Blast from the Past- in which I am all strident and sanctimonious.
The journalist heroine gives in a piece
about the importance of looking good. Based on painful personal experience, her
account argues that appearance is our greatest asset. Her editor is surprised
and concerned. Leaving aside his soft corner for her, he is worried because the
cover article for the week’s issue is the Miss India beauty pageant. He does
not need dissenting wet blankets while India joyously celebrates International
Recognition. “But no sir,” our heroine replies, “I am not anti beauty pageants,
nor am I a feminist. I simply want to delve into the psychoblahblah….”
That is when I switched the TV set off and
logged onto the machine..
Did the writer know the meaning of feminism
when he wrote that sorry line in the serial? I always thought Manisha Koirala
considered herself a liberated soul until I read some interview. “I am not a
women’s libber or a feminist”. Why are women so scared of the F word? I am
forever coming across women deathly scared of being typecast. Thinking individuals
yes. Independent, smart, talented, free, ambitious, can take care of herself -
yes. Lovely, gracious, classy- well…is it politically correct to admit…what the
hell, yes yes yes. But call a woman a feminist and she sits back and faint
frown lines appear on the forehead.
For heaven’s sakes it is not so terrible.
Sure, people get defensive about labels all the
time. So you may be against the Pokhran blasts but possibly hate to be called a
pacifist; just like a Hindutva supporter does not want to be a communalist. But
at times the courage to stand under a label, can give it the legitimacy that it
needs.
Feminism is not another word for bra burning.
Feminism is giving women their rightful place in society. And if our level
headed, competent and successful sisters who are busy enough leading complex
lives thank you and please do not complicate it further, stop and consider it- something that they agree with. It is
tough to be part of a movement. But it is the easiest thing in the world to
say, “I am a feminist”. It will definitely be an honest statement.
My maid was a good student, but she could not
go to school after she got her period. She was married when she was fourteen.
Her husband was eighteen. She had her first baby when she was fifteen and
almost died in the process. Her husband was unemployed, and she supplemented
her father-in-law’s income by sweeping in buildings and clearing garbage. A
come-down certainly but it held the family together for ten years, until her
man got a job as a unionised bank employee. She still works buildings, gritting
her teeth and waiting for the day her son will come up and get her out of her
rut. Her husband sits up late in the night drinking with his friends. If
Krishna gets upset waiting up for the men, (there are only two rooms in the
house) her husband rages and refuses to eat. Indeed he insisted on taking a peg
with his multivitamins when he had jaundice. Like Krishna says, ‘Aurat Paon ki
Juti hoti hai. (Woman is the slipper on your foot).
Muga’s husband drinks and makes a fool of
himself at every party I go to. I am waiting for a woman to do the same.
Taranjit is twenty five and lives with his
retired parents. He throws a tantrum if the promised pudding does not arrive.
Indian children are very spoilt I know, but what takes the cake is the mother
saying the pudding was eaten by the dog. Just what kind of women do we breed
who resort to lying to their own children over stupid matters.
Even today the advice meted out by many well
meaning parents is not to argue. Living off the son is fine but check out the
families where the girl’s parents stay with her. You will be furnished with
justifications galore. Not to miss that halo behind the son-in-law’s head.
When I passed out of management school it was
different. Now everyone is married and I am shocked at the ease with which men
and women slip into traditional roles. What starts as ego and one-upmanship (I
will be the best hostess) ends up in a bind. I have not seen a single party
where the men do not sit at the bar while the women walk into the kitchen helping
out, cribbing about maids and exchanging home-making tips.
Count the number of men who help out in the
house. Compare that with the number of women who bring in comparable amounts of
money into the house. Check the man’s attitude during his honeymoon when he
cannot believe this goddess wants to actually cook for him. Contrast this with
his quibbling seven years and two babies later- he is the sole breadwinner, she
gave up her job to look after the kids- he cannot handle upuma three days in a
row. Sure its tough having upuma day after day, but your wife does it baby. You
want eggs, go ahead and scramble them.
I think I am getting carried away and
unidimensional, but we live in an unequal world. You may or may not feel it all
the time and it depends whether you are all worked up and want to do something
about it or not. But surely you can recognise inequality. That is all it takes.
Go ahead and say you are an F---ist. It will not bite you.
