The Zodiac Signs As Feminist Women
Aries: MARD TEREKO DIKHATI HOON DARD KUTTE KAMINE
Taurus: No, that’s not nice of you. Behave now. Let’s eat, smile and sleep. Discrimination? KILL! zzzzzz
Gemini: Internalised misogyny is problematic but there’s something to the Prince Charming fantasy as long as I can be prince but rescue me..
Cancer: I don’t know, it’s raining and I’m sad and I have to run the company. I hope my boyfriend brings me flowers or I’ll have to take the flower shop over.
Leo: Equality? Yeah sure whatever. Put it next to my prime rib served on a silver platter and maybe I’ll look at it after my nap.
Virgo: The birth ratio is alarming. We also need more funds to set up counselling for battered women. And vaccination drives.
Libra: I’ll talk to you after you’ve dressed up in designer threads and played some Mozart. By then I’ll probably have taken over the world so goodbye.
Scorpio: You dare? Hmm… *darkness falls* *toofani raat sex tere saath* Everyone found dead.
Sagittarius: Equal rights is obvious, why are you such an idiot? Sorry, I didn’t mean to idiot-shame you. Chal, let’s go drink.
Capricorn: Here’s my contract. We already agreed on equality. Thank you for confirmation. I’ll send you the bill at the end of the month.
Aquarius: Feminism? Oh right, the 70s thing. Sorry I haven’t kept up since I got on that Mars mission.
Pisces: Here’s water for Gemini to drink, Aries to wipe the blood, Scorpio to wipe other things, Sagittarius to hydrate, Cancer stop crying.
Lipstick Under My Burkha: Not Feminism But A Revenge Saga Against Men
I watched the much talked about ‘Lipstick Under My Burqa’ earlier this week, the first movie I’ve paid a ticket to go watch in the theatre all year. I’m not so sure it was a good decision. All week I’ve been pondering the discomfort I feel with the film. Wasn’t it supposed to make me, the Vocal Feminist, very happy? Well, it didn’t. I found some clarity in my thinking after reading this article (‘Lipstick Under My Burkha Is Bold But Not Feminist‘).
The story told me that women had problems. I knew that already. So? Does it lay them out in a nuanced way? Let’s see – marital rape, slut-shaming, moral policing. Okay, complex issues, further complicated by the tangle that is gender politics. The bedroom, women’s bodies, our relationships with each other are fraught with so much power play, so many sensitivities that there’s room for a really nuanced story.
Okay, we need to talk about the men in the movie. Why, you ask? Because neither patriarchy nor feminism exist in an isolated world of only women or only men. Both are upheld by people of all genders. Everyone is impacted in some manner by the conflicts inherent in these systems.
Four stories with a woman at the center of each. Let’s meet the men in each one’s world.
Usha buaji/Rosy is surrounded by male tenants/nephews that she keeps in check with stern looks and words. How do these men deal with an older woman who wields financial power over them? Add further nuance with one of them being a Muslim burkha shop owner – how does he deal with his home and livelihood hanging on the decisions of an older, uppercaste Hindu woman? There’s also the key male character in this story – a young lifeguard. He’s nice looking, he’s Haryanvi and he responds to phone calls from an unknown woman propositioning him. Uh, that’s it.
Rehana Abidi is an impish teenager who works at her father’s burkha shop and moonlights as a Led Zepplin humming, boots-wearing, beer-chugging activist collegegoer. How does her father rationalise letting his only child study in a co-ed college while swathed in a burkha? How does he feel about the scantily clad Miley Cyrus poster on his daughter’s wall (flimsily hidden under a towel)? What do the classmates who undoubtedly see Rehana’s daily burkha/ripped jeans metamorphosis make of her spurty activism? Why does the cool stud, Dhruv, find her interesting (apart from her being the only girl in Bhopal to know ‘Stairway to Heaven’)? Do they talk about anything other than music, drinking and making out?
Shireen Aslam appears to work in a world of only women. Her colleagues are all women, her customers are
women and she’s not shown sharing a scene with any man other than her husband and her three sons. Somehow with all this, she manages to be the ‘top salesgirl’. That’s a sales job and I don’t care what you’re selling, you can’t NEVER meet or see men. What is her husband like? How is he coping with losing his job? Does he appear defeated and indifferent to whatever else goes on (which explains why he doesn’t seem to be looking for another job)? Is he charged up, angry and driven (with enough energy to openly date a mistress and appear to enjoy it)? How can he be both? That’s not character nuance, that’s Jekyll-and-Hyde.
And finally, the story of our enfant terrible Leela a.k.a The Bad Girl who is sleeping with a photographer while trying to kickstart a business and also survive an engagement with a good Indian boy. Who’s this fiance? He’s going to keep her in a tiny room overlooking the train tracks, in a house bursting with people. But he’s also buying her mother a house. How does he feel about the financial comittment he’s undertaking? And wouldn’t he feel a lot more entitled to his fiance’s time, attention and worshipful devotion? Hey, that’s how human beings think. Alright, never mind him. How about the photographer boyfriend? Does he love our girl, does he not care? Is he using her, is he feeling used? Does he contribute to the business set-up and if he doesn’t believe it, is mere sex enough motivation for him to follow her around? And if that’s so, why does he refuse to sleep with her later?
Once more, let’s list out the men of Lipstick Under My Burkha:
- Irrationally hot-headed dependent (tenant/nephew)
- Boyfriend photographer prone to irrational rage, jealousy, ego trips and indifference
- Slow-witted, corrupt government officials
- Brainless hunk lifeguard who scatters words and smiles without abandon
- Socially awkward virgin fiance who assumes his fiance is one too
- Featureless colleague of husband who blabs to the wife about her husband losing his job
- Distant, oppressive father who frowns menacingly more than he speaks
- Abusive, cheating, absent father-husband
- College cad who dumps his pregnant girlfriend, seduces an underage girl and dumps her at the first hint of uncoolness
The first two are caricatures of irrational men whom the women constantly bully. 3-5 seem incapable of functioning as intelligent adults. 6 & 7 are not really people but blank walls with vague faces. The last two are versions of the all-dark MONSTER. Do any of these men sound like actual human beings?
I’ve heard the cry of ‘But this is a story about women!’.
This story is not set inside a women’s bathroom so why is anyone not female such shit?
That’s no more an accurate depiction of women than it is of their worlds or the men. Feminism is not about villifying men. It’s not about deifying women as long-suffering and showing the metaphorical middle finger to the world (only under the burkha and behind closed doors). It’s about respect and rights for every human being, regardless of gender or other qualifiers.
Slotting men so narrowly amounts to discrimination and what kind of feminism is it, which discriminates? As a woman, I am personally offended. I live in a world that treats me in problematic ways, yes. But I am not so weak that I need to believe that every man is a monster/imbecile. I’m offended by a narrative that tries every storyteller’s trick to define me as a victim. It turns the fight for equality into a revenge saga against men and that is offensive.
What’s worse, having adequately established the ‘See, women’s lives are HARD. Men are so horrible.’, the story closes. Like the article points out – in a cramped room, the women huddled together sharing a surreptitious cigarette and pointing a middle finger. Behind closed doors. What’s the point? Feminism was never about glorying in woe-is-me, any more than it was about hating men. Feminism above all, through its changing definitions, has always been about hope for a better world. Lipstick Under My Burkha offers none of that and sits back to have a smug, self-satisfied smoke at having put down the men. Note: Victory over men, not over patriarchy and what kind of victory is this?
Does this movie show us a single man that is not a cardboard stereotype? Any human characterizations of over half the world’s population? Any realistic depictions of the perpetrators-parallel victims of patriarchy? Any conflicted human beings troubled by the gender double standards while struggling to keep up with the changes wrought by feminism? Any angst at all in any of the men who seem to drive the women’s lives? Even a hint, a flicker of support, compassion, consideration for anyone? Any guilt, regret, confusion over how to express it? Huh?
There’s the problem. It’s not feminism if it’s looks, sounds and tastes like a revenge saga against men.
No Country For Men
No country for men
Artwork: Ramya Pandyan
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The Ugly Male Face Of ‘Cannot Cope’
I always thought India hates its daughters. But now I believe it hates its sons even more.
One of the biggest advantages that I have is that I was given a realistic view of the world’s indifference and even hostility to my existence. Yes, this is an advantage because growing up aware that you need to work hard and fight for every good thing possible lets you develop this skillset. It teaches you that if the world does not accept you, you don’t shatter; you just try harder. It lets you not take anything or anyone for granted. True, it gives you trust issues. But in our world today, I think I’d rather have trust issues than survival issues.
I predicted this years ago, when my twenties were full of boy-men treating me and other women callously, thoughtlessly, cruelly even. The tables would turn and they are. It’s not that women are getting a better deal. No, we’ve learnt to cope. After all, we were trained to deal with betrayal and unpredictability, in a near-Spartan manner since we were little girls taught to flinch under the male gaze, tiptoe around fathers and brothers and work for their approval. We’ve survived and continue to do so.
But the men? Look at the male half of most break-ups, divorces, broken friendships and even layoffs. Do you see more calories? Greyer hair? Lesser hair and more paunches? More missed calls but also fewer Tinder matches? Higher debts on accrued credit card bills? More rumpled clothes? More dripping venom against life in hate-speech on the internet, stage performances, watercooler conversations? Fewer friendships? More bad behaviour at parties?
This is the ugly male face of Cannot Cope, Cannot Deal With Adult Life.
*Image via Pixabay
These are cracks appearing in the Raja Beta syndrome, as its foundation stones of the manipulative, infantalising family, ages. What happens to a full-grown adult who has been handicapped of social skills and deprived of the freedom/ability to take responsibility for his life, when the crutches falter? That is a damaged human being. Meet The Indian Man.
This one is struggling through a divorce, still bewildered that such a thing could happen. That one is dealing (very badly) with palpitations, diabetes, blood pressure, liver troubles and hating the medical system for it. This one feels inadequate at work, can’t find a way to rise and decides his women classmates must be sleeping their way up. That one can’t stand to see his wife spend so much time on Whatsapp and Facebook, can’t stand the TV they watch and can’t stand it when the electricity is off either. This one hates his colleagues, hates his fellow commuters, hates the spouses of his wife’s friends, hates his neighbors, hates the service staff and thinks it’s just that the world is wrong. That one thought he did everything right, degrees, labels etc. and yet everyone else looks happier than him. This one thought he was the cool one so where did it all go wrong? That one has no idea what to do when his spouse doesn’t get along with his family, is clueless when a job or a relationship ends and has no idea how to take care of his parents. Or himself.
This system is harsh on me but it has actively betrayed the Indian man. I’m truly sorry for all of you. I will not take care of you because that’s just allying with the system. I know many of you will not see that. I also know this the reason you turn your nameless rage against the system onto me and other women. But I’m still sorry. It’s the system, people who were supposed to love you that let you down, not me. All I can say is, it can get better and hatred is not the way.
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An Unequal Music
After he broke my iPod (and it was almost comical since he had to smash it several times and jump on it to break), and his own, he bought me a new one. This despite my never wanting to see one again. Why would I? His music taunted my lack of intelligence and I was too terrified to listen to music I used to like. He waited six months, not allowing me to buy him an iPod, not buying himself one, carrying the badge of the denied genius. Sharp at month 6, he bought one and paraded it around defiantly as if I had kept him from it. Six months, he told me proudly, six months I had decided I would go without an iPod. Six months where he taunted my lack of taste in music and when he didn’t, the empty iPod he bought me sneered. So precise and calculated.
I come from a tradition of music, of training and performing. But I have never owned a music player after that. I have since, won back my right to listen to music I like, even as I indulge this only sparingly. There are too many echoes of hatred and violence in anything I listen to.
His music was music, his self-flagellation was greatness. Mine was just shallow, stupid, worthless. And yet, he’s barely my worst offender when it comes to music. My sexual predator guitar teacher from age 11 and violent, abusive fan-boyfriend (from “Your singing drew me out of my quiz and I just had to come talk to the girl on stage.” to “You are so black and ugly, a guy would only be with you because you look easy.”) from age 22 lead this gaslighting, dangerous ex-fiance of mine.
But I will never forgive the wounds he scratched on my faith in idealistic people, my empathy for abuse/violence sufferers. I will never forgive him for turning me into the demons in his head and me into a monster. And in this, there is its own kind of music. You thought your music was angry?
~O~O~O~
This was triggered by the book ‘When I Hit You’ by Meena Kandasamy. Notably by a section where her violent abuser shuts down her poetry writing as vindiction but justifies his own poetry as self-flagellation. Just like my ex and the iPods.
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Fuckboys & The Support Fuckboys Brigade
I saw the fuckboi yesterday. He is part of the same circles and I refuse to acknowledge him anymore so his presence in isolation is not such a bother. But I am surrounded by his manipulative behaviour, in the form of other women who look as starry-eyed as I *cringe* probably did back in December. (Notice how I feel ashamed of myself for a positive emotion and a pretty good performance; thank you, fuckboi.)
Some of them are women I know and I’m caught in a quandary. Should I warn them, risk the heavy ugliness that society and men thrust on a woman who dares speak (including from these very same women themselves)? Or should I stay silent and let other women fall prey to the same fuckboishness that makes them doubt themselves and cripples them in male-dominated spaces? I need more women like me in the spaces I frequent and I can see how behaviour like this costs our kind dearly. What a catch-22.
Maybe it’s highlighted by the fact that I’m watching Mad Men right now. But doesn’t “Oh, he suffers social anxiety” just feel like a modern, fashionable version of, “He’s deep and brooding” (Mr.Darcy), “His parents didn’t give him enough attention as a child.” (romcoms featuring white males and Manic Pixie Dream Girls) and other such excuses? A fuckboi is a fuckboi. There is absolutely no excuse for treating another human being badly and making them question their self-worth. Women have problems too (rape culture, online harassment, salary disparity, biological clock ticking, unsafe spaces) and most of us don’t get to use that to tread all over men and get applauded for it. No, fuckbois, I don’t care if this is politically incorrect but I’m not buying it.
*Image via sarcasmlol
I am thinking about whether this particular fuckboi and my strong reaction to him is just a symbol of my deeper feelings for my ex, the longest running fuckboi in my life. That one issued a vague apology last year on Twitter that could have been aimed at anyone but that I suspect was about getting in on the ‘I’m a reformed man, applaud me’ trend. I wish my friends had not bothered sharing it with me. I was going along in my life, having put that particular nightmare behind me. But with that screenshot fed into my inbox, I was forced to think about him again.
His apology was public and got him a lot of positive attention. He never once said sorry to me, in person or in any form of private communication. He did not even acknowledge my existence. I concluded that he was no different from who he was in 2011-12 when he isolated me from my family and friends, stopped me performing or working, hit me, gaslighted me, abused me, allowed his family to subject mine to dowry demands, ended the engagement when I called it out, said “It’s not my problem” when my period was delayed and then “So what? Breakups are difficult.” If that apology was aimed at me, I say
“Not good enough. Too little, too late. Wait, was that an apology or your version or Being Human?”
But no one cares, do they? The truth has not changed but I’m forcibly pulled into this Fuckboi’s drama every time he feels the need for attention. And everyone who knows either or both of us even slightly, is looking at me expecting me to hand out the bouquets like the gracious woman I am supposed to be. I lose every way I look at it. Is there any escape from the land ruled by Fuckboidom?
The current fuckboi of course, didn’t get to do a fraction of what that one did. He vanished, then when I stopped, he reappeared with gifts and love poetry. When I relented and agreed to have a conversation, he pointed out that “You come across as having very strong anti-male sentiments”. When I refused to take note of it and him beyond that chat, he took care to message me and remind me that “I listened to your work. No, you are not anti-male.” Back-and-forth, back-and-forth till the unpredictable approval could be distracting enough to be all I would think of. So familiar. He’s just another in a long line of fuckbois who don’t care or even really see the women around them. Not in any way other than breasts, butts, vaginas to grope, ears and arms to receive their existence and words only to validate them. I am still grappling with how to deal with so many men being this way. The challenge grows exponentially considering that they’re surrounded by women who fall prey to them and enable their fuckboi behaviour, even to the point of hurting other women.
I asked a friend yesterday why I was attracting such nastiness when I tried to steer clear of people and focus on my own writing only. He said,
“You know what you want. Not many do. That creates a dichotomy between you and such people. My advice, if you want it? Not worth engaging. It will tire you and they will not understand what you are saying.”
My friend is right, in part. The tricky thing is identifying the handful that are willing to let me live, from the vast hordes that want to pull me into fuckboiness-and-support-fuckboidom.
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The April Of My (Re)Alignment
This has been a lonely month. Housekeeping always is. I also didn’t get to speak to the people who keep me sane, often. Yes, I said that, the people who keep me sane. I can cope on my own but that doesn’t mean I want to or have to. Surviving alone is glorious when you’re 17; it’s just tedious at 37. I haven’t been able to speak to them because of summer. Summer seems to go hard on everyone around. It never did for me and I can’t explain it very well. I sweat and get headaches and heat strokes just like everyone else around. But I think, summer feels like the insides of me feel the rest of the time. A little too tight inside my skin, a few too many things inside my body, just one layer of rules too thick on my natural self. Summer feels like the universe and I am in alignment finally. But no one else seems to like it. I’m…well, I’m kind of used to it. It’s all I’ve ever been, after all.
~O~O~O~O~O~
I have been slower in my responses, though I did have a few flinch reactions. I’m learning flinches are necessary too. All in good measure, I guess. Not flinching allowed me to see that the guy I labelled ‘diltoot‘ was the epitome of a fuckboi. And once you’re spotted a fuckboi, the only thing to do is run, flinches be damned.
~O~O~O~O~O~
I like someone. Or I did. Well, I still do. Or maybe I do again. It goes in waves, which is probably not that odd for a Cancerian. When I’m feeling good, it’s wonderful. Through most of April, I have not. I’ve been starving. A lot of the times, I was able to ‘understand’ why that was happening. And at other times I didn’t and I tortured myself with the kind of thoughts that some of us get used to. At the moment, I’m in a nice-ish place.
I am learning that I can be me, independently, regardless of the love I feel for another person. This is a very big realisation. He told me once, very gently about the kind of dressing that he finds attractive on a woman. I had to discipline myself to not reach for that outfit in my wardrobe the very next time I met him. My style is such rich personal expression, carefully crafted and it is navigated through choppy seas of social disapproval. I am programmed to please men, especially a man I like. I squelched that urge several times. I relented only once and after much soul-searching, I decided to add my own personal dash to it with green lipstick (unconventional choice even on the edgiest of outfits and this wasn’t one). His reaction was wonderful. He was appreciative and respectfully. Which is not to say he worships me but his eyes seemed to be saying “Thank you for considering pleasing me.” Vulnerability invites more vulnerability. I’m learning that as well.
~O~O~O~O~O~
May seems a little gentler. Enough to let me catch my breath and acknowledge that this has been a tumultuous year to say the least. 2017, I don’t abhor you (that was 2012, what a wasteful, depraved year) but I am uneasily fearful of how powerfully you’ve uprooted my beliefs and kept me on my toes. Be kind, if you can.
As with any other time, I don’t know where this or I am heading. The future is a blind mystery. But I’m not playing Sherlock. All will be revealed in good time. And for now, I’m just glad for affection and love as I find it, even if doesn’t always look familiar.
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No Games, Only Equals
It’s housekeeping time in the relationships corner of my life. I find myself going through this periodically. I unfriend people on Facebook that I don’t even remember ever interacting with. I withdraw from groups and communities that I do not find myself engaged with. And hardest but most important of all, I draw boundaries with people who have drifted into my life.
I live a very porous life most of the time. For the past seven years, I’ve been sharing so much of life online. My work is inextricably linked to the other things in my life. And I’m an active part of the large creative-intellectual tribe both online and offline. All of these mean that boundaries are constantly being dissolved and frequently, new ground is broken where no structures exist. I hate labels, after all.
But the downside of this is that I find myself frequently sapped by the world around me. People presume too much. People give too little back. Situations spiral out of control. And everything crashes as I scream ENOUGH! I bounce back from these pretty quickly and usually back to a life that has very few of its original inhabitants still standing, the rest swept away in the outburst or shellshocked. I’ve done it enough of times and now I know this is not something I need to be ashamed of. It still is tiring, though. The alternative is to live the kind of cloistered, rigid life that would suffocate me before anyone else.
In the past week, I have exploded at this completely awful person. And that is the only way I am able to think of him. If he had shown just a bit more spine, things would have been different. But maybe I also only got as much as I believed I could get. I was glad he didn’t hit me or abuse me. Those are really low standards to hold a human relationship to and I know better now. I ask more from relationships and people now. If a person needs so much game-playing to acknowledge that they like me, maybe that’s not going to turn out great and I deserve better. Equals do not play games; they have conversations.
We know that men are socialised to take and take and take and never give back. And as women, we have been socialised to give, give, give and never question. We are now learning to identify this earlier, call it out and hopefully start teaching the next generation of men to not be so parasitic in nature. But what makes us think men are the only parasites? There is a new breed of Alpha women who think they have to be like men to succeed and that includes being self-centered, manipulative and toxic. They give their admiration quickly and voluminously. They shout it out from the tops of buildings. And they crash spectacularly. Then they lash out. Viciously.
One of them (who in the past, has woken me up at 2 in the morning to discuss her relationship, in whose support I have judged and turned my back on people who didn’t do a thing to me) told me,
“Oh I didn’t notice what was happening to you (right before her eyes). I have problems. I’m selfish. And I didn’t know we were ghosting each other’s exes.”
Her words sliced through me. Was I being selfish? Was I being needy? Was my problem (getting attacked) that trivial? I realised she was doing exactly what my abusive ex did – gaslighting me.
Another one’s callousness cost me a paying project for no fault of mine. She did not apologise. She sounded annoyed when I called her out on it. She said I should ‘understand’ because I run Alphabet Sambar. When I told her no one had ever lost work because of me, she threw out,
“You’re just so perfect, aren’t you?”
She did the other thing my abusive ex did. Reeked resentment and rage at my successes and tried to make me apologise for her shortcomings. It wasn’t even the first time she had done so and I had forgiven her for it.
I had a sudden realisation. Both these women remind me of this other person I cut out last year. I felt the same vague unease each time they announced to the world that they were ‘such good friends’ with me. I winced each time they parrotted out speeches about my strength, my style, my personality and my writing/poetry. I know now what this is.
I was not their friend. I was a trophy. There is an insidious kind of label that I’ve been unable to avoid because I didn’t recognise it as a label. That’s the ‘I WANT TO BE HER’ label. This label marks me off as a benchmark or trophy but not a human being. This is not normal appreciation I’m talking about. It’s an onslaught of starry-eyed compliments that are being heaped in the hope that I will like the giver. It’s trading flattery for validation. And worst of all, it absolves the other person from the responsibility of being an equal – a friend.
* Image via Unsplash | Jasper van der Meij
I know this now because of two things. One, I do have actual friends who express their appreciation of me but also treat me as an equal. They call me out when I’m being stupid or weak. They joke with me. They step up when I need them. They do not resent my needs. They do not react violently at my imperfections. And finally, they never throw my achievements back at me. And two, if these women remind me of the abusive men in my life, then what they’re doing is not friendship any more than what those men had for me was love.
I finally realised I enable all of these. I allow people to seep in. I allow people to call me friend (what a hateful term it has become, to cover all manner of sins) without thinking about whether our bond is that strong or that equal. I have not yet learnt how to gently put deflect such forced labels. I do not want to hurt the people who attempt to hang it on me; they do it from a deep hungry need and a misguided sense that I can satiate that need. But I cannot allow myself to be preyed on by the endless, one-sided neediness. I want to be able to give boundlessly but only to people who do the same back. I want fulfiling two-way relationships, not a fan club. Maybe I can learn how to deal with these women the way I learnt to deal with those men.
Once again, equals do not play games; they have conversations. Whether those games start with trading insults or excessive compliments, I guess they’re still games.
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