Patriarchy Hurts Men Too

Patriarchy is a social system in which males hold primary powered predominate in roles of political leadership, social privilege and control of property. In the domain of family, fathers or father figures hold power over women and children. 

Patriarchy and patriarchal thinking have deemed it necessary to divide up all of humanity into two neat blocks; the feminine and the masculine. It is ordained that you must belong to one group or the other, playing by the rules set out by the system. 

This implies that women are closely policed for conformity with femininity,while men are policed for masculinity. For a man, masculinity is essential to his place in the world. However, as patriarchy grants men privilege, we tend to ignore the harm it does them. The omertà of silence around it only compounds the problem. "Mard ko hard nahin hota" isn't just a cheesy cliche, its a credo for men and most believe in it wholeheartedly.

Masculinity is the model most men grow up with and it is natural they emulate it, mostly unquestioningly. Sexism is the practical manifestation of patriarchy. Men get better treatment, than women, in most spheres of life. Male domination, a consequence of sexism and patriarchy is accepted in our world as normal. These attitudes have been normalized over centuries of building up patriarchy.

Given this conditioning, it's hardly surprising that when men find themselves accused of sexism they are taken unawares and most may consider it an unfair charge. After all, in the set-piece world they are used to, this is the way things are arranged. 

 Granted, that  these structures have been around for centuries, but each man who plays his part, helps the patriarchy project along. 

Let's look at the unique characteristics of hyper masculinity and how it affects men.

1. Suppression of Emotion

No soon is a baby boy born and the grooming to be a macho male begins. Being a man means keeping a stiff upper lip, not letting your emotions show. 

 The reprimand of "boys don't cry" and "man up", are repeatedly made to little boys, enforcing this socialization. The only legitimate emotion men are allowed to express is anger and aggression.    

                                              

2. Men and the Outdoors

Men are expected to step out of the home and go into the wide world to earn a living, to play sport, to be adventurous. Women are expected to stay home and do the nurturing and caregiving work.  

3. The Provider

 Men are expected to be the main providers to the family, to earn enough to keep the home fires burning. Any wonder men with wives who work in paying jobs are ridiculed as "not wearing the pants". And the ultimate horror, a woman who earns more than her partner; the man is emasculated beyond repair.

4. Men are Strong

"Women are weak, men are strong." Male domination would have us believe that the powerful and strong have precedence over the weak. As a consequence, not only do men dominate women, but also weaker, less powerful men, or men of lower class. In the Indian context this means lower castes are beholden to higher castes.  

This thinking is justified by patriarchy.

5. Men Are Violent 

Masculinity implies strength and power, with violence or the threat of violence underpinning the power exerted by dominant men. 

We think it acceptable that men express almost all emotion and respond to any and every event with a violent response, if not in actions then certainly in words. The outcries of "hang the rapist' or the calls to castrate men who commit sexual assault are only a reflection of the acceptance of violence as a means to solve all problems.

Violence in personal relationships is often accepted and normalized. A recent court order stated that "minor incident of beatings on small issues  can take place in any household" in a case in which a woman had committed suicide.

Sexism and its accompanying violence leads to women being beaten, murdered, raped inside their own homes, by people known to them, be it family or neighbors or co-workers. As NCRB data for 2015 shows, in over 95% cases of rape the offender is known to the victim

Yet, much as it harms women, the double edged sword of patriarchy hurts men too. It may help men gain power over women but it also keeps men tied to roles they may not always like or be comfortable with. 

6. Men are Sexually Aggressive 

Masculinity demands of men the performance of more than violent gender roles; it demands that men be unemotional, and sexually aggressive. The violence we demand of men often spills over into every sphere, from the public to the private. The dominant male often carries this violence into the bedroom, into the realm of the sexual, the intimate, too. 

Sex and an aggressive performance of sexual desire are intrinsic to the macho man.The stereotypical male is expected to be interested in sex almost at all times. 

Emotional and psychological intimacy are often part of the bond formation when two people have sex. Yet patriarchal masculinity portrays the decoupling of emotion from sex as the norm, and present it to us as a basic male trait. The detachment of all emotion from the sex act is a basic premise of hyper masculinity. 

7. Fear of Emasculation

Masculinity is all about being the tough guy but at its heart lies a deep seated fear of the feminine. Any appearance of the traits seen as feminine, such as being emotionally expressive or vulnerable, and a man is termed "weak".  

It follows that emasculation is the idea that regardless of what other "manly" pursuits he may indulge in, certain  feminine acts will render a man unmanly or girly. 

The horror of appearing weak is well imprinted in our lexicon- wimp, sissy, pansy all refer to men not deemed manly enough. Our language itself is replete with the idea that emotional stability is linked to gender, whereas we know this  is not true.

8. Decreased Life Span
Toxic masculinity leads to the gap in life expectancy between men and women. Men live 10 years less than women do. The difference which we are lead to believe is due to size and structure, is probably an inability to accept stress or to seek out relief for it. Masculinity and male dominance kills men through over work, celebrated as workaholism. Alcoholism, substance abuse, and stress are the other major contributors to shortened life spans.

Masculinity is killing men. According to NCRB data, the number of men who commit suicide is far more than the number of women. Men suffering mental illness may not know how to assess themselves, or won't express it. Worse still, masculinity prevents them from seeking help.

9. Stunted Relationships.

Forced gender binaries also mean that men and women cannot have shared interests. How do you build partnerships and relationships with no shared passions?

10. Caste and Patriarchy

Being the result of a power differential, male dominance normalizes violence not only against women but also against other weaker men. In India, this is how the caste system works. The "inferior" men with no economic or social power are kept subservient to the upper, dominant castes. Patriarchy and caste are bosom buddies.

11. Patriarchy and Heteronormativity
It is no secret that all sex and romance in our culture is expected to be heteronormative. Macho men are supposed to fall in love with only girly women and a cis straight manhood is normalized. The fear of emasculation leads to violence against queer men. 

12. Imperialist Nationalism

Imperialist militarism can be seen as an extension of this model of male domination on the world at large. When extended to relations between nation states it can lead to war and military contests. In the age of nuclear weapons the perils of such brinkmanship cannot be stressed enough.

The Exception: The Male Nurturer 

Sure, there are men who are exceptions to this model of toxic masculinity. There may be the odd male family member or friend or partner who is a nurturer. This guy is fluent in basic human skills. He fetches you a cup of tea when you're in distress, or just listens to you when you're ranting. He knows how to comfort one by physical touch, or with loving, accepting looks.  

Male nurturers are a threat to the ideal of the masculine man. These guys escaped the strictly enforced codes of masculine behavior. These are the men we must idolize, hold up as examples and celebrate.The walls between the genders, the strictly enforced codes of behavior must go. Once men become aware of how stunted their growth as humans is we will begin to dismantle patriarchy. Only by abandoning the model of masculinity can men be restored to their full humanity. 

Dismantle the Patriarchy!

For betterment of interpersonal relationships, and for better international relations, patriarchy must be dismantled. Feminist thought is the only redeemer. Dear men, give this giant structure of patriarchy a heave-ho, and embrace feminism. Welcome to the vision of a more equitable, egalitarian and a just society!

A version version of this article appeared on the website of Feminism In India  earlier.

My Life, Your Honor?

 Just a few days ago, a woman was stabbed to death by a stalker in Delhi. Though she'd complained to the police, as the report states "the two families had reached a compromise". Other reports state that the attacker had promised to mend his ways. The woman's parents had opted to believe him. When women are stalked by men, parents and police all advise them to ignore it.

On the other hand, when a woman leaves home with a man of her choice, the police and woman's family go into overdrive, report marriages of choice as rape  and do everything in their power to track down the couple. A woman asserting a life choice is to be hounded, but a man harassing a woman, even putting her life in danger, is free to do as he pleases.

 In Pakistan, Qandeel Baloch, a self made social media star, and a model was murdered in her own home by her brother, because to his mind, he had brought dishonor to his family. 

To many of us in this part of the world, it's nothing new, nor too horrifying. We even give it a nice name to decrease the horror of it; we call it "honour killing" so we can turn away from the momentary shock and go back to our normal lives. We ignore the huge risks women face everyday, at the hands of those who are closest to them, even those whom they trust.

As per the Indian National Crime Records Bureau data for 2014 (PDF), out of 37,413 rape cases, in 32,187 cases the offenders were known to the victims accounting for 86.0% of total rape cases during 2014. Women are at greatest risk in their own homes, or in their neighborhoods or workplaces. 

A woman is expected to uphold family honour by maintaining chastity before marriage and sexual loyalty to her husband, afterwards. Any deviation from the norm is strictly regulated and punishment for the same endorsed by all sections and all classes. Such is the cultural conditioning that even apparently well-educated people fall into the trap of clubbing women into slots, judging them for respectability. So a senior woman politician who has lived abroad for years, has presumably seen a more liberal side of society, tweeted thus. 

                                 

Let's not assume that women are above sexism or that they don't want a share in the spoils the system promises them if they follow the rules. 

Since at least the second millennium Before Christ we have records telling us of laws that classed women into categories based on their sexualities, segregated into honourable women and the disreputable ones. 

The sexually available woman was to be despised, even though masculinity couldn't do without her, yet her very existence was begrudged her. 

The honourable woman had a home and a husband and her sexuality was the possession of her husband alone. Such a woman had been given in marriage by her father, having kept her virginity intact till the time of marriage. 

At the other end of the spectrum were the slave girls whose bodies could be used by their masters in any way they saw fit, by anyone they wished to oblige. They could be used to bestow favours upon or to pay back dues. Basically a slave woman was a commodity at the hands of her master.

In both these cases the sexuality of the woman is owned by a man. 

The only women who had any modicum of agency over their own bodies or sexualities were prostitutes. The segregation soon came to be enforced geographically and the sex workers were restricted to a quarter of the city, where 'respectable' women wouldn't be caught dead.

The biggest trick patriarchy played was to thus pit women against women, having them fight for the limited spoils of men's attention, their only recourse to any kind of value or source of power. 

This system worked as the male is not only enjoined to keep it in place but also enforce it with violence. It is in this that his "honor" lies. 

In modern day Indian sub-continent these same notions of honor tied to women's bodies continue to persist. The individual's identity is tied to the honor of the family, and that in turn is tied to the women's sexuality. The family honor outstrips loyalties to any individual. Killing a sibling is a reprehensible act, no doubt, but one which it is his unpleasant duty to perform. Family honor trumps women's lives every time. 

Unless  this mindset changes, no matter how many laws we pass, our women are not safe. All rhetoric of "women's safety" will remain just empty words without aggressive campaigns to change the  minds. Many more Qandeels and Karunas will continue to meet the same fate. 

 A version of this piece was published by Feminism in India, here

Movie Review : Parched, Of Women Thirsting For More

In a lovely sequence in the movie, Parched, two of its four main characters, comfort each other. Rani, played by Tannishtha Chatterjee (wow! what a powerhouse performance!) applies a soothing lotion to Lajjo's (played by Radhika Apte) wounds. Lajjo has once again been beaten by her drunkard husband.A range of  emotions flit across the women's gently-lit faces as they explore each others' injuries. In a sense, this scene is at the heart the movie:  it's a chronicle of women's attempts to make sense of their scars, while exploring their sexualities, and trying to meet the world head on.

The two other protagonists are Bijli, played by Surveen Chawla and  Lehar Khan who plays Janaki. While Rani, Lajjo and Bijli are friends, Janaki is Rani's daughter-in-law, a child bride. In a heart wrenching scene, just after Janaki has been raped by her husband, Rani rebukes her for sleeping late, throwing the usual taunts of 'didn't your mother teach you anything?" As the child limps towards the bath area my heart all but leapt out of my chest. Rani is as much a product of the society she lives in and mistreats her daughter-in-law the same way she was treated when she herself had been a child bride.

Later, in a poignant monologue to her mother-in-law Rani narrates her life events, most of it a tragic unfolding of events beyond her control. She states quite matter of factly, that despite assurances of an improvement in their situation, nothing does.

Bijli, the hard-as-nails sex worker, is saved from looking stereotyped only by Surveen's impressive performance. Though she may appear bindaas and carefree, she longs for a "regular" life. Despite the fact that she sets the terms of sale of her body, she is unable to stop violence and abuse. I'm yet to see on the Indian screen a sex worker with true agency. The portrayal seemed problematic to me for a movie so progressive at heart.  

In one of the heart-gooey-making sub plots the women of the village band together to successfully get a satellite TV dish  installed, despite opposition from the men. The other interesting sub plot is the love story of Kishan, a local guy and Naobi, a Manipuri woman. Kishan is also Lajjo and Rani's employer. Their marriage causes much consternation among the menfolk of the village.  With every blow to the patriarchal order, I sent up a cheer. Dear director Leena Yadav, hope you have many more to come! 

While the older men disapprove of Kishan's marriage, the younger boys sexually harass Naobi. One of these harassers is Gulab, Rani's son. He has scant respect for his mother while stealing money she is saving up to repay loans she took for his wedding. Rani finally finds it in her to stand up to him and steps in to stop his abuse of his wife. 

Adil Hussain plays a nameless dream lover who helps women discover their bodies while giving them huge orgasms, it seems. Slight eye roll happened there. Lets face it ladies, does such a man really exist? Here's an apparently homeless man with nothing to recommend him save his great sexual prowess. The sequence of love making, however, is very beautifully shot. 

Another gorgeous sequence is the women frolicking in the water in the dark, sharing laughter and camaraderie, something not seen in Bollywood or Hindi language cinema-at least that which I'm familiar with. 

Here is a movie which lets women speak in their own voices. We watch them negotiate their lives, struggle with the realities of gender and discover the pleasures of their sexualities as they traverse the course of the movie. These women may not always be triumphant but they try; they are active agents in their own lives.  In the end, they all don't come out flawless, but each woman grows with the arc of the narrative. That's  what a feminist movie looks like!

This article first appeared on the website of Feminism In India, here

The Romantic Feminist

picture credit: The British Library

Feminists dream of a better world. A better world for people of all genders and for women. That's the dream. Our reality, however, is the insidious viciousness of the patriarchy. It's the real, pulsating beast at the heart of our society, directing our interactions, guiding our opinions and motivating us to devalue women, and diminish men who are deemed not "man enough".

Misogyny which is at the root of patriarchy, is practiced by us all, women included, to varying degrees. That doesn't make it any less of an evil, because women practice it, too.

A world free of sexism and misogyny, a world where fierce codes of masculinity and femininity aren't strictly enforced, by the threat of violence- whether unstated, or explicit, or may be disguised in soft, cuddly words- that's the feminist dream.

This feminist dream is what we have to look for, in our art and cinema and pop culture. Let's bring romance into our feminism. Some would say feminism is by definition a form of romance.

It doesn't exist yet, so we have to dream it up. Maybe then we won't need to offer up images of hapless women, devalued, dehumanised and destroyed, in order for men to sigh: "now that's realistic!"

Maybe then the sole purpose of the female form won't remain to be the mere prop on which men's fragile masculinity has to be shored up.

Maybe then women will not remain the sole repositories of values, and educated women won't have to play the dolt.

Maybe then the female form will cease to become a mere source of fear or hatred or titillation. 

A day may come when men needn't be macho and uncaring caricatures of humanity anymore.

A day may dawn when a female form can finally be seen as human too. Maybe.

Art mirrors society and society inspires art. Art goads us to achieve that which is more than us; that which will redeem us, that which can help us transcend our narrow thoughts and existence. 

If it is only through art that we can dream, and hope to comprehend a world without gender boundaries. That is the feminist dream. A hopeless romantic is also a romantic feminist.

violence

Break my bones.
Pick them off my body 
Like chicken wings. 
Till I stop breathing,
and cease to exist.

Till my lungs collapse 
and skin pulls away.
I turn into a heap 
Of skin n bones.
Immobile, 
affixed to the centre
of my universe-
You

Tide

Thoughts of you crowd my mind
like a bunch of ants crawling
under my skin.

Swat away one,
another crawls by;
a never ending stream
which I cannot stem
only may be hold at bay for a while
till I can, by myself,
walk into the arms of the tide.

On First Holding You In My Arms

From my psychedelic trance I surface,
bright fluorescent rainbow lights now receding, now in my face.
My mind bobs up, plunges down- just refuses to stay sound.

It's scary nice in the depths of fear,
this tunnel which I traverse,
exploding stars in my face-
as at the beginning of the universe.

Then I surface through the haze,
my mind in a warped bend,
where the walls and ceilings recede-
only to come slamming into my face again.

Body in ache, mind quite numb,
I trawl my eyes, bend my head sideways : it feels like ten;
a burden I can hardly bear.

Suddenly you swim into sight,
through the ether induced haze,
flailing limbs sticking out,
attached to a tiny frame.

When I'm made to hold you,
I fret, I may not pass the test,
I worry i'll fail,
under the nurses' strict gaze.

The magical reality hits my stoned mind,
past months of incomprehension pale.
Now it's here and I can't escape-
this dazzling gift of fate.

Delirious with dread,
ecstatic and scared,
stunned, yet unfazed,
I stare at your crinkled pink face,
overwhelmed and amazed.

Pebbles

Into the calmness of your presence
I drop a pebble of my glance,
or maybe a fragrance.
Something with which,
I can touch,
cause a ripple or two.
In the serenity of you.

Pleasure Delayed

I steal away these moments,
turn them into memories
stamp them with my love's eye
stored forever in me
To retrieve at leisure,
the tiny fragments of pleasure
Roll them over on the tongue
of my mind.
This pleasure to myself
denied for now,
delayed its consummation.
So it is locked away.
Relish each bite sized trip,
So you may last all eternity.

The Purge

Here we go!

The emotions hurtling
out of me.
A large slimy ball like thing
A creature, a new being.
It pours out of me,
maybe if I let it go,
of you,
I can purge me.

And there it sits
do you see it ?
I put it out there
For you to see
The strands entwined,
twirling,
entangled.
There, see !

Sometimes

Sometimes in the midst
of the bustle
of the busy day,
your memories beckon me.
I pause;
my burdens,
I lay down,
for a moment.
A glimpse of heaven,
is bestowed upon me.

The Body Remembers

Like wave upon wave,
washing ashore,
comes heaving upon me
a floatsam of memories-
of you.
My body remembers,
each speck of your touch.
Every sinew extends
at the recall.
The coils of the serpent
of desire
sneak up,
spread out,
engulf.
This hydra headed monster,
leaps out from every pore,
licks me,
tickles me.
Thousands of moments
converge in an uproar.
That which is washed away,
I choose to forget,
is but a tiny speck.
Each touch, every fleck
of your fingers, your tongue,
has left on me,
your stamp,
manifold.

Staying Alive

What names shall I call you, my love?
By what sweet words should I pay you my homage,
you generous lord of my pleasures,
you who who put me ahead, always?

Have any new words been created,
beloved mine,
on which I can hang these feelings
and express in terms
less ordinary 
these emotions that well up
and flood my mind?

However much I try
what ever different routes
I may ply,
the journeys shared with you,
are worth the exhaustion
and the pain;
for the pleasure of you, by my side 
and only one destination:
in your arms, to die. 

departure

She sat on the bench
in the waiting room,
he, next to her
holding hands.
Her peach coloured dress
 billowing up in the breeze from the fan

Scandalous looks darted their way
in the little out of the way town
far away from the bright lights of her city

She wanted to sit closer
in his lap
or with his head in hers.

She stared at him
till her heart would brim over
and pour out her eye
every once in a while.

Then she'd look away
this way or that
at others in the room
but rush back at his face.

Trying to chisel into her memory
 every detail of his presence
even as her heart filled with ache.

The bangs falling over her eye,
moved in the breeze of the fan,
he reached out,
running his fingers through them,
pushed back the wayward hair.

She looked at him,
mournful,
exultant, smile,
holding on to the image,
the memory
the touch
capturing in her heart
to cherish it
a lifetime.

Entrails and Innards

The entrails of life. 

The innards of me
 kept behind the closed door of skin. 
Bolted under the bones. 
Watered by blood.


What storms run amock
within these walls thin,
what tides wash up on the shores
what they carry away:
That which is left behind,
can you gauge from its imprint?


Do the grains stuck in me,
which for the life of me
I cannot dislodge
do they show up through the pores?

Would you care to know?
don't tell me

you know everything.

Melody

Like a plucked string 
the sounds of you resonate 
in me, in my soul
I am the melody
left behind by you
the echo of your heartbeat
beats in time 
with my breath.

The meloncholic tone 
which I pick up 
and redeem,
impart it life anew.
Twirl it, 
tease a song out of it
and turn it to joy.
Allow me  to turn this imprint
 you left behind
and fling it back 
into the sky
Maybe you will catch it again
some day.
And I will survive.

Chewable

A gnawing emptines,
a fully formed hole,
open wide,
like my dreamless eyes.
A vast crater
with a bottomless pit.
Every pore of me
seeks you
like a pacifier
in a baby's mouth,
would shut this wound,
dull the pain.
Name the drug
so I may
numb the ache.
Say my name.

Release

With your bloodshot eyes,
the sheen of a million stars bright;
as from a fevered delirium
you had just awakened:
when you look into mine,
like epochs and millennia frozen
at one spot, in synchronous flight.

Like a prayer flag hung out,
tossed about by the raging winds
on a mountain top-
bright and cheerful at the start;
I lose all colour in the sunlight
of your presence.

Flung about, 
losing my essence
till my colours have run through 
to a pale transluscence-
there's no more left of me.

Discarded, I'm shunned;
with shame,I burn up;
mingle with smoke and dust
rise up to the heavens above,
carrying on my lips 
a prayer of release.

My Little Girl

Sometimes, every once in a while,
for a few fleeting moments
before the hubbub of everyday takes over
and all dreams are brushed aside,
I feel something roll inside me
and for a fraction of a second I'm transposed
to a time long ago.

I'd dreamed you from the start:
as a tiny mass of cells 
multiplying ferociously inside me -
 I could already see your face,
imagine the contours of your tiny body.
Holding you in my arms
dressing you in little frocks 
and letting you do all that
I wasn't allowed to do.

My precious darling,
you were not to be
I weighed the various facts
and decided to let you go.
You didn't carry enough weight
in my schemes, as they stood:
sucked you out of me, I did:
through a vacuum tube.

Can't afford you at this juncture, 
is the lie I told myself;
set myself free:
to just be me. 
Free to imagine, 
what could have been.

Now when I see little girls
holding mommies' hands, 
and prance around
doing a merry dance,
filled with regret,
I feel a distinct pang-
for what could have been.

But I willed it otherwise.
Don't live with regrets, they tell me
So this guilt, I hide
But I know, I shall pay for it 
only with my life.

Memories

The first memories, of wood smoke
Naresh cooking on firewood.
Running to the kitchen,
through the corridor;
delicious scents wafting from it
of warmth, and succour.

Winters spent in nani's home;
"puas" slow cooked to perfection.
Love ladled out in scoopfuls,
fried a crispy brown tone.

World's best "aloo matar"
with Mummy fussing over
every "poori"  turned out like a ball
fluffy n red, just as I like it.

Shift the kaladeiscope,
see what it throws :
what we choose to remember,
what we forego-
keep the joys, relish  them;
dip into them, as into a treasure trove.