Woman is the blood & flesh of our life

The following bizarre incident, though happened years back in a small town, still haunts my mind and jolts my faith on the credibility of the law-enforcing agencies. I’m also intrigued by the misconceptions of the politicians since they think that the passing of the Women’s Reservation Bill in Parliament would give the fair-sex their much needed empowerment and dignity.

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They were four of them. Young, but fragile. Must be in their twenties. The girls were standing squeezed between a portly Police Officer and a Constable, with heavy paunch, at the entrance to a Session’ Court. They had covered their faces with dupattas. The omnipresent Press was there, having already pitched in around the girls. There were crowds too. People who stood around the four were vying with one another to take a glimpse of the girls.

The media crews became restless over their long waiting. They, in a chorus, clamored at the Police Officer to make the girls to take off their veils and show their faces to the cameras. Twirling his mustache, the portly officer—he was already on cloud nine as if he had arrested a bunch of terrorists who were at large for a helluva time—started badmouthing the girls and slapping on their backs with his lathi to make the beleaguered girls to show their faces to the public.

Fearing further harassment both from the police and the public, the girls slowly, but reluctantly took off their dupattas from their faces. Mad went the cameras emitting interminable flash lights on the girls’ faces, making them blind for a while. The crowds too went into jitters; tongues started waxing profane about the girls’ looks, eyes swarming over their bodies.

The girls were embarrassed. They started crying aloud. With folded hands and, tears rolling down their cheeks, they implored the press not to take photos of them and ruin their lives. However, no one seemed to hear their pleas. Soon, the police got them remanded and took them to the Women’s Cell.

Later, one of my journo friends told me that the girls were innocent; they weren’t professional sex-workers. They were only the victims of circumstances. Having fled their homes to try their hands in the celluloid world, they were kidnapped by a mafia gang who sold them to a pimp.

That I’m narrating this story here does not mean that I’m defending sex-work though ‘devadashis’ were honored and glorified in epics and literature. What I’m concerned is about brutal taking away of women’s rights by some high-handed officials and fellow-citizens. I still don’t understand under what sections of the Sita 1956, a police officer can force an arrested sex-worker to show her face to the public especially to the press? Can any police officer or for that matter any journo force high-profile criminals or hard-core terrorists to remove their masks whenever they are brought to court? No one could dare to do that for retaliation. But, the poor girls had nothing to threaten their offenders except tears.

As is their wont, the press cannons fired their usual shots. They went the whole hog and published the girls’ photographs in their journals/newspapers with eye-catching captions. They did not, for once, mention that the girls were innocent and only the victims of circumstances. To my shock, I heard one of the girls committed suicide fearing a backlash from her family and friends for her alleged moral turpitude. Now, who is to be held responsible for the girl’s death and ruining the lives of the other girls?

The Constitution of India grants equal rights to women in various fields. Yet, women have to sail through rough seas as they’re either ill-equipped or not in a position to propel themselves out of a patriarchal society coupled with poor socioeconomic conditions. Most of them are poor, unlettered and insufficiently trained for suitable jobs. The society cherish keeping them so as it wants it writ to run large on them.

Women’s rights are being trampled upon in every threshold of life. Still having its thoughts riveted in 1800s, the patriarchal-society is yet to be kindly disposed towards women. Notwithstanding the passing of a series of laws, empowerment of women still remains a pipe dream. It’ll remain so if the aristocratic society’s misconceived thoughts about women as mere chattels are not rehabilitated and brought to bear realism.

“Blow the conch! Dance in joy! For women is sweeter than life itself. She is the protecress of life and creatrix too. She is the life of our life, and the soul of sweetness, dreamt Poet Subramania Bharati. Pitifully, women will have to wait for another millennium before making the great poet’s dream come true.

[This post was to be published in iDiya ISB’s National Social Venture Competition. Since I was busy fine-tuning my short story short listed for the ‘Get Published Contest’, I could not do so]

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Talking Through Hat!

Flanked by rows of shops, where you could buy anything from pin to plane and your dead mother to pretty brides, the narrow, garbage-filled lane called the Renganathan street, is always crowded. The street is a famous icon of T. Nagar and people from all parts of Chennai and Tamil Nadu flock to the lane for shopping, especially during festive seasons.

The lane is so narrow that even two people could hardly walk together. You need to be an acrobat as you will have to quite often jump over the uncleared heaps of garbage that block your walk on the lane. Come monsoon, the lane becomes a chaotic water grave and you need a Norah’s arc to safely sail through the water-logging lane.

One hot sunny day, I was walking behind a group of three women [an oldie, a haughty middle-aged and a short and lanky teenager]. Theirs were a sort of Moon walking; and I didn’t get even a leeway to go past them. But then, I relished trotting behind them because I was enjoying their animated pep talks, insouciant behavior and their hurling barbs at one another.

The threesome looked rustic and semi-literate; spoke in dialect. They were endlessly chatting about all and sundry things under the sky: from Adolf Hitler to Abdul Kalam; from terrorism to dentures; from micro-ovens to cow dung cakes; and from hubbies to puppies. There wasn’t a single matter they didn’t discuss.

Their talks were quite absorbing since they mostly tried to demolish the views of others on a subject. Each one of them attempted to score some brownie points over the others, showing their know-of-things were better than their accompanying friends. They continued to walk their way and I followed their trail enjoying their heckling at each other, their childish arguments and their bizarre attitude of ‘I’m OK, but you aren’t’.

“I like Abdul Kalam, but he’d look smarter if he gets his hair combed backward,” said the lanky teenager and giggled. “Shut up” protested the oldie. “How dare you talk like that about a Noble soul? Cut the crap, you, the midget” The group became silent and it seemed they were resenting the youngster’s remarks about Kalam.

 But, the silence was only short-lived. Putting up a brave face, the middle-aged started talking rather proudly: “If I were the PM, I would …” her voice trailed off as she got interrupted by the oldie, who said: “I know what you would do? A woman from the ‘ankanwadi’, [anganwadi is a child / mother care center] you would cook for the whole of India. Won’t you?”

However, the middle-aged did not budge. She shouted back. Jerking herself upright, she continued: ‘If I were the PM, I would arrest all the terrorists and offer each one of them a glass of milk.” ‘Milk!’ shouted the group in chorus and looked quizzically at the middle-aged. “Don’t get confused, buddies. By milk, I don’t mean cow milk, but a glass of kalli pal [poisonous sap of the caltropis plant] and get the terrorists killed instantly. “Bravo”, the threesome screamed, clapping hands.

Now, the teenager got the podium [?]. Letting out an air of pride, she told her friends that she couldn’t wear all her jewels as her hubby was locking them up all in a bank locker. Short-lived were the teenager’s balloon of pride. The middle-aged busted it saying, “Kala, take out your jewels from the locker at least once in a month and get them polished. They are brass-coated, you know. If not polished, they may expose your family honor.” The group laughed again … laughed until some pedestrians looked askance at them.

Got worked up by the uncharitable remarks of the middle-aged, the teenager started badmouthing her with choicest expletives, calling her names and trying to attack her physically. It was with an effort, and after much talking down to the teenager, the oldie brought peace to the group.

Now, I found a walking space between the group, but I didn’t choose to walk away from them. Mesmerized by the group’s displaying of all nine kunas [traits] of human beings both in their words and deportment, I decided to walk behind them for some more time, watching them more curious and perking up my ears to hear about another bombshell they would, at any time, throw at one another.

It was time for parting for the women. All along, they did not shop anything; they’d bought only a pack of handkerchiefs for the teenager. “Take care, friends,” the oldie said as she was about to leave the group. “I’m told that a broken, out of control Russian satellite may hit the earth any time. Be on your guard. Nalaikku parkalam” [see you tomorrow]

As soon as the oldie left the group, the middle-aged laughed aloud and said to the teenager: “Poor woman! The oldie didn’t know what happened to the satellite? It had since fallen into the backyard of my house. My hubby had dismantled it, and used its scraps to put up fences around our garden.”

I stood aghast for a while and then started off laughing my heart out.

Next time, when you walk down the Renganathan street you’d better widen your eyes and perk up ears so that you may witness or hear people, walking ahead of you, may indulge in a kind of talking through their hats, entertain you  and make you forget the ordeal of walking through a chaotic, messy and garbage littered lane.

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Monologue of an 'Empowered Woman'

[Is a woman socially empowered thing? All modern, social and financial, parameters say so. However, she, the woman in the poem, doesn’t know that she is empowered. What a heck! Like a blind soul not knowing anything about light, she has no idea as to what is empowerment. When told that she is a really an empowered creature, she sulks, thinking for a moment that even such an empowerment can’t save her conjugal bliss, which, like a greased pig, can never be caught.]

 My dear, darling husband!

 Can you forgive me that I did not run

to welcome you as you came in the door?

Forgive I did not sew your buttons on

and left a mess strewn on the kitchen floor?

A woman’s life is never fully done

with conjugal bliss forever gone.

 The things I did I should have left undone

the things I lost that I could not restore;

Will you forgive I wasn’t any fun?

Will you forgive I couldn’t give you more?

A woman’s life is never fully done

with conjugal bliss forever gone.

 I never finished what I had begun,

I could not keep the promises I swore,

So we fought battles neither of us won

and I said ‘Sorry!’ and you banged the door.

A woman’s life is never fully done

with conjugal bliss forever gone.

 But in the empty space now you are gone

I find the time I didn’t have before.

I lock the house and walk out to the sun

where sea beats upon a wider shore

and a woman’s life is never fully done

 with conjugal bliss forever gone.

[This poem by Dorothy Nimmo has all time relevance; it fits into every beleaguered woman who wants to retain her conjugal bliss even at the cost of her dignity and self-esteem. International Women’s Day is all set to be celebrated on March 8. However, I’m a bit fast thinking all day is women’s day. So, here goes my advance greetings to all women who feel they are empowered and also to those who dream of getting empowered sooner than later. Those poor lots have been dreaming such a dream for decades and decades with no light in sight]

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