heave of the breasts. That is accepted cultural vulgarity, I suppose. Never mind that even sari clad women are subject to eve-teasing and rapes. Three, Thasni Banu and these millions of women do not walk on the streets or travel because they want the exercise. They do it because they must, in order to feed themselves, to cloth and shelter themselves. Those are human rights (The statement is made assuming that the reader considers women as human and not as cattle, as many do. If not, yes, women are human beings, i.e., Homo sapien. Look it up if you don’t believe me.). Not a privilege.

But the similarities end there. We could include the Thasni Banu incident as a subset of this rape culture and victim blaming phenomenon. Though I disagree with and disapprove of Slutwalk on many fronts, I cannot but offer my solidarity to the basic philosophy behind it that no matter what we wear, nobody has the right to touch us or even ogle at us. This rape culture aka Indian culture or Kerala culture or whatever we call it, is quite literally a disease. It is like AIDS. It ineffective in small doses. But once the number grows, the immune system fails. An attack here and there may not seem like a big deal. We might be thinking that it is only one Thasni Banu. But the truth is, Thasni Banu incident is a symptom of our society’s dysfunction.

A question which might arise in your mind is-hey, but this is not restricted to women. Remember the crack down on low waist apparel worn by men? Then how can it be a rape culture? The answer is, it is not. Both are moral policing. Both are extremely derogatory and unwarranted. It seems as though our society is more concerned with how goes on under our dresses rather than how our brains can be used for the betterment of the society, a society which focuses on the culture below our waist. But there is a difference between the moral policing of women and men. When it comes to men, it is about impressing upon them the idea that they, as the dominant sex should uphold the virtue of his mother, sister, wife, daughter and friend. On the other hand, when it comes to women, the idea is thorough oppression. A slap to put Thasni in her place, to tell her she should obey the social norms of the superior sex. A vulgar comment to a girl on the street to tell her that she isn’t allowed beyond the four walls of her house (her father’s or husband’s house, not hers.) and that her every private part is open to public inspection. Where is culture in this? Culture is a part of civilization. I don’t think we can find any civilization in what is happening in our society. Even the dogs which approach the bitch when she is in heat has the permission to smell up the pheromones.

Now the argument maybe that we need certain restrictions on the movement of the individuals of the society for it to function smoothly and that the individuals who perpetrate such violence are merely being the guardians of the fabric. As I said to a friend, there is no such thing as restrictive freedom. There simply cannot be, when human beings are designed to always move forward in a direction which will maximize the chances of his/her self-actualization. A society which holds people captive in restrictions and says that we have the freedom to do whatever we want within those restrictions is by any standard regressive. True, primitive tribes were much more equal and non-restrictive in that sense. But the fact is, they moved forward to new ideas of freedom. Progress is always about freedom, even personal. But the gender aspect still lags eons behind the economic and political freedoms that we enjoy.

Coming back to the issue at hand, can Thasni stop traveling at night? No. Will all the women who work at night or even day be safe? No. We seem to have arrived at a bottleneck here. In either case, women suffer. Going by the usual rhetoric, it is necessary that the democratically elected Government of our nation and right now the State does something about the safety of the ever increasing work force of women, especially those who work late at night. But it is simplistic to say that just the Government or the women alone are supposed to fight against such oppression. It is the society’s responsibility as a whole to come out of the dark ages if it wants to move forward. It is ironic that if a woman wants to contribute to her society, she has to overcome the hurdles set by it first.

But suppose that Thasni Banu was going with a man late at night, not to work but somewhere else. Suppose that she was wearing a mini skirt. Suppose that she had her arms around the guy while riding pillion. Suppose that she was whispering naughty things to him, just to him. Still, who gives you the right to interfere? Unless, that repressed culture below your waist is suddenly agitated at the power she has. That culture, dear sisters, can be thoroughly subdued with a good kick at the orbs of their supposed power. Start wearing the high heels of resistance, girls.          

The Story of a Razor

This might be a difficult topic to broach, especially in a world where everything connected with a woman is unclean. This is not to scandalize anyone, especially since it is really embarrassing for me to write and share this. So, if you as a reader, are not comfortable with ‘gross’ and ‘indecent’, it would be better if you stop reading right here and now.

My mother has imparted many pearls of wisdom to me and one of the most womanly pieces of wisdom would be on reproductive health. Since I ‘became a woman’ when I was a kid, it was necessary that I knew exactly how to take care of myself. Within the ambit was shaving my pubic hair. There! I said it. An Indian girl talking about pubic in public. 

For years I had thought it was something I had to do because my mother told me, then for years I did it because it was cleaner and more hygienic, at least for me. But the crux of the matter lies not in the phenomenon, but in the tool. The ever so holy razor! Guys might frown at this. After all, there are so many brands and range of products to shave. But truly, is there? What you are offered is close shave, smooth and smoothest. What we want is safe and without the issue of ingrown hairs arising later.  At times, I would have to endure not shaving because it was hard to find the exact razor that I want, when I want. Each shave would leave my skin tender and raw. As opposed to after shave lotions, we apply moisturizers and heaven help us if it is not the right one. For a girl in our very conservative society, these are things really hard to come by. We don’t see the products on TV. We don’t read about them in magazines. After all, feminine products are limited to sanitary pads (well, we simply can’t keep cleaning blood off our thighs, can we now? That would be gross.) and cosmetics. We get to know of the products from shop keepers and friends. A whole lot of women at the mercy of strangers.  

Then, last month, I asked my brother to get me a razor when he went shopping. The guy bought me an ultra costly razor. My usual brand, but a different product. He told me that the other product wasn’t available in that shop and this looked better. I didn’t even know such a product existed. I didn’t know what specifications would give me a nick free, safe, smooth shave. He did. He understood how the design works exclusively for women. It took a man to find the right product for a woman. A part of me felt offended that I hadn’t seen this first. A part of me felt happy that now I had a better alternative. But the largest part of me was wondering- why didn’t I find this razor before and why didn’t the system want me to?

Both the questions are interrelated. Answer number one is quite simple yet enlightening -because I didn’t know what I was looking for. Incredulous to imagine that. After all, women were gatherers predominantly. We could cherry pick the life out of the rainbow of fruits. I could dive into a pool of earrings and come out with the exact ones I want. Or go into a bookstore, browse the titles in one glance and know exactly which ones I should shortlist. But I didn’t know what products were available for my most sacred, intimate necessities. It was kept anointed in some corner among the men’s razors and forgotten. I was not targeted as the market for the product, because after all, shaving is a man’s arena. Women are meant to be born with silky smooth skin as they show in the advertisements and if they don’t, they have hair removers and waxing to take care of the detail. The removers, ladies, are in the other section, right next to the fairness cream.

The answer to question number two is even easier, though longer and convoluted unravels quite easily if you gut it the right way- because we are meant to have no choice. Women are invisible. Think about this. Everything except what a woman ‘needs’ to attract a man, is made for men exclusively. What women want is derived from those existing goods, like the good old Adam and Eve story. Only, in this society, it takes on a whole new meaning. Subjugation becomes so thoroughly ingrained in our being, that even we are programmed to shut reason off. I should have demanded my choices, instead of being satisfied with what they wanted me to find.On some level, the society has made sure that my body disgusts me, that I cannot ask for my share of TV space, that I should not be made the target audience of brands, that I should go around like a criminal for wanting to keep my genital area clean.

I hardly think this is the just my case. I have some friends who are conflicted about same or similar issues, which on a broad scale can be summarized as the apathy and indifference of a morally perverted institution when it comes to women’s needs. Not the kind of needs like how to make perfect sambhar or which washing powder gets the stains out of my husband’s shirt. But the real leaky, messy, smelly needs of a woman’s body without the accompanying cellulite dolls of the era. Whatever goes on in the parts of my body which the society cannot see is not its immediate concern, apparently. Then society should stop dictating the terms of my reproduction as well. It should also be quiet on how I want to utilise my body, including my brain. If it pretends it has the right and ownership over it, then every single cell of my body should be nurtured, my mind should be freed. But as long as it doesn’t happen, I am forced to hold a placard for my pubes.