Metrosexual (Micro Fiction)

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“Cockroach..ugh..there on the croissant, please, do something,” thequeue at the Café Coffee Day counter of the Italian language school tittered. Had it been a girl protesting the lack of hygiene, they would have heard her out in a tolerant, even righteous silence, telling themselves that a man may not even have noticed the creepy crawly. But it was Chinshu sounding the alarm, Chinshu with his swaying walk and a glittering hearts studded pink wallet.

Vanya moved up closer to him at the cash counter, “Hey help me decide, which of these two sandwiches is lower on carbohydrates?” Vanya’s incredulous expression was completely lost on Chinshu . He went right ahead, calculated the calories, instructed the attendant on grilling his food just right and took his time picking brown sugar packets and mustard sauce sachets. 

The two hurried to grab a table. Class would begin in ten minutes and the professors were very punctual. “You had your eyebrows plucked?” Vanya’s tone was accusing as she ran her fingers guiltily up her hairy leg under the table. “Have you tried the new Jasmine hand cream in the market? I love the smell. And they have this beautiful birthmark camouflage procedure at this parlour,” Chinshu informed her, focusing on eating neatly while plucking at the strawberry patch near his right temple.

“Hurry up Chinshu, elevator, quick, it is going up!” Vanya led the way up to their floor and they entered the classroom. The din halted mid-sentence at their appearance. Their batch mates suddenly became overly busy to hide their mortification at being caught discussing Chinshu’s metrosexual persona. Vanya glared at a woman friend who was clearly mocking him with her censorious expressions. “Gay,” someone emitted the word forcefully.

They ignored everyone and dived into their session, under the watchful eye of a native instructor who was quite clearly a man in regular touch with his feminine side too. He often spoke of the well-loved Italian clothing and accessories brands to the students, all the time shifting weight in his fabulous floral loafers.

Class over, Vanya and Chinshu struck their usual trail to the NGO named “Mardani”. It was a common interest in activism and gender studies that had brought them together. They were two young people with quivering antennae, picking anomalies, dissonance and restlessness in the space that had created them. Vanya was an avowed feminist who sought masculinity in men despite a hypothetical empathy with a man’s right to his femininity. And Chinshu often traced his own leanings to his upbringing. A first generation college graduate in his family at Demul , Spiti valley, Chinshu dreamt of setting up his own restaurant in Italy. He was also making up for lost time with his eager adoption of the most current lifestyle trends.

“I am very confused Vanya. My girlfriend is angry with me a lot these days. I get upset if she does not reply to my text immediately. I also feel she does not say “I love you” as often as she should. She says I sulk a lot. What do you guys want woman? A man’s man or a woman’s man or some calibrated combination? Don’t you see that what men have today is merely a phantom status?”

Vanya was dismissive, “Shut up. You Indian men are brought up to just be sons. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

There was a village woman creating a ruckus near the car parking. She looked out of place in her traditional mountain tochay. Vanya would have driven past her had it not been for her distraught face and frantic waving about of her arms. Also, she kept pointing up at the NGO building. Vanya pulled over.

“Please help me. I can’t find my child. It has been two years and no news. We checked at the Italian Language School. No one seems to know. My husband and son have filed an FIR. The police say that the few calls we have received have been from this area.”

“How old is your child? Tell me the name and description? I know most people in this building.”

“Her name is Charini. She is tall. There is a red birthmark on her right forehead. I told her how dangerous a place Delhi can be. She promised to be careful!”

Half the sky

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She is a great Mom, keeps a tight check on the kitchen, stays just so in his shadow and is respectful towards his family. He works hard to provide for the unit, is a loyal husband and an indulgent father.

A perfect family portrait but for one latent difference; his portfolio stems from himself and hers from those around her. He is the centre of his own universe; the world around her is the axis she circumvents. His self-esteem comes from his personal capability and application in the arena outside home, her sense of self-worth depends upon approval from those she is related to. He is the doer, she is the pleaser. He has expectations, for her are mostly the adjustments. Marriage embellishes the life he already leads; it transforms her existence beyond recognition, shifting the very centre of her gravity with a fundamental change in the reason of her being.

And no, neither of them is the villain. They are products of a self-perpetuating social order that is so deep and time tested, it is taken as the given. Yes, there have been major shifts in gender based roles but the foundation stands, only the sheen has dulled and very nervously!

At the core of how we conduct the business of living our lives is the assumption that humans exist primarily for each other. There is no cultural recognition of individual autonomy and accountability for developing one’s own potential in our tradition. Salvation has been spoken of mostly in relation to masculine seekers of truth. The women have either not bothered or have been content to be a ‘Mata’ or a “Devi’ with supplementary and augmentative functions. There is no folk thread of a woman needing to or deserving to validate her personal evolution as a better, larger, wiser human being. Yes, there is an active encouragement towards getting an education and acquiring skills but only until she ties the knot. Thereafter, we can tolerate light weight hobbies but heavy duty notions like ‘wanting to make a difference’ or ‘realizing her own potential’ become ridiculous and offensively ambitious phrases in her lexicon. Of course, she will have to pitch in with her hard work and drive outside the four walls but only when the family needs it. For the most part, her role-book includes being a caretaker of her family in return for a secure home and socially acceptable status.

Nothing can be a greater sin for a woman than to want to authenticate herself. Who does she think she is, wanting to prove the point of her existence? Why, she ought to get all the meaning and fulfilment she needs from her family and the extended network. What more can there be to her?

That’s right. Women have come a long way. But until the day they begin to stop feeling apologetic for their existence, it is not far enough. The world will be a cleaner, more transparent, wholesome and happier place when it gives its permission and acceptance for self-realization to those who hold up half the sky. 

Gejje Hejje

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Aqseer was taken into custody yesterday. Preventive custody but custody all right. When she called me up around 12.30 pm last noon while her Dad and I were at the German Christmas fair, German House, New Delhi, she was at pains to explain that no charges had been pressed nor an FIR lodged. My antenna quivered for any tone of distress. Her voice sounded leashed and taut; she spoke with deliberation, choosing crisp, economical words but there was also an undercurrent of excitement.

I was more concerned with the fact that I did not feel concerned in the “sick with worry” way. There was confidence in her ability to handle it, although it did make me wonder at us as parents! Here was our girl, calling us up to say she had been bundled into a van by the Bangalore Police with eight others, to be driven off on a city darshan, lurching from one police station to another, in an attempt to shake off the trail and all we had to say was, “Take care. Keep us informed! Let us know when you are out.”

After years of facilitating her study of ethics, history, empowerment, social development, justice, could we possibly tell Aqseer to back off and play safe at the first sight of a speed breaker ? Did we have the moral ground to ask her not to get involved and to lie low? Would we have been right in extolling her to mind her own business in the interest of her personal future and security? Ought we to stick our heads in the sand, now that she is in the line of fire and pretend nothing unusual is happening.

I wish to reclaim her instead. Yes Aqseer, we know you have taken up cudgels for a cause you believe in. You are confused and dazed and jolted and wrung dry at times but you are at it. You are dealing with a whole lot. Keep your faith up. We believe in you and your judgement. We are so very proud that you are out there with other courageous young people, placing your statement on record. 

Cheers to Gejje Hejje!

http://www.mumbaimirror.com/article/3/2011120520111205020712627c03217f0/Moral-brigade-cops-foil-Bangalore-slutwalk.html

http://bangalore.citizenmatters.in/articles/view/3618-police-stop-slut-walk-under-threat-of-backlash

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/life-style/people/Bangalore-SlutWalk-cancelled/articleshow/10980157.cms

Mom, Grandma or me?

Follow @Honeysangha A recent survey has it that Indian women are the most stressed of all, anywhere in the world.

Interestingly enough, the stress is not of suppression or deprivation. The stress is a positive one ! It is the stress of empowerment !! As per the study, with greater enablement comes the responsibility of getting ahead, of making tough choices and of reaching out to grab the opportunities.

It is a bit confusing! Who has had it all? Mom,Grandma or me?!

Osmi Mart, 8^th March

International Women’s Day Parade, Belgrade

Feminist prototype

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It makes me proud to see your heart

Beat for women, all torn apart

You sense the paradox of their lives

There is anger at the social lies

An edgy status, a secondary citizen

Despite their elitist education

Prickly, constant and inbuilt

This shattering sense of eternal guilt

That adjustment, compromise and appeasement

Will be her grandest statement

And should she dare to veer any

There better be an engine many

While you perceive this with appal

Aflame at the unfairness of it all

You forget to extend that charity

To the shuffling piece of maternity

Her tear bounces off your arrogance

Of the cord there’s a certain severance

As though a boning with the Bowie

Spare her this dear God, she is my baby

Defunct and desolate she might seem

Bright but bitter in basic theme

The one you ladle wisdom to

Was once as fiery and free as you!

Note:All pics of the whiz baker and Asawari's Serb home-stay Mom Nada, taken by Aqseer.

A life less equal

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Does an Indian girl spend her life trying to make up for not having been born a boy?

‘You are not my daughter, you are my son’….is this the highest compliment her father/grandfather can pay her?

Is there a sense of loss when she abdicates her family name to her brother?

Does she chafe against the social diktat that acknowledges the greater right of her husband’s family on her unit?

Is there some amount of humiliation in being viewed as a “responsibility”, to be offloaded by her parents onto her family-in-law?

Is there a dip in her family status if she is not able to “give” her husband a son?

Must she take care not to seem too close to her biological family lest her commitment to her acquired family become suspect?

Is an eternal gratitude expected of her towards a husband who lets her be?

Will her middle name continue to be “adjustment”, ever and mostly?

How long is the pussyfooting to stay her monopoly?

Would you say if food, shelter, clothing and security are a good enough price for a lifetime’s devotion to one man and his family?

Should the children go off track, would that primarily be her fault?

A global survey recently ranked countries most hazardous in which to be born a woman.

Top five were Afghanistan, Congo, Pakistan, India and Somalia.

An emerging super-power, India has female infanticide and sex trafficking to answer for.

The dangerous, gender stereotypes are too deeply ingrained.

When my second daughter came, someone offered condolences to my husband.

“Two Marutis down,” his colleagues told him.

I didn’t find it funny at all.

It is this terrible air that brings tears to the eyes of a new mother who is told, "You delivered a baby girl!"”