The Nurses of Kerala: The Unsung Heroines

Some years back, i was invited to give the keynote address at the graduating ceremony of nursing students. As usual, i went with a well prepared speech. But i hadn’t bargained for the intense solemnity of the occasion, and when my turn came to speak, i couldn’t. I was overwhelmed by the sight of the forty odd graduating nurses dressed in white, looking up at me expectantly, seriously. I suddenly felt a lump in my throat and i found myself questioning my locus standi. My position on the rostrum implied the possession of a level of wisdom and a certain degree of competence which qualified me to advise these young ladies who had made a conscious decision to do God’s own work on earth. I felt humble and wholly inadequate all on sudden. My well prepared speech suddenly looked hollow and lacking in auchitya.

My extended silence must have puzzled the audience comprising the graduating students, and members of the management running the nursing school. I could have reeled out the well crafted speech but something wouldn’t let me. On an impulse, i took the audience into confidence. I told them about my predicament. Now i don’t remember the details of the speech, but i do know that whatever i told them came straight from my heart. And the feeling uppermost in me then was a sense of awe at the nobility of those young ladies who chose a life of sacrifice in the service of mankind in pain.

Recently, i had the occasion to go to the Heart Hospital in Bandra. Almost all the nurses there were from kerala. The patients were raving about them, their efficiency, their dedication and friendly nature. I felt proud of belonging to the state they hailed from.

The contribution of these women to the famous kerala model cannot be overrated. I wonder if we in Kerala realise and acknowledge the role of these professionals in enhancing the economic condition of the state. The Diaspora of our women nurses not only to other parts of India, but to all parts of the planet has brought economic stability to a huge number of families across the state. Many of these families would have gone under in those difficult days of social change when land failed to support them, and unemployment was rampant. Young women from traditional families trained themselves for this noble profession and went far and wide to serve humanity and bring income to their struggling families.

I do not know if the heavy contribution of this category of women is officially acknowledged. I do not know if statistics are available to see how many families have prospered on the hard-earned money of these heroines.

And women taking up the nursing profession is not a recent phenomenon. The trend had started long before independence and increased geometrically after that. When times were bad for the once moderately landed gentry in the interiors of kerala, the brave young daughters took upon themselves the onus of taking care of the families. They did not leave it to the males as was the tradition in the heavily patriarchal society of kerala. They chose not to languish in overprotection that the society decrees for women. Instead they decided to stand shoulder to shoulder with the sons to find a profession for themselves and sustenance for the families.

Today nurses from Kerala are a much sought after category, thanks to these women’s exemplary performance in this field for several decades. The profession has become not only very lucrative, but also a launching pad to go abroad. This has attracted males also to this profession and there is a marked increase in men taking up nursing as a profession in kerala.

Kudos to our superwomen, and big thank you from us in Kerala.

True story: Chaya - Part 1

This story was told by Rejini. Chaya is one of the four women whom Rejini tried to help out. There is much in common in the tales of all four women. The resilience and the sense of responsibility of the women are the most common factors. Rejini has come to the conclusion that Indian men from the economically backward class are usually worthless creatures. A sweeping generalisation? Or is it true?

She lives in Mumbai, the youngest daughter of a mill worker who owned a room in a chawl in downtown Mumbai. She had a younger brother who was a kid when their parents died. The house (the room) was bequeathed to her, ‘cos she looked after her parents. She and her brother lived in that house after the death of their parents.

Chaya was not literate. She worked in the nearby apartment complex, in two or three flats, and earned enough to eke out a rather decent living.

Then her troubles began. She met a young man who had a decent job in a central government concern and they got married – in a temple. He hailed from some remote area in Maharashtra, and moved into her house. Soon they had a son.

When the son was two years old, her husband went to his village to see his parents who had refused to accept Chaya as their daughter in law, as she brought no dowry. He returned after two weeks and informed Chaya that his family had forced him to get married. That marriage was properly registered. He was apologetic. He couldn’t resist the family pressure, he told her. With his public sector job, he was an eligible bachelor in his community, and when the proposal came from a girl who would bring a fat dowry, the family fell for it. Chaya’s husband buckled under the pressure from his community. It did not matter to the bride and her family that he had another wife – no wife as far as they were concerned.

Soon he started shuttling between the two wives. Chaya proved to be a convenient arrangement for him ‘cos she provided the accommodation. In Mumbai free accommodation is a bonanza.
In the meanwhile, Chaya found a new employer who was genuinely interested in her welfare. So she gave up her other jobs and was happy working for Rejini, her new employer. The main attraction was the fact that Rejini did not mind chaya bringing her little son when she came to make rotis in the evening. The other memsahib’s used to make a fuss. She came to work for Rejini in the morning after her son went to school. In the evenings the mother and son came together. The son sat watching the TV which Rejini’s children switched on for him.

Now, Rejini was a South Indian. She was a person genuinely interested in human beings and loved listening to their stories. It didn’t take her long to realise that Chaya’s life would soon run into rough weather. She tried to warn Chaya, to tell her the present arrangement did not portend well for her. Chaya was not receptive to the warning.

“You don’t know amma(she called her amma ‘cos she thought all south Indians are ammas). My husband is a very good man”, she asserted.

“Then why did he marry again?” Rejini asked.

“What could he do when the parents, relatives and other prominent members of his community insisted. He needs them too in his life, no?’

Rejini could not believe her ears. Chaya seemed to be so happy and content. It did not seem to matter to her that she was sharing her husband with another woman.

“He takes care of us”, Chaya continued. “He is putting our son through a private school and he goes by the school bus. He buys the expensive uniforms and books for him’.

“Then why do you have to work?”, Rejini asked.

“Some extra money is always welcome. After all i have to look after my brother. He does not have a job yet.”

At the beginning of the school year, Rejini asked her if she needed some help.

“No amma, my husband will take care of everything”.

Then one day, Chaya brought her son when she came to work in the morning.

“ It’s a holiday today”, she said by way of explanation.

“But i saw others from the same school going to school in the morning”, countered Rejini. Many children from the apartment went to the same private school and Rejini knew them from their uniforms.

“Only his class has a holiday today. The class teacher is not well”, explained Chaya, looking away.
Rejini said nothing though she knew that Chaya was not speaking the truth. The boy accompanied her the next day and the next and the next.

“Why isn’t he going to school?”, asked Rejini.

“I told you, his teacher is not well’, Chaya said.

“I know that’s not true”, said Rejini sternly. ‘don’t lie to me. Why isn’t Sanjay going to school”

Chaya was silent and continued chopping vegetables. Rejini snatched the knife from her hand threw it into the kitchen sink and snapped, ”Chaya, look at me. Why isn’t Sanjay going to school? I want an answer”

“My husband did not have money to pay the bus fees”, blurted out Chaya.

Rejini was distressed. “Listen Chaya, this is going to be the shape of things to come. Get his TC from the school and put him in this school”, said Rejini pointing to the government school adjacent to the apartment.

Chaya was indignant. “My husband won’t let me do that. He doesn’t want his son to go to government school. The company is bad. Teaching is not proper”

Rejini tried to persuade her.

“Don’t worry amma. He’ll get some arrears today and we’ll pay the bus fee.

The next day, Chaya came alone. She looked triumphantly at Rejini with that i –told- you- so look.

A month later, Sanjay came with his mother in the morning.

“Bus fees?”, Rejini asked.

“School fees too”, said Chaya. She kept her eyes hooded. “He is finding it difficult to run two households. How can i blame him?’ she asked, a little defiantly.

“Will you advance salary for bus fees?”. It was the first time that she asked for an advance.

“No”, said Rejini. “But I’ll take care of his needs if you transfer him to this school”.

“Ok”, she said meekly.

Sanjay, thus started going to the state run school.

Soon, Rejini noticed that a change had come over Chaya. She was subdued, preoccupied.

“What’s wrong?” Rejini asked her one day.

“Last week his other wife came home and started fighting with me. She said i was fleecing him.”

‘He doesn’t give her money? Doesn’t he support her?” He had a child by her too.

“No. He can’t handle the situation and so he has taken to gambling. He doesn’t give either of us anything.”

“Then don’t let him into your house”, Rejini suggested.

“It’s not easy for a woman like me to live in that locality without a husband”. She was still young and it was not the safest of places for a pretty young woman like her.

AS days passed, Rejini noticed that Chaya was growing quieter and quieter, and was also getting absent minded. One day, Chaya’s neighbour Sunenda ,who worked in the opposite flat, asked to meet Rejini.

“Chaya is having problems at home. Her brother wants the house to be transferred to his name. Madam, you please tell her not to do that.”

Rejini was horrified. She confronted Chaya with the issue.

‘What do you propose to do?’

“I don’t know”, she said. “My sisters are forcing me to give the house to my brother. They say that it is not a done thing for the woman to inherit family property,” she said.

“But your parents gifted it to you. There is no law against it”, Rejini told her.

“ My siblings come home every day and quarrel with me over this”.

Rejini told her she’ll get in touch with activists and sort it out.

“I know legally the house is mine. And if i involve activists, or go to the court, nobody can take it away from me, but madam, you will go away soon and who will be there for me if i antagonise all my relatives?”

Chaya transferred the house to her never -do -well brother and in two months time she was thrown out. Sunenda, the good soul who informed me about the problem persuaded her parents to give Chaya and her son a small space in one of the rooms they had in a chawl.

“A tiny room amma”, said Chaya, “ half the size of this kitchen. We cook and sleep and keep all our belongings in that room. I have to pay Rs 500/ as rent”

Next month Chaya told Rejini she was pregnant.

Two months later she had bleeding and went to a local “doctor’ who told her the child got aborted.

“Didn’t you go to the hospital?”, Rejini asked.

“i went to her clinic. She said the foetus is gone completely, and nothing more needs to be done,’

Two months later, Rejini’s college going daughter pointed out to the mother that Chaya is losing weight but has developed a paunch. Chaya noticed that her daughter was right and a terrible suspicion took root in her mind.

“Chaya, why don’t you see a gynaecologist?’ Rejini asked.

“i was planning to go to our doctor. I haven’t got my periods after the abortion”.

Rejini hauled her to a proper gynec who, after examining Chaya, confirmed that she was still pregnant. “Four months if i go by the dates she gave me.’

“What was that bleeding about”, Rejini asked.

‘i don’t know. Anyway, the child is still intact.”

“Will it be ok?. After all she had bleeding when she was 2 months pregnant”, asked Rejini anxiously.

“Let’s hope all’ll be fine”, the doctor said.

Meanwhile, Rejini’s husband’s transfer orders came and they had to leave on the 5th of July for Kerala. Rejini was upset about Chaya.

Chaya was shattered.

“There’s a hospital in Bandra run by nuns”, Rejini told her.” I met them last week and asked them if they will take you in. They have a convent in Telegaon where they have quarters for helpers. There is a school also in the compound. I have asked them to give you a job in that convent. If they take you, you can stay in the quarters and your son can go to the school. They want to see you before they take a decision. We’ll go there this Monday itself. We have to leave for Kerala on Thursday.”

Chaya was happy, and brightened up at the thought of the security this arrangement would give her.

On Monday morning Rejini got ready and waited for Chaya. She didn’t come at the appointed time. Those were the days when maids did not have cell phones; so there was no way of contacting Chaya.

An hour later, the door bell rang. Rejini opened the door. Sunenda stood there with a hesitant smile on her face.

“Madam, Chaya has delivered. A baby girl”

“But that’s premature”, exclaimed Rejini. “Is the baby ok?”

“It’s not premature”, explained Sunenda.”Chaya got her dates all wrong. The delivery was normal and the baby is fine”.

As Rejini closed the door, she found herself thinking of the ignorance and helpless of that class of women in Mumbai. In Kerala, her state, women – even the poorest of the poor - were much more enlightened and empowered.

(to be continued in Chaya 2)

Missing Artefacts

In my saner moments I think i must be mad.

Mind-boggling philosophies that'd dethrone Nietzche

Shed blood at the altar of paradigms.

No hoax, this sacrifice.

Clinging to roots that clutch

And to the steel bar with a toe on the footboard

While eyes dart frantically

Now the clock, now the milk about to spill over,

Now the name boards on superfasts.

Wincing at the ‘over’ signal

Of the BPL washing machine,

Jumping out of the skin

At the whistle of the pressure cooker.

Seismic rumblings erupt and flow

Into shapeless scorching lava.

No moulds to trap the molten flow

Into Artefacts.

Words fail.

In my saner moments I think I must be mad.

Written on July 11, 1994

Nuns' tales - 3

My friend Sister Rose (name changed) was waiting with the crowd which thronged the pavements on both sides of a street in Ottawa (I think) waiting to see Nelson Mandela who was visiting Canada. This was soon after his release and so the halo around his head shone luminous and bright.

It was a summer day and so bright and hot (I was surprised when she told me this ‘cos my idea of Canada was that of a country always dull and freezing). The sun was beating down right into her eyes and she looked around for shade, as she was prone to migraine.There was no shade anywhere and she seriously began contemplating going back to her cubicle in the university where she was doing research. Just then she saw a demonstration moving up the street slowly, with a gigantic banner which cast a huge shadow on several rows of people participating in the demonstration. She craned her neck to see what was written on it. It made no sense to her ‘cos it was in French and she hadn’t picked up enough French yet.

Just then she noticed a lady who was shouting out slogans loud, beckon to her and those around her to join the demonstration. Delighted, Sr. Rose jumped out from the side walk and joined the demonstration. Since the slogans were in French she couldn’t follow what was being demanded but she lipsync-ed to the sound of whatever was being shouted. She felt terribly relieved to be away from the sun and travelled some distance with the demonstrators.

Once she regained her sense of well being from walking in the shade of the banner, she began to look around at the sidewalk, smiling at the faces from the university and the convents she recognised. It was then that she noticed that she was attracting a lot of attention. Her friends from the university were pointing out to her and laughing. The malayalee nuns were also laughing, typically covering their mouths. Even to strangers whom she didn’t know, she seemed to be affording a lot of amusement. They were pointing out to her and laughing.

“Possibly nun's dress” she thought. “Guess nuns don’t take to the streets in this part of the world. If only these people knew the role we played in the Vimochana Samaram back home in Kerala”.

Her row had reached a group of young students who were pointing out to her and guffawing and giggling and dissolving into peals of laughter. Sr. Rose was thoroughly confused . Just then a Canadian colleague who was with this group of students shouted out to her, smiling from ear to ear:”Hey, didn’t know you were one of these”.

Curious, Sr. Rose turned to the lady next to her who was yelling out something at the top of her voice.

“What’s this demonstration about?” she asked.

“Oh, you don’t know”, she asked looking surprised.”This is a demonstration for the rights of the lesbians, organised by the local Lesbian Club”.

Nuns' Tales - 2

It was 6 in the evening when Sr. Goretti entered one of the dimly lit bathing rooms which were built in a long row. The thunder showers of October were just over and it was dark. The Septuagenarian sister Goretti pulled the tin door behind her and sent the hook latch home with a flip of her fingers. She then started discarding layers of clothes, something she hated doing. She flung them one by one on the thin line stretched across the corner opposite the door. When it came to the chemise, she hesitated. In her early days in the convent, the chemise was supposed to remain on the body during the bathing act, but over years the unwritten law was put in place that nudity during the act of bathing was not that unpardonable a deed.
She pulled the chemise over her head, flung it over the other clothes and was about to reach for the aluminium mug when she felt a movement under the line where she had put her clothes. Sister Goretti looked in the direction of the sound and she froze!
There, with its head almost touching her long outer habit which hung from the line, was a cobra, its hood spread wide and eyes looking at her with that classic aloofness.
Unlatch the door and jump out, natural instincts told her.
Oh God, How can you, nurture admonished. What, run out in this state of undress in full view of all those novices and aspirants, and also the man who comes to clean the cowshed? No way Goretti.
Goretti’s face became hard. Of course she remained absolutely immobile while these thoughts chased each other in her mind, for she knew the slightest movement and the snake would strike.
She looked venomously at the snake. You vile creature, she thought. Eve fell into your deadly trap and all mankind is still paying for it. But you shall not tempt this Goretti. No you ugly serpent, history shall not repeat. I will not let down my saviour.
And thus stood the serpent in all its crowning glory and Goretti in all her shrivelled nudity, staring at each other, totally immobile.
Oh saints in heaven, help me. How can I make an honourable exit from this wretched bathing room, wailed Sister Goretti while she continued to look with defiant hatred and steely determination into the slanted eyes of the tempter.
More time passed. No miracle happened. Even making a lightning grab for her chemise would provoke the snake and it would strike, she knew. Oh God, I’d be found dead in the bathroom with not a stitch on, she thought distressfully.
Naked I came into the world and naked shall I return thither, came a voice from somewhere deep within her.
Away Satan, she thought. Angrily. So this is what’s called the devil quoting the Bible.
All you saints n heaven, have you forsaken me? she pleaded.
And lo and behold, there appeared in the periphery of her vision a tall new broom, in the corner near the door, just a few inches from her reach.
And then everything happened in a flash. Sister Goretti reached for the broom, the snake struck, missed and the broom came crashing on its head, again and again and again till the magnificent hood was a pulpy mess. Sister Goretti looked at it triumphantly, and snorted with supreme contempt, “What you wretched creature? Did you forget i was named after Maria Goretti, the very epitome of chastity and virtue!” She smirked at the mess and then retched all over the bathing room.
To date, that little convent in the watery Kuttanad sings the praises of brave Sister Goretti.

Nuns' Tales - 1

I love nuns. They belong to a category of people I’m perfectly comfortable with. Of course on most issues I don’t see eye to eye with them. But I know I can’t but be different in my approach to them. More important, they know it too.

From Baby Class to PG i studied in convents. I served in a college run by them. They gave me my sense of values, which, Of course has undergone mutations as I grew older and wiser (?). We have learnt to accept each other with all our differences, and take care not to step on each other’s toes.

I have never felt that teeth- gnashing hatred for or anger towards them, cos the nuns with whom I interacted were good souls. They were judgemental but never uncharitable. They were mulish in their convictions, but only prayed for those who didn’t share them – they did not curse them. They honestly believed that their ministry was to save the lost sheep – tho more often than not, the lost sheep did not believe they were in the valley of darkness. This often caused friction which led to unpleasant exchanges which I had witnessed with much anxiety; but I’ve never had any serious fracas with them. I was always indulgent with them cos I was blessed with an understanding of why they were what they were, and also with the knowledge that they basically have large hearts.

Something I loved about the nuns who were my colleagues was that all of them had terrific sense of humour, and very often the but of the humour was the nuns themselves. here are a couple of stories which have send us in the department into such explosive laughter that the librarian was reluctantly forced to walk into our department which was adjacent to the library, and ask us to keep our voices down.

Both the events happened in a convent in Kuttanaad. Sr Modesta (name changed) was in her late seventies, and belonged to that generation of Catholic women who were taught it was a terrible sin to see their own bodies, leave alone expose a fraction of a centimetre more than was permitted by the laws of modesty. She once went to a doctor (male) with the six year old trainee parlour maid Kunjandy. When the doctor called them in, she asked the bewildered Kunjandy to turn around and show her backside to the doctor. Kunjandy turned around and then stopped, refusing to perform the next motions that would expose her back side to the doctor.

“Lift your skirt, kochey” snapped the angry Sr. Modesta.

Kunjandy froze and refused to budge. Sr. Modesta got up from her chair, roughly bent the little girl over almost double, lifted her knee length skirt, jerked down her billowing cotton bloomer and pointed to a spot on the right buttock saying, “there doctor, there”.

The doctor looked at the spot where she pointed, then frowned, adjusted his glasses, edged himself forward in his chair and brought his face close to the right buttock of the girl who, by now was struggling to set herself free from the vicious grip of Sister Modesta.

The doctor looked up at Sr. Modesta with a puzzled look and said, “I don’t see anything there. There’s nothing amiss”.

Letting poor Kujandy go, Sr. Modesta pulled herself up with haughty dignity and said stiffly to the doctor, “It’s not she but I who have a boil on that spot. I’m the patient, not she.”

The second episode in the next post.

MALAYALA MANORAMA – THE SEXIST DAILY

Guess I'm not mistaken if i claim that mallus all around the world buy Malayala Manorama for its obituary page. AS the paper which enjoys the highest circulation in the state, it is the most sought after paper to announce death. People forget their political and religious affiliations when death happens in the family. Manoram it is – and no other paper.

Recently my father- in -law passed away, and we too made a bee line for the Malayala Manorama office. Now, the obituary column is free of cost. When we get a service free, it comes with certain conditions. Such conditions often reflect the soul of the paper. We see the paper in its true colours. The inherent prejudices and convictions come into play in laying down these conditions. Cos no money is obtained from this service, and so we will have it our way is the attitude. That’s when you catch an organization with its pants down.

I had the occasion to see this popular daily in this not so pretty condition when we were told the terms of the free space in the obituary column. The dead person’s sons in law’s family name can be mentioned but not the daughters –in-laws'!!! Thus it’d be like this: Sons in laws are Dominic Saviour Pattalakkad, Martin de Pores Kuthirakkad, Mani Kurien Kazhuthakad. Daughters in laws are, Sally, Shiny, Reesamol and Ammimni!!!!!???? L

If this is not sexism, what the hell is? As though the daughters in law had no identity whatsoever before they acquired the family name through alliances with the sons of the person whose death is being announced!

Can Malayala Manorama give an explanation for this shameful outdated mindset? Or is the paper trying to live up to its nickname, THE GRAND MOTHER OF KOTTAYAM?

Only, grandmothers these days are more updated in their thinking than Malayala Manorama!.

The Aishwarya Rai Complex

She came to me to ask for an extension for the submission of the assignment on the date which was already an extended one.

“Sit down, Jasmine”, I said, pointing to the seat in front of mine at my table in the staff room. I made a mental note of the fact that she chose a time when she knew I’d be alone in the Department.

“You know I can’t extend it anymore. It was already done – and I made it clear that this was the final deadline. And I noticed you were nodding your head vigourously in approval”.

Jasmine was a good student to have in the class. Always sat in the first row, was most attentive, laughed at all the jokes, asked questions (which sometimes were obviously for the sake of asking). I always looked for her as I entered the classroom. In fact, if I didn’t find her in her usual seat, I’d even feel a little lost.

But she rarely did well in her tests. I have had to give her repeat tests to push her through. The problem was language. She came from Marathi medium and hence did not have a sense of the English language while writing. But she spoke without hesitation, mistakes and all.

I was the deliberate choice as a teacher for that class, ‘cos I knew little Hindi and less Marathi. Malayalam wouldn’t work. So the students would mandatorily be exposed to spoken English by a conservative speaker of English.

“Ma’m I had some problem. I couldn’t sit down to write it the past few days”.
I looked at her ‘cos I was always wary of being a confidante of students whose autobiographies, I was warned, could sent your head reeling at an incredibly fast spin.

“Ma’am. I had to get this done”, she said pointing to her hair. I’m very tardy, I must confess, at noticing cosmetic changes which are not glaring like, say, a shaven head, or cropping of long hair or shocking pink or scarlet lipstick.

I looked at her hair and noticed that she had streaks of three subtle colours on her hair. Streaking the hair was just becoming common then (this was in 1998).

“Does it take a long time to get that done?”

“Yes, Ma’m”, Jasmine said animatedly. This parlour is near my house. I always go there so that even if I am late, I can just take a rick home. If I do it here in Santa Cruz, I’ll have to take the train. The rush would be heavy”.

So much of planning, I thought.

“Where do you live?”

“Borivli”

“When did you do this to your hair?”

“You don’t like it Ma’am?”

“Oh, you look good”

I did it yesterday-took nearly an hour and a half. By the time I reached home, I was tired, and went to sleep. Had to start early ‘cos I had the 8 o clock lecture today”.

“But the project was given a month back. The date extension was given a week back”.

“I’ know ma’am”, said the crestfallen Jasmine.

“What were you doing for a whole month?”

“Ma’am. Next time I’ll submit on time. Just this once, please.”

“Sorry Jasmine. Your reason is not good enough”.

“Ma’aaam. How can you say that? See Aiswarya Rai. It’s all the job of the makeup artist”, she declared. “I’ve seen her when she came for a shooting here. She is so ordinary. And my skin is a light as hers!”

You could have knocked me down with a feather!

“Are you trying to be an Aishwarya Rai?”

“It’s not impossible, you know.”

And then I looked at Jasmine. She’s right. It’s not impossible if she added 5 more inches to her height, subtracted 10 kilos from her weight, did a face job around her cheeks to lengthen her cute moon shaped face.

I kept my thoughts to myself and let her talk. It was a revelation to me, that this chirpy girl who sat in the front bench was actually obsessed to the point of distraction about turning herself into a classic beauty. I smiled to myself when she rattled off the names of a few makeup artists who changed ugly ducklings into the glam girls of Bollywood.

“You planning to enter movies?”

“No ma’am. Everybody says I’ll get only small roles which are usually bad roles.”

Things were getting complicated.

“Jasmine, believe me when I tell you are an extremely beautiful girl, but in a different way. About Aishwarys Rai, it’s her business to be glamorous. Your business is to be something else. That’s why you are here to do a specialized course. You beauty lies in being yourself. You know no matter how much she tries, Aishwarya Rai cannot become you, or acquire your innocent charm and your type of special good looks”.

Her face brightened up.

It was advantage me.

“I’ll give you another extension, but that is between you and me. Submit the draft you have brought now, and give the final draft on Monday. This is the only time in my whole life as a teacher that I have made this concession. That’s because I know if you put your heart and soul into this, you’ll pass with flying colours”.

She jumped up and touched my feet which I quickly pulled away ‘cos I have the ugliest feet on earth. This habit the students in Mumbai have of touching the teachers’ feet at the drop of a hat was always a cause for worry for me. But then, I too should have told myself that it is not my business to be an Aishwarya Roy!

Jasmine submitted an excellent project, with no mistakes in the language. I didn’t want to ask her if it was her own work. I wanted to believe in her.

I left that institute before she qualified. But for nearly five years, she sent me a card on my birthday. Fours years after this episode, she sent me a letter with the birthday card to tell me she had picked up a job in a multinational pharmaceutical company. She wrote without mistakes (for which I don’t take the credit. I was her teacher only during the initial two semesters).

But I like to think that I did play a role in curing her of the Aishwarya Rai complex.

Tiger Woods and the Squealing Women

Pity, that women should do this. They go to bed with celebrities and then go to the press, or write memoirs or threaten to reveal it all - all to make a fast buck. I think they do a great disservice to their gender.

It appears as though the bed is the shortcut to making millions. The more deep and dark and intimate the secrets these women reveal or threaten to reveal, the greater the treasure waiting for them.

I am beginning to think that commercializing a liaison is no different from what a sex worker does.

And with a lewd public out there to lap up the sleaze, and media to gratify its smutty cravings, looks like this tribe of women will increase.

Guess I should be ready for brickbats from those of my own sex for letting down women. But man or woman, there are certain codes of decency that should be observed in human relationship and behaviour. Women, after having consensual sex with a celebrity and then brandishing that liaison and its sleazy details before the world to get cheap publicity and big money – well, hardly dignified, eh?

Washing dirty linen in public is not what a self respecting human would do. And talking of self respect. Do these women have any of it? What does a woman, as for that matter, any human being gain if he/she gains the whole world but loses SELF RESPECT? Can a Channel 5 or Clive Christian or Armani designer perfume override the obnoxious stink of the dirty game they are playing?

What’s the new set of values emerging?

Guess I sound like an antiquated voice from some remote, irrelevant past!

Kerala: Do College Teachers Need A Dress Code?

In many areas, Kerala is a step ahead of the rest of India – but when it comes to dress sense and dress code, she lags way behind. It took a government order in 2008 to permit the use of salwar suit for teachers in school. This order does not cover colleges. So many colleges, particularly private colleges, insist on sari and only sari for teachers.

The reasons cited are many.
o It is the traditional dress
o It lends dignity to teachers & it is modest.
o It helps distinguish young teachers from students

Is sari the traditional dress of Kerala? NO! Mundu and neryathu – or the set mundu as it is now called – comes close to being the traditional dress for the women of Kerala. Among Christians, it is Chatta & mundu. I know of an occasion when a few young teachers in a private institution planned to dress in the truly traditional manner, and came to college in set mundu. They were pulled up by the Principal who sent them back with the instruction never to come to college in fancy dress!

One can imagine what would have been their fate if they’d decided to come in chatta and mundu!

I have a question. Why doesn’t this argument apply to male teachers. Why is it that they can come in trousers or mundu & jubba or whatever they please and take their positions behind the desk without inviting the ire of the management?

Does this mean that it is the woman on whom is invested responsibility of being the custodian of tradition?

About dignity and modesty – well. These are very subjective issues. A well made salwar suit can be as modest and dignified as a sari. And a sari too can be worn in the most undignified and immodest manner. With the ample scope it provides for exposure of the midriff, of the back with deep cut cholis etc etc. I know many people who can convincingly argue that the sari is the most seductive of all dresses!

About distinguishing young teachers from students – doesn’t the same problem apply to male teachers too? Why should only the lady teacher be shouting out her credentials all the time? As for that matter, why should any teacher do it? A good committed teacher does not need the aid of accessories to earn respect from the students.

Am I anti sari? Well, not really. But many a time the sari has landed me in trouble. It once got in the way while I was jumping into a jam packed KSRTC bus, and I fell forward hitting my shin against the step. Ever had your shin collide with the metal beading of the step? That’s the day when I understood the meaning of the idiom ‘blinding pain”. I can quote any number of sari related mishaps, but this is not the time and place for it.

Those who constitue the managements which still cling tenaciously to the sari- for- teachers rule should just once be made to travel by bus in a sari on a rainy day. I’d like to see how they’ll manage the umbrella, the handbag which a teacher must necessarily have and the sari, all wet at the bottom and getting in the way of feet movement and has to be hitched up while clambering on the slippery, wet and dirty steps of the transport and private buses. The latter, more often than not, will have a kili blocking half the width of the narrow steps.

I suggest this extreme step ‘cos no amount of explaining seems to convince these decision makers that sari is the most inconvenient dress for the fast lifestyle of the day, and that there are equally respectable outfits available.

Strange, how people whose concern should be to get the best out of those in teaching profession should be so mulish about dress code for teachers, and spend so much time and energy enforcing inconsequential rules which cause maximum inconvenience to employees.

Net for Gender Politics

I get this type of forwards very often:

Just a joke, please…….no hard feelings…
ROMANCE MATHEMATICS
Smart man + smart woman = romance
Smart man + dumb woman = affair
Dumb man + smart woman = marriage
Dumb man + dumb woman = pregnancy
OFFICE ARITHMETIC
Smart boss + smart employee = profit
Smart boss + dumb employee = production
Dumb boss + smart employee = promotion
Dumb boss + dumb employee = overtime
SHOPPING MATH
A man will pay $2 for a $1 item he needs.
A woman will pay $1 for a $2 item that she doesn’t need.
GENERAL EQUATIONS & STATISTICS
A woman worries about the future until she gets a husband.
A man never worries about the future until he gets a wife.
A successful man is one who makes more money than his wife can spend.
A successful woman is one who can find such a man.
HAPPINESS
To be happy with a man, you must understand him a lot and love him a little.
To be happy with a woman, you must love her a lot and not try to understand her at all.
LONGEVITY
Married men live longer than single men do, but married men are a lot more willing to die..
PROPENSITY TO CHANGE
A woman marries a man expecting he will change, but he doesn’t.
A man marries a woman expecting that she won’t change, and she does.
DISCUSSION T! ECHNIQUE
A woman has the last word in any argument.
Anything a man says after that is the beginning of a new argument.
SEND THIS TO A SMART WOMAN WHO NEEDS A LAUGH AND TO THE SMART GUYS YOU KNOW CAN HANDLE IT.

***


To be honest, this forward made me smile. Then I caught myself. What the heck! Haven’t you been cured of these stereoptying tendencies, I admonished myself.

The truth of the matter is it requires a huge amount of conscious, deliberate cerebral activity to erase notions which have come down as a legacy from time immemorial.

This forward reminded me of a song that I was taught in the music class (those days we had a period a week for music) in my high school in the late sixties. This song was taught along with classics like Auld Lang Syne, Black Sprirtuals. patriotic songs like Ye Pyari Bharath Ma. The song which went like this: “A woman , a Woman, Oh, What can she be?” was a favourite with all the girls. Some (that includes me too) even said “How true, how very true!” and we laughed like idiots at this song objectifying the female sex. Here is the song (downloaded the lyrics – was suprised to find it!)


Peter Frampton A Woman (Uh-Huh) Lyrics:
(Dick Gleason)

Johnny Desmond - 1954
José Ferrer & Rosemary Clooney - 1954

[FERRER:]
Oh woman, oh woman, oh what can she be
Whatever she is, she's necessary

A woman is something both evil and good
But too complicated to be understood
An angel when lovin', a devil when mad
A woman can make you both happy and sad

Oh woman, oh woman, oh what can she be
Whatever she is, she's necessary

Afraid of a cricket, she'll scream at a mouse
But she'll tackle a husband as big as a house
She'll take him for better, she'll take him for worse
She'll bust his head open and then be his nurse

Oh woman, oh woman, oh what can she be
Whatever she is, she's necessary

She's bashful, deceitful, keen sighted and blind
Simple and crafty, and cruel and kind
In the morning she does, in the evening she don't
You're always a thinkin' she will, but she won't

Oh woman, oh woman, oh what can she be
Whatever she is, she's necessary

[CLOONEY (Spoken):]
Girls, turn this record over
and listen to the Wife's side!

You will have noted that at the end of the song there is a note about the wife’s version. I did not bother to hunt for it ‘cos I think that it’s time this gender war came to an end.

The song I was taught as a high school going kid (2nd song) and the forward I got today perform the same function – create certain stereotypical images of the sexes. It does not matter in whose favour it is tipped.

The burden of my theory is the world doesn’t seem to have changed much from the sixties!

Now, for some of these stupid notions contained in the two songs:
The woman is manipulative.
She is unpredictable.
She is silly - screaming at mouse!
She is indispensable.
Poor man, he is usually dumb.
He is happier without a wife
He is a helpless victim of her fancies
He suffers her
And so on.

Almost four decades ago, I was the victim of certain built-in discourses in the system for keeping alive the myths about gender by conditioning the mind in its formative stage about gender roles. I am still struggling to purge the dregs of that particular outdated discourse – or is it outdated?.

And that discourse has never really been dismantled despite all the noise made from all quarters. It has spilt over into the 21st century.

Now, in this cyber world frequented more by the youngsters, the forwards serve as an additional tool to very effectively perpetuate gender politics.

a jumbled but honest confession

Dhanya picked me or picked on me for the HONEST SCRAP award. tank you dhanya. am flattered. but i wish the award came without a prize tag. nevertheless, here i go fulfilling the first condition - to list 10 honest things about myself

i always think the creator made a mistake
while allotting me my gender.

while learning needlework in the Nazareth convent
i have yearned to be out there
climbing trees like my brothers
or playing cricket
or scream from the galleries during santosh trophy.


i have wished i could jump into the periyar river
like my brothers
with only swimming trunks on
and not that horrendous five metre swimming dress
my mother designed for me.

i now wish i had listened to my father
and taken economics instead of literature.
my encounter with literature would then have been
much more pleasurable.
And i'd have been able to talk intelligently on the recession.
tho' must confess i secretly fear i'd not have graduated
had i listened to my father.
My cerebral capacity has its limits.

I'm glad i had the guts to allow my children
to follow their passion for economics and chemistry
tho i'll make that confession only in the blogsphere.
sour grapes, the world would say
'cos they are not doctors or engineers.

i always wonder what people with truckloads of money
do with it.
and why they need so much money.
all those stars and sports stars with the millions.
maybe i'll stop wondering if i make that kind of money.

between twelve and twenty five
i've asked my maker
why he didn't add another two inches to my stature.
I wouldnt have had to hobble around on high heels.

i love blogging.
tho i wish i could write a novel
and have the felicity of expression
and honesty
of arundathi roy and kamala das.

there was a time when i wished
i were beautiful
and brilliant
and talented
and admired
and envied.

today, i am glad to be just alive and kicking.
it's nice to be around still
in this beautiful world.

now for the next condition:
Choose a minimum of seven (7) blogs that you find brilliant in content or design. Or improvise by including bloggers who have no idea who you are because you don’t have seven friends. Show the seven random victims’ names and links and leave a harassing comment informing them that they were prized with Honest Weblog. Well, there’s no prize, but they can keep the nifty icon.

Arun, Aswadhy, Chandy, Jina, Sujatha, Silverine, Mathew

my seven blogger friends - do forgive for harassing you.

Every Woman Has Her Day?

We have come a long way.
The road ahead is longer
And the ordeals tougher, we are told.

Next is flogging in the maidan
Or is it stoning unto death?
That depends, we are told
On whatever it is that suits Him.

Still ahead it’s begging
By the dusty streets
Of busy towns.
But our manicured hands would betray us.
Though the purdah would shield our wounded pride.

Tougher ones will follow, we are told.
Their numbers ever increasing
Like the hydra headed monster
Two replacing every decapitated one.

Will the ordeals ever end?
Will our destination
Remain ever elusive?

And our protests?
Will they remain ever drowned
In the silence of despair and fear?

Feminism for the Lay'man'.

Feminism is an issue I avoid, if I can help it-both in conversations and in academic engagements. But after my post on it which was a response to a tag, I have decided to look at the issue again. For two reasons. 1. The male comments and rejoinders which betray an absence of understanding of the issue and 2. a fascinating post by Anrosh. She presents a case which fascinated me by the recognisabilitythe situation at the macro and micro level. Also, i subscibe to her analysis and conclusions.

What I hope to achieve through this post is to demystify feminism for the male blog visitors. However, let me, at the very outset, make it clear that there is nothing original about my reading on the issue. Whatever ideas that I present are all there in the plethora of theories on feminism. Because these ideas come packaged in theories, they don’t trickle out in sufficient quantities from the academicians’ and activists’ study room. And the result,? Society moves on, looking askance at feminism, and associating eccentricity and, to some extent, anarchy to this reality (I prefer to give feminism that label rather than “movement’)

I begin this post (two more posts on this issue to follow) with a clarification.

Feminism does not claim that the genders are the same. Male and female are not the same. They are biologically different. Their biological functions are different. But they are equal. Period. Equal does not mean same. (This was pointed out in a comment to my post). Feminism claims that the two genders are equal in their rights to life, liberty and pursuit of happiness. For a crude simile, the heart and the kidney are not the same. Their constitution and functions are different. But we cannot hierarchise them in terms of their indispensability and importance to the system. The two organs are different but equal. The equality of both organs have to be acknowledged if malfunctioning of the system is to be prevented.

That sounds simple, doesn’t it? And many might be wondering why so much is written and said about this obvious truth.

Obvious truth? Society “accepts’ that truth. There is no dispute about it, eh?

This making-a–fuss-about-nothing attitude of society is the most difficult obstacle that stands in the way of the feminist trying to liberate herself from the subtle social structures which have kept her a prisoner. Ironically, women conditioned by the patriarchal ideology partner the male members of the society in doing maintenance to and jeealously and zelously guarding these oppressive social structures. Anrosh's post graphically describes this. The tendency of society to gloss over/ridicule/trivialize the issue of gender hierarchisation results in the issue never surfacing in a serious way in the society as a flaw in the system that has to be addressed. How can you treat a disease which is not acknowledged to exist. Very difficult to treat a patient who is in the denial mode.

To get more specific – how is this captivity of the woman achieved and perpetrated?

It’s a long story which goes back to time immemorial. And the story is the same across the globe, in all cultures. Differences are minor, superficial. Fundamentally, in gender politics, the woman has always been the second sex. Take the Hebrew culture, for example. The Bible says that God created Adam first. Then took a rib from his side and created a ‘helpmate’ for him. Bible is a divinely inspired work. But it was written by the male, and it reflected the patriarchal perceptions of an order. this order was considered ‘natural’/divinely ordained. This is not to say that this relegation of the woman to an inferior position in the Hebraic culture can be ascribed to the Biblical story of creation. The story itself reflects the gender perceptions of the period in which it was writen. But with the influence and the reach of the Bible through time, those perceptions acquired a religious sanction wherever it was accepted as the Holy Book. I suppose this could be said of all Scriptures.

Several centuries later, Jesus Christ spoke up to rectify this flawed perception. Christ was the most revolutionary feminist. Remember the episode of the woman being stoned for adultery. “Whoever has no sin can cast the first stone”, He said. The point is powerfully established. Adultery is not a gender specific sin. It is a sin irrespective of the sex of the adulterer. No two sets of laws of sexual morality for the two sexes. Again, take the story of Mary and Martha. Mary sits at His feet listening to His teaching. Martha complains to Him that Mary is leaving all the womanly duties to her. Jesus explains to Martha who has internalized the norms of the patriarchal society, that she also can do what Mary is doing. Leave the household chores and listen to His spiritual discourse. “Martha, Martha, thou art worried and troubled about many things; But one thing is necessary; Mary has chosen the best part, which shall not be taken away from her” The woman is as much entitled to spiritual quest as the man. That is what he meant.

Yes. Christ was the greatest feminist of all. But not so his followers. I have listened with great amusement at these episodes being interpreted in a manner that doesn’t question the discriminatory code of morality put in place by the patriarchal society. True, Christ said “Whoever has no sin can cast the first stone”, but, obviously, what he meant was whoever has not committed ADULTERY – the sin that she was being specifically punished for by the men - can cast the first stone. It is only logical to presume so. But no preacher or teacher will go to town teaching that by ‘sin’ Christ meant ‘adultery’. For, at all times and in all cultures, society has sanctioned the sexual escapades of males, and condemned female adultery. And the Mary Martha story too lends itself to many many interpretations – but never a feminist one.

Gender discrimination is chronically entrenched in the psyche of human society which was always male dominated. Domination of one group over the other can be sustained only when the latter is made to accept its inferiority status. That’s called hegemony – the acceptance of slavery or subjugation by assent – a subordination achieved in a democratic way! Over a period of time, there evolved formidable discourse on the concept of male superiority in which the subordinate position of woman is represented as ‘natural’ /divinely ordained. This ensured the durability of the patriarchal discourse on gender hierarchy; for the woman was made to accept, through subtle strategies, her predicament as the second sex. She internalized this image of woman , failing to understand that it is a societal construct. Any stirrings or rebellion or questioning deep in her mind entailed a sense of guilt and would be suppressed and sublimated. She becomes a captive of her own conscience.

In my next post, I would like to look at Anroshi’s post which so beautifully unravels the sad story of how such a woman becomes pssionately agentive is transmitting to the next generation the historically evolved traditions of gender perceptions of a patriarchal society.

‘Civilization’, indeed, is built on this foundation of the silent tears of the woman.

Am I a Feminist?

Tag ed by cris

I once got into trouble for confessing that “Feminism is not my cup of tea”. Ever since, I nod emphatically in agreement when asked it I am a feminist.

Am I a feminist?

I guess all women are that, without quite realizing it. By nature, I don’t make a song and dance of it, and am quite indulgent to male chauvinism wherever and whenever I have to deal with it. I don’t get very vocal or hyterical but keep my cool and usually have my way without any friction. You can say that I'm one hell of a survivor in this patriarchal world!

But there were a few occasions when I chose to stiffly resist the entrenched gendered thinking. On this one occasion that i'm about to talk about in this post, it was in the domestic front, and the fury and intensity of my reaction to a typical situation were , at that moment, inexplicable even to me. Looking back I think what provoked the full activation of the feminist in me was my anxiety not to pass on the legacy of male chauvinism to the next generation. As a woman, that’s the least I could do for our sex.

On that particular day, my help had not turned up.

We had a huge compound with every tree under the sun in the front yard, and, if the fallen leaves were not removed twice a day, the yard would look like the Sleeping Beauty’s palace compound when Prince Charming came a hundred years later to wake her up with a kiss (would some one like to offer a feminist reading of that tale?).

I started cleaning the compound. My daughter, as was usual when the help didn’t turn up, came out, took a broom and started sweeping from the othe r end of the compound. I insisted she go back to her books as she had a test that day. The poor kid went away, looking very guilty and feeling very sorry for me. A few minutes later ,my seven year old son Mathew came to the verandah, and seeing me clean the compound started to help me. This was the first time I saw him at this work and was pleasantly surprised to see he was doing a good job of it. I allotted a portion of the yard to him and together we continued clearing the compound. Just then, his grandfather, a octogenarian came out into the veranda and was heading for his armchair when he noticed Mathew sweeping. I saw him stare incredulously and then go back into the house.

A minute later, his grandmother came, all upset and ordered Mathew to stop what he was doing.
“Go in Mathew, Don’t you have anything to study?”
“No.I’m helpimg amma”
“I’ll do it. Why should YOU do it”(don't miss the emphasis on 'you')
“Why shouldn’t he do it?”, that was me. Why was I reacting like that, I wondered. Why was i creating an unnecessary situation early in the morning?
“He’s a boy”. I coulldn’t believe my ears.
By then, Mathew had dropped the broom and had started back ”Mathew”, I called. “Finish what you are doing”
He came back and picked up the broom.
“Give the broom to me, Mon”. His grandmother was very diplomatic. ”I love doing this. Let me do it”
“There’s one more broom, amma”, I persisted. “Use that if you want to sweep”.
“We don’t need three people to do this”
“There’s enough compound for four people”.
She turned to Math and very gently told him to run inside and have the boost that’s kept ready on the dining table.
“Mathew can have his Boost after he finishes the portion allotted to him”
“But, but, he’s a boy, Molly. Boys shouldn’t be doing this”
“Where in the Bible has Jesus Christ stated thus?”, I asked quietly, unkindly. But I had to say it. I had to make a point. And Christ. I believe . is the greatest feminist ever.
She gave up, and went into the house, looking very worried about how she is going to convince her husband that there’s nothing wrong with a boy sweeping the compound.
My feminist blogs: http://pareltank.blogspot.com/2008/04/bringing-up-nazrani-girl-child.html;
http://brokenmuse.blogspot.com/ - except Deshamsam ?10%, the peoms have feminist themes, written during that phase in my life(and every woman's life) when resentment of the "man's world' turned me temporarily into a third rate poet.

Am tagging
chinny
Mathew
Sujatha
cj
Deepak
Strange that i have three males on my list? Well, their views on "FEMINISM' will complete the picture :-)

Women's Liberation - Kudumbashree Shows the Way

Saw an interesting picture in the newspaper today – a women’s pancharimelam team from a Kudumbasbsree unit welcoming the Health Minister Ms P. K. Sreemathi to the Tourism and Trade Fair.

It was an extremely pleasing sight. So different from the usual thalapoli walk comprising ladies dolled up in traditional Kerala sarees, looking pretty and walking ‘gracefully’, thereby endorsing the age old image of woman as an ornament, a seductress, the creature whose very rationale for existence is to bring joy and fulfillment to the man, the family and society – the frames into which are fitted the devadasi, the gazal dancer, the courtesan.

I don’t think these entrenched images have changed fundamentally in any part of the world. I was disappointed to see Michelle Obama dancing - for the white female electorate, was it? I would have liked to see her doing something more relevant to the role of the would–be consort to the most powerful man in the world – it’d appear that dancing and charming are only the roles that suit her, the woman. A President’s wife or a janitor’s wife, the story is the same.

Surely women are capable of less frilly roles too. The kudumbasree is a superb example of that. The cities of Kochin and Trivandrum would stink and be a breeding a ground for life threatening microbes if not for the fantastic service rendered by the kudumbasree in waste removal. Where the corporation and the municipality have failed, the kudumbashree has stepped in. It is the awakening and experience of the women power – sthree sakthi - that is seen in this picture where the kudambasree women chose to welcome the minister, not with thalapoli but with drums that are always associated with the strong, male of high utility value.

It’s time that women from the more privileged classes too made conscious efforts to break themselves free from these controlling images brewed long years back in the cauldron of patriarchal values. That liberation can come only when they experience the self esteem that the kudumbashree enjoys, a self esteem that is born of a realization that women can address and tackle not only women’s social and economic problems as they do, but also those of the society. The innovative self help banking system that they follow, their success in turning society’s problems into opportunities for themselves and service to the society, have enhanced their sense of independence and self esteem.

Which, I guess is why they didn’t line up in the Kerala kasavu sarees, holding thalipolis and walking seductively.

This reminds me to a function I attended in Florida sometime back. The Malayalee teenaged girls donned the kasavu saree, loaded their heads with jasmine flowers and walked up the aisle with the talapolis. What struck me was the most ‘unladylike’ movement of these young girls who had spent all their lives in Levis and Bermuda shorts. It looked awkward to me at first, particularly when one of them, impatient with the saree getting in the way, kept on hitching it up! But, as I watched them, I felt a certain sense of relief rising from deep within me. That ‘graceful’, seductive, annnanada(swan walk) is not something a woman is born with. It is imbibed from the air she breathes. Yes. No one is born a woman; she is made one.

I am not trying to say that these young teenagers are a liberated lot. Only, they have not been influenced by the Kerala concept of “how to be a lady” –at least, at that superficial level. As they weren’t trapped and trained in the ‘womanizing’ clothes, they hadn’t fallen victim to the images that control and shape the mind through the agency of the traditional attire.

Hillary Clinton is out - How sad!

i feel sad
infinitely sad
granted I know precious little about US politics.
but I know a lot of women here wished to see a woman in the most powerful seat.

guess on our part there’s a deficiency of understanding of the debated issues.
and so our take is this:
she lost out
‘cos she is a woman
and women still live under glass ceiling in the US.
She lost out
‘cos she is a fighter
one hell of a fighter
and might prove to be the ‘only man in the cabinet’
as Smt. Indira Gandhi once did.

and so the muscle flexers of the party
opted for an unknown person
on the strength of a book
and charm of his silver tongue

and the popular appeal of reverse racism
was on their side
in their fight against having a woman call the shots.

of course these are just
the jottings of a woman
with just a superficial knowledge of Am politics.

but there are many such ill informed women like me here
who feel sad.
infinitely sad

Because She is a Woman

I notice a certain shifting of position, a re-ordering of values and criteria when men talk about women in high position. I am not talking of that common breed of the male species branded mcp. It’s those liberal, fair-minded and intellectually poised men that I have in mind. Recently, while I was in the company of half a dozen men whom I would place in the latter category, Jayalalitha and Hillary Clinton figured in the conversation. Jayalalitha was corrupt to the core, they stated emphatically. Her style of functioning provided a major role for goondaism. The tone and tenor of the conversation became venomous in a controlled, suave manner – but the appearance of objectivity/impartiality was maintained by a careful use of diction. I pointed out that corruption and goondaism aren’t Jayalalitha’s forte alone. Most stalwarts in regional politics specialize in this. But in unison, they proved me wrong. They tabled a list of Jayalalitha’s real estate acquisition across the globe. The information came from dependable sources. Sources were quoted. Did these sources do a research into, say Karunanidhi’s wealth, or Deve Gowda’s for that matter? The question was dismissed with a casualness which suggested they hadn’t – and the listing out of the malpractices of the ‘film star turned politician with a dubious background’ continued with controlled heat bordering on the danger zones that threatened to rip off that mask of objectivity and poise. The long and short of it is this: it doesn’t matter if Gowda and K’ nidhi are corrupt - after all they are MEN. No. They don’t believe in condoning corruption. But they shrug off corruption as inevitable when the practitioner is a male politician. Corrupt men create much much less shock waves than corrupt women. That is the unwritten, unspoken truth.

Hillary Clinton too sufered the same fate in the hands of these men. It is not that they were anxious about uncle sam succumbing to the embraces of Cleopatra. What I could sense was a deep seated but unspoken resentment that she did not have the weaknesses associated with a woman, and she was smart, and stable in time of crisis, and she dared to aspire for the most powerful seat in the world!. Their list of her fatal flaws included vanity, arrogance, overconfidence and of course, corruption – all of which would be soft peddled in a male leader . And they wont give her a chance.

Strange, how men have an extra antenna up when it comes to a woman achiever. It is specially programmed to pick up flaws which would be highlighted in red when they are detected in the female species, but would have an ‘ignore all’ command given in default when picked up in the male species.

my take: A sin is a sin whether a man or woman commits it. Not only ceaser’s wife, ceaser too must be above blame. Corruption in public servants is detestable. A fraudulent practice is no more heinous because a woman commits it, or any less scandalous when a man commits it. No separate standards for the sexes, please!

Remember what the great teacher once(and for all) said without mincing words? Whoever has not sinned can cast the first stone.

PS. Strangely enough, Indira Gandhi did not suffer the same fate as Jayalalaitha or Hillary Clinton did in the hands of these men. When she surfaced in the conversation, it was I who protested against the tributes given to her in turns. I don’t understand how the lady managed to unsex herself in the eyes of these gentlemen. Or are Indian men incurable dynastic rule advocates?

Bringing up a Nazrani Girl Child

I do not know if all young nazrani girls born in mid 1950s were brought up like me. I was the last but one in a family of more than half a dozen male children. As a very young girl, I enjoyed climbing trees, chasing dogs, throwing stones at squirrels and playing cricket(I made up for the shortage of players in both sides!-was a left hander) or Kili(our diluted version of kabadi). My hair, neatly tied up in a pony tail in the morning, would be a terrible mess in no time. Whenever amma caught me running around with my hair looking like a golliwog’s, she used to summon me immediately and tie it up again. This happened several times during the course of the day. On certain days, when it crossed the decade mark, I would get a sound spanking but I would always manage to wriggle out of her grip before she had her fill of spanking.

Of course, she often made remarks about my gender, reflecting her anxiety about my unladylike behaviour. But it was that eventful day, when I squeezed through the window bars of a room on the first floor to get on to the tiled roof of the verandah adjacent to the kitchen, that changed my fun filled vacation routine drastically, tragically. I still remember how I achieved that feat. I worked my way carefully down the sloping roof and reaching the edge, sat down dangerously, with my feet on the metal water drain. I remember feeling literally on top of the world seeing the kitchen backyard in a new perspective. Amma came out to the backyard for something, and I called out to her with all my love for her in my voice. She looked around, not knowing where my voice came from. Then suspicion dawned on her and she lifted her eyes slowly to the roof. I can never ever forget that look of horror? terror?, panic? or all rolled into one? that spread over her face. Then, a slow strange, weird smile spread on her face while she spoke sweet nothings to me. In the meanwhile, our odd job man arrived with the ladder and brought me down from my perch in the heights. Amma’s expression changed the minute she realized that I was out of danger and I saw red lights which warned that I had better bolt. I tried to but she was quicker. What a thrashing I got!! but as usual, I managed to get away when she was only half way through and ran for my life, but not before turning back to look at her and do a little jig to show her I had outsmarted her once again.

That jig did the trick. I was so unrepentant that she decided that it would not do for a girl to grow up like a tomboy. From the next day onwards, I was sent to a convent in the neighbourhood, where I learnt running stitch and hemming and chain stitch and French knots and satin stitch and lazy daisy and and and . I also listened to the lives of saints. The nuns taught me the prayers that would help me to become a saint. I refused to say those prayers because I didn’t want to become a saint. They threw the scare of the devil into me about the devil and hell; told me how beautiful it’d be to go to heaven and sing “holy holy’ day in and day out!

From nine to four, during every midsummer vacation till I reached the fourth class, I went to the convent. After that, we shifted to a different locality where there was no convent within walking distance. Anyway, by then, I had begun to think in a gendered fashion.