Making A (Feminist?) Choice

Now that "women's empowerment" is all the rage and women seem to have acquired a booming voice and our choice  is suddenly everywhere. Since having our voices silenced has been the default state for women, it seems all the more novel.

Come to think of it, is this hurrah really for us, or are we being used as stepping stones for big corporations to get ahead while they push us further back into misogynist territory? Like a magician performing a sleight of hand, here's the elaborate illusion that we are the winners- but does it hold up to scrutiny?

As we go about our life struggles, we are constantly forced to make choices. Each choice comes with its own consequences, some positive and some not so much. 
Not all choices are easy, but every choice is made after weighing all the factors. We try to do the best we can, under the circumstances, based on what we know at the time. 

These choices may vary, and even for the same woman, change depending on the circumstances. 
Consider a woman who gets paid to work outside the home, but if she's from an upper caste/class family she has to quit after child birth because child care is assumed to be her primary responsibility. Surely, no woman wants to end up paying the mommy penalty out of choice? 

It's no secret that sexism flourishes in the marketplace, limiting our choices, while making the opposite appear true. What choices do women and non binary persons really have?

The much touted "choice feminism" is nothing but a self indulgent narcissistic idea that every act of choice made by a woman, is an inherently feminist act. Simply the act of choosing empowers us-that is, of course, utter horseshit.

Choice feminism is all about making these choices sound like they are revolutionary, no matter how far they push us back into the 15th century, simply by virtue of having been made by a woman. 

For example, the choice to whiten your vagina- is that feminist act too? If your whiter vagina raises your self esteem or helps give you pleasure, please go right ahead and do it- but please don't claim it as an inherently feminist act, simply by virtue of having made a choice. 

Another facet of our lives where choice constantly rears its head, is that of the daily rituals surrounding our appearance. Femininity is a performance, and the best performers are richly rewarded for their efforts. Attire and grooming are big components of performing femininity.

 The little dab of kohl that I apply to my eyes each morning and the touch of lipstick which never lasts through the day- I do it because I like the appearance, it makes me feel pretty. What's pretty? My notions of beauty are those which I've grown up with. Many of these inherited notions I've outgrown, and of course I've acquired some of my own as I've aged. 

But also, I've learnt the idea that to be professional is to be well groomed. The line between grooming and femininity are blurry indeed. Isn't having a "well-groomed, professional" look also a performance of femininity?  

All the current "women's" magazines will tell you that you need separate sets of clothes for work. Where does fashion end and professionalism begin? By telling us what is in and what's not- staging an ever burgeoning line of all kinds of wear, fashion only serves to hem us in. 

Who's to say that I can't wear the same saree to work and go shopping in it and enter the kitchen in the same, to cook? I'm sure our grandmothers did it and the multitudes of women toiling away in the fields do to this day. As much as the fashion purports to provide us with choices, in reality it limits us, it ties us down. 

Not only are we sexist, we are also an ageist society. The elderly and greying are judged as being less active, less able to perform efficiently. Much as I'd like to let my hair go grey, I'm not yet ready for the judgement that I'm sure will follow at my workplace. So I dye my hair, and look the better for it, too. 

Let me confess, going grey is not going to be an easy decision. Thick, glossy, colored hair is not only youthful-read energetic- it also looks pretty. Hand on my heart, I'm not ready to face my dowdy self-not yet. In my own eyes I look more feminine, and it coincides better with the constant barrage of media images of what it means to be pretty.  

I wear some make up, I follow a dress code, and I color my hair. I follow these dictats, for what it means to be a well groomed professional. Because the choice I make, is to keep working my job, while not sticking out like a sore thumb at my work place. Those choices are not feminist acts by any stretch. 

 Does feminism take a backseat to living an even-keeled life? You bet. Is my every act a well thought out act of feminism? No, far from it. Does it make me a less passionate feminist? Probably. I don't think know. We'll find out when we have the feminist-meter in our hands. Or maybe some enterprising soul has already manufactured and patented it, who knows? Personally I know I must pick my battles. I try and go about them as astutely as possible.

The sexism rife in the world continues unabated and it's a constant struggle to balance out the demands to be feminist. To contribute with each act to the bending of gender norms too is in all probability not going to happen all the time. It is a heavy a burden to carry. Rest, till your shoulders allow you. 

Time

time flows by

like a river in spate

billowing at the edges,

flooding the streams of thought

drowning the banks of reason 

the seams of my mind 

come undone. 

try to hold with all my might

the stitches, wayward,
flying out of my grasp.

like tiny droplets,
pearls of time
scratched, yet glinting,
in my palm.

distant as a chimera

vapours arise

bites of a wasp
tiny at first
then the skin engorged
flush with mangled memories.

liquid flows out
leaks into the void

shredded fabric of my being
drenched and fraying 

body wrinkled  

mind bent
scratched and broken and bent

Wrinkles and Grey

The wrinkles on my face,
the lines on my forehead,
the crow's feet under my eyes
all expanding further,
like tentacles gnawing away at my life.  

My fast greying hair, 

from which conversations sprouted-

I feigned modesty at compliments-
that too, just unprettied itself out.

Now my discoloured hair, limp,
like a beggar woman's curses 
shouted from across the street.

The skin on my hands has begun to shrivel 
slathering gallons of lotions it defies.

It cannot be held at abeyance any longer,

the quick-paced, relentless beating of time

Head reeling from the horror,
I recoil
I retreat from the mirror -

that image isn't mine.

Beyond my control, 

slave of time

my skin and my body-

but not my mind.

When I close my eyes 
from behind the weary brow still shines 

the toothy smile of the little girl. 

Bright, self-conscious, awkward 

and hope lingers, unfounded,

in the dark bright pools of her eyes.

You live on,  
little girl, 
in hopes and in smiles-
I've weathered many a storm
I'm still alive. 

When Looks Do Kill

Of late, I've discovered the joys of nudity. Don't get me wrong, I don't walk the streets in the buff or even roam around my home naked. Sorry to disappoint at least some of you, but it's only within the confines of my own bedroom.

After a long day at work, in this hot and humid climate, there's no greater pleasure than to kick off your shoes, undress and take a long, cold shower. Usually that's followed by getting dressed again, but, of late, I have begun to linger. I don't immediately put my clothes on.

I not only enjoy feeling cool this way, but, in this fourth decade of my life, I also feel comfortable in my skin. I am finally accepting of my body and my appearance. And this post is testimony- and millions of women will vouch for it - that it's a long, uphill battle getting here, if one does get here at all.

Time to rewind. I must've been 8 yrs old when I was first made acutely aware of how I looked. Over an argument with mom, I must've tried to give her a dirty look. With a half-indulgent, half-mocking smile which only a parent can perfect, she said, "If only you had larger eyes, you'd have killed me with that look."

I had the wind taken out of my sails. And the seed of a deep-seated awareness of my looks - or lack of them - was irreversibly implanted.

This lack of good looks was a constant refrain in my growing-up years. As I stepped into my awkward teens with the usual acute hyper-awareness of my body, some measure of faith in my looks was restored by compliments which started coming my way. In the first flush of youth everyone looks pretty, I imagine - yet this was not enough to wash away the deep-seated self-doubt.

And so it has been for me, as it is, I suppose, for most women.  And it doesn't end with the natural- born physical features one is resigned to as one's fate. It extends to the overall appearance of a woman. For instance, picking what clothes to wear isn't always about being dressed appropriately for the occasion, or present a decent front, or even look well-groomed.

A woman must conform to the expectations of femininity from her. She must work it to advance in life. Even if she gets ahead by doing what men do, she's called a bitch. If she isn't pretty, it's assumed that she won't get too far in life. If she does, she's plain lucky.

Women are almost always performing femininity. Being feminine is a state that one is not born into, rather it is acquired over the years. And there is so much that goes into building that image. It doesn't end with the looks one is born with. It is in every gesture a girl makes growing up. And it is constantly reinforced by closely policing her posture as she sits, moves, walks, places her body not just in the public space but also in the private sphere.

Marriage, which is supposed to be the “ultimate goal” of a woman's life, is also highly dependent on looks. Not only will a better-looking girl fetch a better groom but the quality of her life post-marriage is also supposed to be better as a result.

A  woman of better appearance has a head start in life. Cue the multi billion dollar industry that works to make us more presentable in every possible way, from shaping our bodies, to grooming us. And of course there are the dozens of medical interventions which have now evolved for the purpose.

Then, as if the traditional views of society which uphold these ideals of femininity were not bad enough to make us feel miserable, there's  also the bane of modern advertising which perpetuates ideals of beauty impossible to attain.

The influence of advertising is pernicious, with its deep reach into our psyche. As if looking well turned out wasn't hard enough, we now have to contend with norms of the wafer-thin body type. As for the hyper-sexualised and the “come hither” images bombarding us every waking moment, it’s as if always being ready for sex is a natural state to be in. Not only are these images fixated in the minds of men, we women internalise them too.

Body Dysmorphic Disorder, which leads to, or is linked with, anorexia or bulimia and even cutting and other forms of self harm, is related to body image or how one perceives oneself, regardless of how one really looks, or appears to others. What many fail to grasp is that these disorders can be fatal. Of course men suffer from these disorders too, but the overwhelming majority are women.

Often men have told me : why bother about it, why care about what others think of you. Well, if it's the way you've been trained to think,internalizing it from the time you were a toddler,  it's what you do.

Over the years, there have been battles about this in my head. And I've lost most of them. Only of late, with detailed and in-depth discussions, and some internal growth, have I come to the conclusion that what I look like doesn't determine who I am, the person. And yes I'm unique, and attractive in my own way. My nose may not be perfect, or my forehead too broad, but it's what makes me. The person I am is identified by these and so am I.

I'm still not perfectly happy with the way I look but I've made my peace with it. We are getting along alright now, my body and I.

My Bucket List

"Am ticking one off my bucket list. What does yours have?" I was asked this innocent question recently by a dear friend.
A friend, going to visit a place he'd long planned to see, and that's when he asked this of me.

The question got me thinking and I thought the ideas churning in my head deserved to be written down, more to sort them out for myself.

As I've grown older almost every discussion about ageing - specially while marking birthdays -  has centred around melancholy. Amazingly enough, irrespective of whether the person is in his/her 20s or 30s or older, the feeling is the same: a sense of being over-the-hill (at 20 ! and I'm in my 40s!) and at once running out of time to do the things one wishes to, at one's own pace.

Not having enough time to read or pursue other hobbies is one common refrain. Of course, we all have limited time and more importantly, for most of us who are not Ambanis, also limited resources.

Those of us who are wage slaves, well know that we have given up our claim to large chunks of our waking hours, our precious time, entire portions of our lives. We've bargained it away in return for printed paper -nothing more than a promise to pay you- money as we call it. This, in turn we exchange for a whole lot of "things".

So how goes the bargain of time for money and money for things work out : a relentless pursuit that seemingly leads nowhere? Increasingly I see, being added to the things, are experiences, yet almost all linked to the notes.Time in exchange for money which is, in turn, exchanged for experiences.

 And how does one achieve the maximum from that which one has?
Alas, that is a question I have no answer to and leave to the author of the next self help book. I'm going to talk of something else entirely.

All of these discussions kept taking me back to a favorite word of my mother's : contentment. One day last June chatting with another friend, we zeroed in on this word. How lovely it sounds and what it means to us, how much it meant to my parents generation and how little to those in today's world.

My mother would often exhort us to be happy with what we have. In the days of license raj and shortages and rationing of food (I already warned you I'm old  :-/ ) it made sense to us. We siblings would share everything offered to us. Our parents would buy a roll of cloth and my dad's and brothers' shirts as well as my frock would be made out of it. We saw nothing amiss in that. My dad with his craze to have a car of his own, did buy one, on his meagre salary but we had to scrape for months on end so he could repay the loan he took out for it.

Fast forward to the nineties, opening up markets, globalization and here we were with multiple models of not just cars but a surfiet of goodies cramming up the fast sprouting malls.It was all we could do to keep up with the pace of rapid commercialization.

Yet, in the India of today, the new generation just stepping into their youth has known no other world, save that of get-ahead-in-life, denoted in the past by the basic "roti-kapda-makaan" now replaced by so much more. To today's youth owning a laptop or a car are really no more luxuries, but almost essentials. Every middle class Indian aspires to these.

And more power to them, I say. Why not? Aspirations are great, dreams are what propel us forward. As long as we fulfil our dreams without trampling on the rights of others and subverting our own integrity,there should be no quarrel with anyone.

But I keep going back to the video of the man who wore a sanitary napkin, Arunachalam Murugunantham. Hew speaks so eloquently of what it means to have enough and to be satisfied with it. If you have a home in a city and then one more in another city, you may have one in each continent, the question  remains how much time are you going to spend in each? Where do you stop hankering for the next "it" thing? The latest, the most "happening" item of luxury which proclaims that you have "arrived"- but where exactly are you headed?

So here comes in that favorite word of mine. Contentment. To be happy in what one has. It does not mean ceasing to want or move ahead in life. Let's just say, to me moving ahead means decluttering my life of unnecessary objects, unnecessary wants and surround myself with only the essentials. Spend more time with people I love, those who matter to me.

All those trips which are meant to give us new "experiences", yes, I want those, too. But the ones I know I cherish the most will not be a view of a sunset from an exotic hill top or the skyscrapers of a glitzy city. For me those moments are the ones shared with my family, my son, listening to his plans for the future or sitting chatting with my mom, over a cup of tea, listening to her tales of times gone by.
So, increasingly, that's my bucket list. What's yours?

Segments

Segments of fortune,
indicators of my fate :
lines on my forehead,
and palms of my hand.

Passages of time
marked on my face
crows feet under my eyes.
laughter lines on my cheeks.

Passages of life
everywhere you see-
stretch marks on my belly
from baby carrying days.

These signs of the past
I carry on my body
Wife, mother, lover, friend
all that I've been.

Smothered in layers
by very many screens;
unheard, unseen.

Demarcated, lined
battle lines drawn;
branded cattle like,
quartered up like poultry.

Shredded, chopped up
into tiny little bits.
Split into a million parts,
blown to smithereens.

All that I was, and am
is not all there is to me.