MY STANDING OVATION TO THE 'MENSTRUAL' MAN

(Here comes an Indian man who wore sanitary pads himself to understand the menstrual cycle, its needs and came up with a low cost sanitary pad for Indian women across rural India)


Well, he had seen his wife Shanthi hiding something behind and leave the bedroom one day. He was curious

as to what she was hiding and then realised it was a piece of dirty cloth that she would have to ‘wear’ to take care of her periods. More than 80 per cent of women in India still don’t know the use of sanitary pads during  menstruation or the pads are too expensive to be bought. Hence majority of the women both in rural and urban areas still rely on the cloth that they get around. This practice is indeed utterly unhygenic. But it was not a woman who thought of doing something to stop this practice. On the contrary it was a man who realised a woman’s sufferings and decided to come up with a low cost sanitary pad that every woman across India could make use of.
Arunachalam Muruganantham, who worked at a workshop and came from an economically backward class was someone who was ready to research, experiment and innovate for a woman’s cause.

He realised most sanitary pads in India are made by multinational companies and hence the cotton used in the pads as a soaking material though costs less than 10 paise, each pad is sold for not less than Rs6-8. That shows what a huge profit the companies were making and how the Indian women at large suffered because they couldn’t afford the pads.

But it was pretty surprising that in his entire effort Muruganantham didn’t get the support of any woman. Take the case of his wife and mother. The wife separated and asked for divorce, while the mother thought his son has gone insane when she saw one day he was experimenting with various sanitary pads on his table and trying to find out exactly what material they were made of. Even the medical college girl students whom he took as case studies, either filled in the feedback forms writing wrong things or were frightened to speak to him thinking he was a pervert.

Still, Muruganantham was undaunted. While he tried to make his wife and later his sisters the test cases for his sanitary pad trial run, they deserted him thinking he has gone insane. So he had no other alternative but to wear a pad himself regularly and using liquids as viscous as blood to realise how much absorbent his pads are. Thus started the trail run. A man wearing sanitary pads to support women hygiene.

He understood that though the raw material was cheap, the machines where the sanitary pads were made ran into crores. That was the biggest investment which could not be done on a small scale. So he thought of designing his own machine. And he did it. He sent his model to IIT and his innovation got the first prize in a competition.

Now its a successfully running self-sustaining sanitary napkin business, called Jayashree Industries. It has 2003 units across India, including the Andaman and Nicobar Islands, employing 21,000 women, from rural areas making them self supporting too. For his innovation and efforts, he was named one of Time Magazine’s 100 Most Influential People in 2014.

So for a man who was just a meagre worker at a workshop, it was a daunting task to make the cheapest sanitary pads and reach it out to lakhs of women in India who were so long forced to give up their hygiene at the cost of ‘Mesntruation’ a biological phenomenon that is still considered a taboo.

MY RED LETTER DAY

To all you ignorant Hindu priests and so called Hindutva leaders, my religion happens to be one of the

most inclusive religions ever on earth, like many I call Hinduism a philosophy of life, not just a religion, so stop maligning it. It's probably the only religion on Earth that worships 'Nari Shakti' or goddesses as a symbol of woman power. Since Vedic age, my country has given highest seat of power to women who had the right to choose their husbands, where men attended 'swayamvar' to prove their worth before a woman before she chose, where women participated in ruling a kingdom and were not just producers of children.

Even when India was under British rule, there were social reformers like Ishwar Chandra Vidyasagar and Rammohan Ray who with the help of British implemented laws to stop evil practises against women like 'Sati', 'Child marriage.' 

So now, when my country claims to be one of the decisive powers in the world how come Hindu priests go back to the middle ages and bring back the dark era of suppression? You will not allow menstruating women from entering temples? You will make women go through body scanners to check if they are menstruating? The head priest of Sabarimala temple forgot if his mother didn't menstruate he would not have born. 

Kashi Viswanath temple of Varanasi, where i loved to visit I will not see you again. I am not ready to wear a saree to enter you. I would prefer to wear a revealing choli and blouse that Hindu women in Vedic age wore. I am not ready to cover my arms and legs for the priest's satisfaction. 

I am ‪#‎Happytobleed‬ and here goes a verse in favour of that.

RED LETTER DAY

And then the drops of scarlet dews trickled down her singed thighs declaring the fertile her.
Not the crimson blaze of the setting sun
Nor the red lights of a traffic snarl or rose petals carrying lost dreams
Strewn on her sleepy eyelids.
Not Scarlett O'Hara gone with the wind in search of her Rhett.

The cunning wizard turned the wand of crimson shame between her legs.
Throbbing head, aching limbs,
Cleaning the stains in vain on her innocent skirt.

Why cringe in shame?
Why hide your stains?
You are the fertile land prepared for the seed to be sown.
Rejoice another month of life with Venus whispering his charms.

WHEN WOMEN SWAYED TO DRUMBEATS

(ALL WOMEN DHAKI TEAM THIS DURGA PUJA)

Dhak or the Indian drum has always caught on my fascination. Its throbbing elusive rhythm swaying the inner me every time it plays on. Unlike the African or the tribal drum-beats that create an aura of a haunting charm, dhak happens to be one instrument that flows with ease and a pleasure that kicks you to a new height. But what this year’s Durga Puja has to offer is the all women Dhaki team, playing on their beats at a Kolkata puja pandal.

Durga for me is an epitome of female power, where a Goddess has been given the power to put an end to all evil forces when even the Gods failed. In a country where a regular woman has to fight her way through, since childhood to even earn her basic needs, its definitely a welcome change when women are allowed to take up a profession that has all along completely been a male domain.

In India gender bias has percolated on and off even in the arena of performing arts and instruments unlike the West. How many of us have seen women playing tabla or ghatam? Very few. Same with dhak. I have even heard men saying it’s a heavy instrument that has to be picked up on one’s shoulder and played. It’s too much for a woman! I knew such men had never known thousands of rural Indian women who carry greater loads than the dhak  when they fetch heavy vessels of water from distances while carrying their kids on backs or side laps. A dhak should have been easier to handle. 

And that’s what Uma and her band of five women are doing this year at a city pujo pandal. They had started playing in 2011 but none took much notice. It was only after they performed at a TV talent hunt reality show, that they earned the typical hype and publicity that such shows usually bring along. At least in whatever form, Uma and her girl gang of dhakis got their due share of recognition in a typically masculine instrumental world.   

Since the earliest documented puja was organised by Raja Nabakrishna Deb of the Shobhabazar Rajbari in Calcutta in honour of Lord Clive in the year 1757, the men have heralded Bengal’s most important festive season. Coming from rural Bengal with both her father-in-law and husband being well-known dhakis themselves, Uma was encouraged by her father-in-law to start playing after he visited a pujo in the USA as a dhaki. He saw a woman in a New York shop playing all kinds of musical instruments. He thought he should give a chance to his daughter-in-law as well and even made a special light-weight drum of fibre glass to lessen Uma’s burden and help her to play. 

Then some of her neighbours joined. As it’s always in Indian society they got a stiff resistance from the villagers who tried to point out that women performing before Maa Durga is against scriptures. Little did they realise almost all Hindu scriptures have always celebrated women power. But Uma was hell bent to learn and so was her father-in-law who felt if all over the world women can be performing artistes then why not in India. Now they have more than 25 women who are taking dhak lessons from Uma to become full time dhakis. For women like Sumita it is also a source of sustenance after she was abandoned by her husband with two sons to raise. Music and empowerment has surely come hand in hand at last.  

THE FALLEN WOMAN

(SAIKAT MAJUMDAR’S RIVETTING NOVEL THE FIREBIRD IS NOT JUST ABOUT CRIMINALISATION OF A YOUNG BOY, BUT ALSO ABOUT A WOMAN DEMONISED FOR PURSUING HER ARTISTIC PASSION)

The boy who was the future. His mother didn’t matter. She could go if she wanted to. Nobody cared. But she could not take the boy away. He wasn’t hers. Saikat Majumdar’s exceptional novel that dwells partly on the darker aspect of human psyche has not only opened up the means that force a child of a well-educated aristocratic family to turn into a criminal, but has undoubtedly reflected the helplessness of a married woman who wanted to pursue her passion…theatre. As I glided across the wonderful play of words and emotions intricately woven by the deft author, I as a working woman and mother of a teenaged son could feel the pain of Garima Basu.

If Ori is the protagonist of The Firebird, Garima Basu is the befitting underdog. Everyone in the family, in school, in the para were concerned with the boy’s future, so much so they were ready to ostracise the mother who had produced him. Nobody just cared whether Garima Basu ever felt the pain of leaving her son back home to attend rehearsals, or while staging meaningful plays. She was after all a woman. Had her husband been a stage actor, none would have questioned his late night attendance at home. After all man is the provider. A woman is not. She is easily and automatically moulded as the fallen woman.

Hounded by the society, abandoned by a husband who had once been proud of her acting prowess, Garima dies a miserable woman who lost both the worlds that she so dearly loved – family and theatre. The novel definitely brings out how very guilty a mother is made to feel when she cannot give enough attention and care to the child she produced due to other priorities and compulsions. Though Ori had his grandmother, pishi and other female members at home who took over the responsibility of rearing him probably because he was the only male heir to the family, Garima did feel the pangs of helplessness that every working mother feels even today. 

That helplessness rises to a crescendo when Ori runs away to his aunt’s house in Hooghly without informing his mother who was right then due to perform on stage. Garima’s self-accusing sigh: “Right then I wished I could do something to myself, hurt myself so bad that they couldn’t push me out of stage.” Her relief that the stage got burnt and she wouldn’t have to go with the play anymore, instead could look for her son, despite viewing the destruction of a production that she so seriously and passionately endorsed, she was relieved. And when she loses the custody battle at court, tagged as a destructive woman and struggling stage actress, she loses the last straw, her child, her 13-year-old Ori whose uniforms she pressed every morning and caringly packed his lunch boxes.  

And how very devastating it must have been for a woman who realises in the end that her son had done things deliberately, taken out his angst for the lack of a mother’s daily care through the dark lanes of acts that the society brand as criminal. Garima vanishes. She was a playhouse with silver streaked hair and skin beginning to wrinkle. A playhouse ready to vanish.  And with her vanishes a woman who could have been a famous actor had she been a man.

Thank you Saikat Majumdar for exposing the pain of a woman subtly who wanted to pursue her passion and her dreams. We have many Garima Basus among us for sure.

STORM CHASER CHIRASREE ON CLOUD 9:

AN AMAZING PASSION OF A CITY GIRL AND HER DARING GROUP KOLKATA CLOUD CHASERS

Chirasree surely reminds me of Hollywood actress Helen Hunt, who played the role of University Professor Dr Jo Harding, who chased one of the greatest storms of the century along with her under-funded team of students in Twister. Chirasree might not have the sophisticated devices like the Westerners, but she has a burning passion that match the divine fury of the storms and the clouds that bring along the message of an incoming cyclone or a storm.

Since childhood Chirasree has been passionate about clouds and their different shapes and sizes. Their haunting mystery always attracted her. This passion of cloud gazing became more intense when she chanced upon Meghdoot of Rabindranath Tagore and Kalidasa's Meghdootam, while in college. Both these famous literary wonders carry the message of clouds and the stories of the thousand lands they float across. The need to know their stories and capture them through lens gave birth to Chirasree’s out-of-the world passion and she started chasing clouds.

Since 2012, she started viewing weather apps on smart phones. She teamed up with friend and fellow chaser, Debarshi Dutta Gupta, and the duo regularly used to check the weather apps and started tracking clouds, storms, cyclones.

In March 2014 her group Kolkata Cloud Chasers was born with a few photographers who preferred cloudscapes/stormscapes. Debarshi’s craziness about clouds was a sheer encouragement. Today, the group follows live streaming, photos, Vblogs by US Tornado chasers. But India's weather pattern is more interesting than USA. So Chirasree took up the task of studying reports on tropical supercell, monsoon, tropical cyclones in the Indian weather perspective.  
A typical cloud chasing exercise begins with IMD satellite images, IMD Radar Images that are regularly checked to see if there is any storm brewing. Tracking work begins when there is a chance of system formation - how it may form, direction, height etc. There are Spotters who are supposed to look at the sky from the office balcony, windows, house terraces etc to find out if there is a chance of storm formation. Then comes the Navigation part and finally Storm Chasing. All memebers of the group may not go for chasing at a time. But they provide guidance. Successful tracking is indeed an act of joy, pleasure & excitement and Chirasree doesn’t feel being a woman has been a limitation in this crazy pursuit of clouds ever.

Cloud chasing has its own dangers and rewards. She has individually and successfully chased different systems at places like Pedong, Puri, Shillong, Bolepur, Bakkhali and many other locales. Chirasree relives a particular chase in Puri where she experienced one of the best formation of supercell and shelf clouds. The system arrived from the opposite side of the sea. She had focused her camera and took considerable danger of being knocked off by the waves as the sea turned pretty rough. Besides such heavenly experiences, she has often been chased by cows while clicking at muddy fields, snakes passing by, other hostile flora and fauna threatening her ar every step.

Funding a passion like this is indeed another challenge. It’s purely arranged by the members of the group from their own pockets. Basic instruments are smartphones, laptops, good software, camera, lenses, filters, tripod and GoPro camera. KCC  members are not full time storm chasers. There are IT Professionals, businessmen, and freelance photographers.
Chirasree’s encouragement is none other than Tagore’s song Jhor ke aami korbo mitey, dorbo na taar bhrukutite.. dao chhere dao ogo aami toofan pele banchi (Nature’s fury is my kin, storm is my companion, I will dare its fury, not get scared off and will live for all the storms to come).

Those who are interested to follow the group can log on their their FB page and Twitter for exciting weather updates, photos, Vblog and documents.

SINGLE DADS ROCK!!!

AN AMAZING SINGLE DADS’ GROUP IN KOLKATA SPEAK ON THEIR CHALLENGES, INSECURITIES AND BONDING

Well, they are not like Tom Hanks of Sleepless in Seattle or Will Freeman of About A Boy, hunting down the town or joining single parent’s groups to get their daughters a new mother. Instead, an amazing bunch of single dads in the city have set up a group that meets once in a while to help them become the great daddy-mommy combo to their doting daughters. 

Arnab Dasgupta,  Tirtha Chatterjee, Gaurav Sengupta and Randhir Gupta, quite often kick up a storm over a plate of fowl cutlet at Mitra Café or at a Coffee Shop round the corner, not to discuss about job life or pretty women, but to brainstorm on issues impacting their teenage daughters and how to tackle the problems if any. They are a bunch of single dads who chose to remain single instead of getting new mothers to their daughters.

They had all met by chance and by a twist of fate they became the best of buddies, starting off the Single Dads Group more as a necessity. Arnab first met Tirtha, fondly known as Tintin at the gym and while interacting, realised they both were single parents. While, Tintin came across Gaurav hunting for a decent creche for his daughter and the trio became a team. Gaurav bumped into Randhir or Randy on a business trip. Small world, but the great dads met and decided to start off meeting on and often as a means to cope with the various problems that a dad single-handedly raising a kid in India might face. It was like buddy bonding, it was like sharing your insecurities, like tying a bond where least it was supposed to be. 

All the dads have demanding sales jobs. So finding time to meet, itself is a challenge. “We meet mostly once a month usually on a Friday evening. We have been out along with our children too a couple of times, when they are free. Over the years, these dads have realised that being a single parent is tougher than being a single dad. The whole dimension changes when one is a single father specially to a growing daughter.

As the Single Dads Group puts in: “Things are more edgy for single fathers as men lack the suave competency of a mother at large. We often discuss daily challenges and their innovative solutions. We are at a threshold where our daughters are going through emotional and physical changes, they are growing teenagers mostly and as a male counterpart to a ‘mother’, we keep on rapidly adapting ourselves to those changes and make ourselves better parents.” The discussions mostly include educating each other about the approach to train their daughters on subjects like ‘good and bad touch,’ explaining their financial limitations so that they can cope with peer pressure, substance or other abuse, abstain using profane language and most importantly trying to educate them with their limited acquired knowledge to get ready for the first step into womanhood which the four of them term as ‘The various stages of changing diapers.’

But well, every household needs a woman anyway. And the single dads do get the support of their mothers who are a sort of default mothers to their grand daughters. “But definitely they are old now and what should we do when they pass away is a big question these days!” adds one of the members.

The group members also have another challenge, financial insecurity. Despite being eligible professionals, all of them had to make a lot of adjustments (they don’t use the word sacrifice, as they believe it demeans the entire purpose of parenting) in careers and settle for jobs which would enable them to give more time to groom their daughters and try and be physically present with them as much as possible, a work that is usually done by mothers in our society. In the process they had to give up lucrative jobs and fat salaries, something that daddies out in India living within a complete family circle hardly have ever done. When the purse strings tighten, the basic lifestyle has to remain the same. At times, it's a big challenge trying to explain to the kids why their dads can’t give them an expensive holiday that their friends so often enjoy.

Insecurities also include getting prepared for behavioural changes of their daughters, coping up with endless questions on uncomfortable topics including sex, getting prepared as better mentors, to tame the rebellious streak of budding teenagers without losing cool, playing the Fragile Mother's role and lastly getting prepared to accept the blame that if their mothers were around, they could have been better trained and counselled. 

Indian Society took centuries to accept the concept of Single Mothers. Single Father is a rarity because most of the fathers are considered as epitome of achievement by virtue of being a male child and taught by the society that a man's job is never to rear a child. The very thought of rearing a child by a man alone sends shivers. But if one has the conviction like these dads have that 'its my child and it’s my duty to rear them,' then they can definitely handle a child better than their counterparts in the West. Infrastructure support is however lacking in our country at large in terms of creche, day boarding etc.

And yes these dads have given up their desires for the sake of their daughters. As Arnab puts in: “I expect my child to be a normal sane human being who would possess the capability of judging what's good or bad for her. I would like her to be independent to take appropriate decisions for herself.  Relationships didn't work for any of us although we did give our best shot trying to give a complete family to them. The four of us have lived our life at 40 and have no regrets. If being single, brings solace to our daughters and they feel secure, we are happy being so. We just want our children to be happy and will never allow our desires to come in the way.”

But, they will not hold their children back at old age. “Our job is to prepare them to fly high, to meet their aspirations in life rather than cage them. Personally, I have no regrets in life. I have hugged loneliness & celibacy long back as my lone companion. A priest long back told me at a church in Athens  Had God given a fair chance to your daughter, she could have chosen better parents on her own. The least you should try is to prove your worth as a parent.

And that’s what these single dads are doing for sure. 

THANK GOD I AM NOT A WOMAN FROM THE LANDS OF BOKO HARAM OR ISIS, I AM NOT SOLD IN OPEN MARKETS,  PASSED FROM ONE MAN TO THE OTHER, REPEATEDLY RAPED AT 12, SUBJECTED TO BEAR CHILDREN AT 14 TO CONTINUE THE SAVAGE IDEOLOGY OF CREATING A MUSLIM STATE!

“They have already killed my body. They are now killing my soul.” That’s how the 17-year-old Yazidi girl held captive by the ISIS terrorists spoke to an Italian journalist from one of the prisons in Iraq. Pretty that she was, she could have been signed off for a role in Hollywood. Instead, she was a sex slave to men who in the name of religion are plundering women in the 21^st century under the very glare of the Western media.

She is Mayat, the voice of hundreds of girls from the ISIS and Boko Haram states of Iraq, Syria or Nigeria. Subjected to brutal sexual attacks from different men daily, she still speaks. Probably that’s the resilience of a woman.

Sexual violence on women has always been a favourite tool of torture by the victors since time immemorial. Be it the plundering Huns or the Mughals in India or even the educated erudite British force on women freedom fighters, we have always been subjected to savagery in times of war. But its unthinkable and beyond our imagination that in the 21^st century women in certain nations ravaged by civil wars can still be subjected to inhuman torture, sold at markets in the open, kidnapped, raped, forced to bear kids at a tender age of 11-12, subjected to sexual slavery and passed on from one man to the other.

Last week, Nigeria marked the first anniversary since more than 200 girls were abducted from a secondary school in Chibok by Boko Haram militants. Nigeria's new president, Muhammadu Buhari, now says he doesn’t know if they would ever be found. Boko Haram leader Abubakar Shekau claimed responsibility for the kidnap of the girls. A report has found that the terror group has kidnapped at least 2,000 women and girls since 2014 and they have pledged to impregnate these girls fresh into their teens so that as many as children they bear, they can herd them into believing the ideology of an Islamic State. That’s how the world will be taken over by their ideology!

 

Hats off to their ideologies. Wonder if they were born from the womb of a woman! Only last week a BBC documentary aired real life tales of young girls herded into a small hut. Most of them were pregnant, many falling victim to the HIV virus as their rapists infected them. They looked like those pregnant cows tethered to posts in village meadows. At least the cows are fed and taken care of by their owners, these girls don’t even get two square meals. They look tired, defeated, lost. Yes, lost in the game of life even before it had started to flower.

The plight of these young African girls are similar to the Yazidi girls held by their ISIS captors in a secret prison in Mosul, Iraq. As Mayat went on to describe the three “rooms of horror” in the house, where she and her fellow victims are taken several times a day and raped, I asked myself : ‘Do we still live in pre-historic times?’ I would have better born an animal than a woman in such parts of the world.

Mayat was first forced to call her parents, who had somehow made it to safety in Kurdistan. She said her captors made her place the call “to hurt us even more. They told us to describe in detail to our parents what they are doing. Part of me would like to die immediately, to sink beneath the ground and stay there. But another part that still hopes to be saved, and to be able to hug my parents once more.”

“They treat us like slaves. We are always ‘given’ to different men…they threaten us and beat us if we try to resist. Often I wish they would beat me so hard I will die. But they are cowards even in this. None of them have the courage to end our suffering.”

A few women and girls have managed to escape, reporting that those who agree to convert to Islam are being sold to Islamic State fighters for as little as $25. Those that do not face never-ending rape, are subjected to beatings and death. Some of the young girls are so traumatized that they have stopped speaking, while others have tried to commit suicide.

Yet, the fight for territory continues, remains of old civilisations razed to the grounds, destroyed by the terrorists, but who hears the cries of those young captive girls behind prisons and closed doors who are dying day in and day out? Will the Western World do anything for them, or will it only react if their own women are assaulted ever?

ELEVEN-YEAR-OLD PRIYADARSHINI'S TRIBUTE TO HER 'MANLY MOTHER' ON MOTHER'S DAY

(AWE-INSPIRING LETTER OF A YOUNG GIRL WHOSE DAD IS HER MOM)

A SHORT ESSAY ON MY MANLY MOTHER ON MOTHER'S DAY

Hi, I am Priyadarshini Dasgupta, 11.11 years old, studying in class 7, section A, Roll No 28, at DPS Newtown, Kolkata. Today, I have been given the opportunity to write about my DAMS who's my Mother too.
My Mother's a Manly Person who has a strange relationship with his alarm clock which never ceases to croak at 5 am round the year. My Manly Mother has a very FLAT HAIRY CHEST unlike other Mothers' & to make it flatter, he unnecessarily goes to the Gym to waste an hour there & is quite appreciated by some people there who do not have flatter chests & whom I don't like hovering around him.
" FAST" is the only word which my Manly Mother uses in the morning once he's back from the gym. " Eat Fast", " Drink your Milk Fast", " Bathe Fast"» Potty Fast" & even makes me Run Fast to catch the school bus., My Manly Mother has learnt to cook only one dish from his Mother, KD, to give me for my lunch box & it's called Sandwiches, hence, my friends tell me that I have a SANDWICH MOM at home.
My Manly Mother talks well but in the mornings & in particular with me, his dialogues are like " TRAGIC B/W MOVIE HEROINE " which are like:-
1. I like to keep it very quiet in the mornings.
2. You are trying my patience.
3. I am not listening.
4. Time out
5. It's time you come out of Ape Mode or else you'll land up in a jungle or zoo for the rest of your life.
6. If you cheat, i'll never play with you.
Like many Adult Women as seen in the Television Series & Movies, my Manly Mother also has a list of Boyfriends & they occupy a special place in his heart. They are :- 1. Mr Davidoff 2. Mr Ken Follett 3. Mr Eric Clapton & in particular one Mr Bose whose Headphones stand in my way whenever I wish to tell my Manly Mother something about his Grumbling Mother, KD, which he doesn't wish to hear. My Manly Mother is very GOOD IN BED &. He doesn't need an occasion to SLEEP. It's called POWER NAP & most of my demands are fulfilled when he's in a mood to HUG THE BED & I come in his way.
I love to go out with my Manly Mother & we go out with an Agenda which he calls BUDGET. Everything in my life is BUDGETED FOR including ICE CREAM & CHOCOLATE which I hate at times. My Manly Mother insists that we belong to Lower Threshold of a Special Class called Middle Class, I don't understand the Logic but I don't ask him why.
But, I Love my Manly Mother as deep down he's very quiet, lonely & sad. I feel for him because he has to give me all his spare time & buy me good things & that's why he doesn't have time nor Money to go out with any GIRLFRIEND. I am saving from my pocket money to GIVE HIM A LOAN FOR A COFFEE DATE IF HE FINDS A GIRLFRIEND.
I feel so proud when my Manly Mother stands out amongst all other Mothers' during PTM as he doesn't need to impress anyone or ask for attention. My teachers are very impressed with him & some show extra attention which makes me jealous.
The best part about my Manly Mother which I really really love is he still Adores my ACTUAL MOTHER " SUD"& never stops to say good about her to me. THAT'S. WHAT MAKES HIM A VERY SPECIAL MUM.
I shall end writing now as I seem to have crossed my word limit of 1000 words for this short essay but I would like to thank all the elders who have voted in favour of me to write this essay about my DAMS & allow to be posted on FB & I have two more requests. 1. Please vote again for me to write about DAMS on Father's Day &
2. Kindly let DAMS know about the spelling & punctuation errors in this essay so that I take a note of it.
Thank you
Your loving
Priyadarshini ( Mithi)

TAGORE’S WOMEN: BEYOND KADAMBARI, MRINALINI, CHARULATA, BIMALA…

(OUR OBSESSION WITH TAGORE’S PERSONAL LIFE ROBS US OF HIS LESSER KNOWN FEMALE CHARACTERS)

Sarat Chandra Chattopadhyay had been my all-time favourite feminist author in school and college. His depiction of the resilience and victory of a woman in the face of a society that tries every time and by every means to dominate and annihilate her, be it Annada didi, Abhaya or Rajlakshmi and many more, had always given me confidence and encouragement. But this was till I came upon Sadharon Meye, by Rabindranath Tagore, where he challenges Sarat Babu mockingly to actually elevate an ordinary Bengali girl to the utopic arena and standards of Sarat Chandra’s women. Along with Tagore I too realised Sarat Babu’s women were mostly heroines, Tagore’s women on the contrary were the real life ones, defeated, battered, failed; Instances where they couldn’t stand up against the social customs and at times those who did, turn victims of the social diktats or succumb to the pressures of a family that had no respect for their women.  

  Probably it was easier for Rabindranath to depict the pain, travails and failed wishes of a woman in its true light because he himself was a father who had to bow down to the social customs like dowry when marrying off his daughters, even shedding tears when the daughter has a failed marriage and is tortured by her husband and in-laws. Yes, he too at a point was a helpless father, and though he had to accept the social customs and follow them when marrying off his daughters, he never spared his pen from protesting against them. For him it seemed life and literature went hand in hand.

Our obsession with Tagore’s relationship with numerous women who came his way however stops us from exploring all the Sadharon Meye (ordinary women) of his short stories and novels. We love to stick to a few, those that were made into films and dissect his life as if it was our own. I have stumbled upon at least a dozen of his female characters who even through their deaths have mocked the society that had always and even today push their women out of the mainstream and force them to die. Literally they kill them.

Kusum, the young widow of Ghater Katha (The Autobiography of a Bathing Ghat) is ridiculed by neighbours and relatives as she meets a sanyasi (hermit) regularly who had come to stay in her village. As we know ‘people talk.’ So did Kusum’s society. They stamped upon her the tag of a fallen widow as she met an unknown man, be he a hermit, even in the late hours of night. But little did that society know that the hermit was in reality Kusum’s husband who had left the family after marriage and Kusum was termed a widow as the husband was nowhere to be found and hence assumed dead. Kusum reminds me of Annada didi who had fled with her own husband, even though the society thought she fled with a snake charmer. But Tagore’s Kusum serves. She serves the hermit daily as she would have done to her husband, and when the society pushes her with ridicule to the brink of her existence, she commits suicide, she doesn’t run away with the hermit, she sacrifices. Yet, she is not a coward, she mocks the society that didn’t understand and failed to recognise the love between a man and a woman, between a so-called widow and a hermit, who in reality is the husband. Kusum was battered twice, once when her husband after marriage leaves her to embrace the life of a hermit (not her fault that she was abandoned) and next when the society makes her leave her husband who returns to her.

While Nirupama of Dena Paona (give and take) reminds me of Tagore himself, where the father is barred from meeting his daughter, let alone take her home, because he had failed to pay the dowry to the in-laws who happened to be rich zamindars. And when the father sells off his house and deprives his family just to pay off the dowry and save his daughter from further agony at the in-laws place, it is Nirupama who stands up against her father’s wishes and forces him to go back home with the money. Nirupama knew if her in-laws got to know that she did not allow her father to pay off her dowry, she will be further tortured, yet she stood ground. That was her silent protest. “Ami ki kebol ekta taka r tholi, tomar meyer ki kono maryada nei” (Am I just a bagful of money? Don’t I have any respect), she asks her father. Yet when she dies due to a long fever, and complete negligence on part of the in-laws (they didn’t even call the doctor), the zamindar performs Nirupama’s last rites with great pomp and show. A woman who was given no love or respect when she was alive, and who through her silent death met an end was garlanded on her pyre. And the in-laws promptly found another wife for their son with an assurance of a bigger dowry. Again through death Nirupama ridicules this society and Tagore’s pen becomes mightier than a sword.

And those famous words from Jibito O Mrito “Kadambini moriya  proman korilo je shey morey nai’ (where Kadambini had to prove that she was not a ghost by literally drowning herself and finally dying). Tagore’s lines stating Kadambini had neither any place in this world, or in the other world, she is trapped between the two worlds and has nowhere to go. Isn’t that a challenge that we all women face? We belong nowhere. We tend to lose our identity struggling to perform the role of a doting mother, a responsible daughter, a perfect bride or an ever-smiling docile daughter-in-law and of course the sexy girlfriend. Just like Kadambini, we too are trapped in a net laid by the society’s expectations from a woman. Yet the woman is the second class citizen, she has to suffer, else she has to die to prove she was alive once. Tagore’s women bring out that desperation, their agony, distress, sufferings. And where the humans fail to understand the women, animals at least show friendships, like in Subha, the protagonist  is a deaf and mute girl. She is married off and when the husband realises she cannot speak, he marries again. Subha is left nowhere. While in her village she could communicate with her animal friends who seemed to understand her, played with her, gave her solace. But once taken away from her animal friends into the ‘man’s world’, she is trapped.

Or Dakshayani of Taraprasanner Kirti is loved by her husband and she adores her husband and is proud that he is learned though he earns nothing. But even a woman who is proud of a poor yet learned husband feels guilty when she keeps on producing daughters instead of sons. Many modern women married to rich households still can be compared to Dakshayani. I have heard of designer babies where the sex of the child is altered, I have witnessed women going through repeated pregnancies for a son despite knowing her health can be at stake, I know of a woman who even asked me why I am not going for another child as ‘Ek ladka se kya hotha hai? Aur ek do ladka nahin hone se kya faida!” (One son means nothing, you  should try and produce atleast two more sons) Wish she could say produce a daughter.

Yes we are all trapped just like Tagore’s women were and even after more than a hundred years after he created his women, they are still relevant, and we shall probably find a Nirupama, a Dakshayani, a Kadambini amongst us. The exploitation of a woman is timeless, ageless and knows no boundary. She can rise up against the atrocities like Sarat Chandra’s heroines, and many do so, but how many?          

THE NINE YARD WONDER: #100SAREEPACT

(Why I needed to be motivated to wear a saree)

Dancing to the tune of Megher koley rod heshchhe (Tagore’s song on autumn) in Class KG and that too in front of an audience in school is one of the earliest childhood memories that still sparks vivid. But what was more was the memory of wearing my mom’s red sari that she had meticulously pinned so as to retain its form and shape till the programme ended. And not even for a minute I felt uncomfortable in the first sari of my life. Then what went wrong, that almost for decades I never ever wanted to touch a sari, buy one or even wore one to wedding ceremonies?

Remember the Saraswati Puja at the tutorial during my teens. I stood apart in a skirt. Was it because I felt I would stand out from the rest with all the boys staring at my long legs that would otherwise have been draped in some red and yellow sari? Don’t know why I deviated from the usual tradition of wearing a sari on Saraswati Puja! But surely I remember how all the boys of the tutorial including the one who would be my future husband, had almost made a beeline for me leaving aside many of those who were looking really pretty and somewhat clumsy in saris. The pride of a teenage girl being followed by all the boys as we sang one song after another at the Antakshari meet. Was that enough to make me wear western outfits all my life?

Till 40, I hardly remember owning a sari, though I had bought many for my mother who has always refused to wear anything but a sari and undoubtedly I have always looked up to her in her elegant and graceful sari clad look. She has trekked mountains, gone on hikes, travelled the length and breadth of the country, run a school of toddlers, all done efficiently in a sari. For me it’s a Herculean task. When I gifted her salwar suit pieces or even wrap around skirts, she made it very clear she felt uncomfortable in them. I always felt shocked at her dismissals!

Yet, absolutely nothing, even my mother’s sari clad graceful image, could ever inspire me to wear a sari. Compliments from friends that I have a great height and would carry a sari the best, or even male friends gifting me saris as they travelled across various states or countries like Bangladesh, could not inspire me to wear one. I always did find an excuse for not wearing one. The obsession for not wearing it had become such a compulsion that I even refused to wear one on my wedding day. And bundled off my registry marriage in a salwar suit. Only had to wear a sari for the reception and felt immensely uncomfortable and irritated.

But after years of neglecting the most elegant and sexy attire of the world, I have become completely hooked to it off late. And indeed I now realise why two working women of India had to start a #100sareepact that almost turned into a movement. When nothing, absolutely no compliments or inspirations or gifts or even rebuke could make me wear those yards of fabric, this movement has indeed taken me off guard and I have somehow got into the pact of wearing atleast two saris a week, even at times hiring them from friends, buying my own or lifting them from my mom’s wardrobe. 

But for all these years why didn’t I wear one? And why many working women like me do not wear saris? Is it because sari in India relates to some traditional patriarchy? We relate married women to saris and ghunghats for years, and wrapping oneself in saris so that the male members of the sasurbari will not be able to see any part of the body. I however, never believed in this psyche. For me sari was always the sexiest attire. It can be worn in the most sensuous way possible revealing and well not revealing any and every part one wishes to. Then may be as my husband had put in once I never wished to look sensuous?

Many friends said since wearing sari is often a compulsion, not wearing one is seen as an indication of a woman being allowed to make personal choices. This also applies to symbols of marriage, like sindoor and mangalsutra. One friend in particular said she wore jeans when her in laws were away and switched to sari when they were around, just to show them respect! And undoubtedly I still hear many often criticize me as the ‘liberated, modern, westernised’ woman for wearing western wear even to ceremonies. 

But for me it was always a question of comfort and economy. I found skirts and tops, jeans and tops anytime more economical than buying a sari and all the accessories they need. Not to say the dearth of good tailors to make blouses, and the laziness of a working mother who had no time to hunt for matching blouses or run across potholed streets while on work in a sari.

Yet, I must say today I realise I have no excuse whatsoever to make a sari work on me. And needless to say I have truly discovered how a sari makes me the woman that I am.

TRACTOR GIRL MAKES INROADS INTO KHAPLAND

(A real life rural parallel to NH10’s Meera)

As the Satabdi Express chugged into Chandigarh station, what caught my eyes was the tremendously clean and neat platform, less crowded, well managed, passengers and porters following rules strictly instead of shoving and pushing people around and an utterly urban business-like aura. For a first-time tourist who is increasingly used to the mayhem of an over-crowded Howrah station, Chandigarh surely was a pleasant surprise. As the exceedingly handsome Himachali chauffeur sent by Oberoi, led our way to the black sedan waiting to take us up the hills, my husband turned to my son and declared we shall be travelling through Khapland.

I found no sign of the Khapland terrain I was used to viewing and no hint of travelling down NH10, though my son proudly replied back to his dad: “Oh so its here that NH10 was shot!” And then turning to me added: “Mom, Virat Kohli’s girlfiend was the lead actress.” As if I didn’t know! But I chose to remain silent, smiling away like an innocent bride who has just stepped into the outside world, getting to know so many new things from the men who would be escorting her to the hills.

Well, what I did realise is that we would be driving through a major part of Haryana, a state that has a dubious reputation for its skewed sex ratio. But when the trip down the semi-barren roads of Khapland throws up news of a bold woman who dared to infiltrate the male world of mechanised farming, then surely one gets a real-life parallel to Meera and her NH10.

The four lane mountainous highway reminded me of Hollywood movies, though I knew the little glades dotting them often came up with horrors of honour killing or forced female foeticides. Every now and then as we passed through small villages and towns my son kept on pointing at women: “Dad, there are many girls around,” though his dad was more interested in the Kinnauri girls up in the hills than their Haryanvi counterparts. Probably NH10 had such an impact on my son, he felt he would see a land totally devoid of women! I had to explain what a lopsided sex ratio meant and that there were enough women still left in Haryana to roam the streets though most of them were veiled in ghunghats that almost came down till their bosoms.

And then when we thought we would just see veiled women all our way, we came across Suman Rani, the Tractor Girl from Hisar. She is an inspiration for sure, may be not like the urban Meera who had the intelligence and background to avenge the lords of the Khapland, but a rural educated mother of two who in her own small way made inroads into the hediously patriarchal society of Haryana.

Clad in a salwar kameez (and without a ghunghat for sure), this 27-year-old woman showed the courage to be the first woman in the region to have applied for a tractor driving license. And that’s how she decided to make inroads into the male domain where, women driving to grain markets or participating in mechanised farming is a taboo and never encouraged. 

However, just like the widows of Bengal had Vidyasagar and Rammohan Ray to help them, Suman has her husband Anil, her greatest confidante and friend who respected his wife’s wishes and helped her to gain a status that’s usually swept under the carpet when a girl is born in Khapland. Though the in-laws were not supportive, they did not oppose either.

Suman plans to take her kids to school, help her husband on the farms, drive to the grain markets and also ferry other women to the markets of they need to. That’s how her tractor will help her. She wants to set a trend so that other young women of the area would also be inspired to try out their hands in jobs that were so long considered to be out-of-bounds for them. It also means financial freedom, as Suman plans her husband to take up some other job and not spend more time in the fields, she would take care of that and her husband can thus earn the extra penny to help their children get a good eductaion.

As I watched the Tractor Girl, I somehow remembered what the police officer told Meera in NH10: “Gurgaon mein jab aakhri mall khatam hote hain, wahin aap ki democracy aur constitution khatam hoti hai” (Where the urban malls end in Gurgaon, democracy and constitution also end there, what starts next is the rule of Khapland). And as I said goodbye to Khapland and meandered up into the picturesque Solan Valley, I realised there is a woman who has proved the officer from NH10 wrong and may be will bring in a new era to Khapland.

EVES GOING PLACES: LOVING OURSELVES IN SIN CITY

(Raili Roy and Malini Banerjee have fun at Las Vegas)

When life gives lemon, escape to Vegas with girlfriends. 

Fashion, self-indulgence, music, gambling, exotic shows and no routine whatsoever. Party until 4am, have sweet indulgences at around 4.30am, a quick snooze and the cycle starts again. Park away reality for a few days because somehow reality is very loyal about not changing too quickly. 

On one of the worst snow days in winter, three friends impulsively decided enough is enough, they needed a break. A break from routine. A break from family. A break from work. A break from snow, frigid temperatures. A break from responsibilities. A break from the life as they know it.
Life in the US for a working woman means commitments outside as well as household chores. Add to that motherhood, constant balancing of schedules, activities, homework and playdates. 

After a full day of work and a 5hr flight we arrived in Las Vegas, checked into the beautiful Venetian Resort and headed for the bar to train ourselves for the upcoming no-routine days.

And what a better way to start off at Las Vegas than a much needed spa treatment. One hour body massage followed by facial and relaxing in a hot tub. Heaven at our feet. Followed by a wonderful three course lunch, adding more pleasure to the pampering routine for sure. We were treated like celebrities that we are and enjoyed every moment of it.

That evening we had an experience of a lifetime: watching the famous Australian show in Vegas “Thunder From Down Under.” It was like a dozen Brad Pitts doing their best to entertain us. There is a 40% chance that they might kiss you (for Raili it was 3 times by 2 different Brad Pitts), but alas! Sadly always on the cheek. But you definitely get a chance to sit on their laps while they act as if ‘they’ were waiting all their lives for this moment.

With this much hyped show a terrible success, the suitcase full of clothes that came from New Jersey with us seemed absolutely inappropriate. They go with our NJ personalities, not Vegas. So we went on a shopping spree and landed at Forever 21.  As soon as we saw that the Forever21 store had a live DJ playing fabulous music, we knew who to ask for a night club recommendation. The DJ did not disappoint us as we joined a crowd of more than a thousand people at the most happening night club of Vegas, “Hakkasan” at MGM grand.

Did we mention that we had a fabulous dinner at their restaurant after which we were escorted by an impeccably dressed, well mannered man to the club bypassing the long line? The music and the energy was nothing we have ever experienced in our life as ‘Hardwell’ played live on stage. We were wooed by men from all races and background and of all ages from 21 to 30. 

And as the saying goes the rest of what happened there has to ‘stay in Vegas.’ Let’s just say, we returned to our hotel at 4 am tired but with a mischievous grin. However, we realized that the best part of this nightlife experience was the sense of safety and security we felt in a packed room full of revelers primarily comprised of men.  
In a constant effort to find someone to take a picture of the 3 of us together, we met the sweetest group of girls from South Sudan now studying in Nebraska and forged an instant connection. As they say trips like this are also about making new friends and we did make some.

We have been to various kinds of buffets in different parts of the world including the famous ‘Bacchanal’ buffet at Caesar’s Palace. The best one was definitely the ‘weekend brunch’ at Wynn. It served great food with a fabulous decor to match. After brunch one of us lost her first ever $20 while another one recovered $17 at the Venetian Casino. That evening we experienced another spectacular show, Jubilee performed by the world famous Vegas Showgirls. A stage full of over 50 performers performing with grace, perfection and precision. Jubilee is an adult topless show where the last thing that stays in your mind as you are leaving the auditorium is the ‘topless’ aspect of it. 

The grand finale of this trip was a dinner at a Japanese restaurant called ‘Yellowtail,’  by chef Akira Back at the grand Bellagio resort. We knew nothing about this chef until we had this culinary experience and literally ran back to the hotel to google him. In the backdrop of the beautiful symphony of the Bellagio fountains, Back’s cuisine took us on a roller- coaster ride of sensory experience leading to a perfect crescendo.

When you have just turned 40, you realize that life is all about responsibilities and dealing with losses of loved ones. You are at a crossroad, with an astute mind in a little older body. A mind which is way more prudent when it comes to understanding what matters. This trip made us realize that a little bit of self indulgence, appreciating ourselves, trust, friendships and letting go, should be included in our lists of priorities to make our lives truly fabulous.

Did we mention that we are dying to get back to our babies???

WE LIVE IN A SICK SOCIETY FOR SURE

(ROBBERS WHO CAME TO ROB A CHURCH END UP

RAPING A 74-YEAR OLD NUN)

For those of us who have been raised in the ’80s and ’90s Kolkata, gorging on Bengali and English books alike, dacoits and robbers have always mesmerised us to the point where even some of us had started worshipping such characters for their generosity, benevolence and their respect for women. I remember stumbling upon Bankim Chandra Chattopadhyay’s Devi Chaudhurani while I was still grappling with the curiousity of an adolescent female. As I read through, I fell head over heels in love with Bhavani Pathak, the famous dacoit, tall, fair, handsome, with a deep baritone and a red tilak smeared upon his forehead who mentors the daughter-in-law of a cruel and selfish zamindar to take up arms and show her prowess. For me he was the dream man. Quite surprising, how could a dacoit’s personality draw an adolescent girl into hero worshipping? Would I then always go for the bad boys?

Years later, I realised that the reverence Pathak showed towards women, specially Devi, was a trait that touched me and I didn’t think twice about how the man earned his living, that by robbing others. I started respecting him.

Still I thought it was just a tale and refused to believe that dacoits and robbers can have any ethics. After all they rob, they kill. Even tales of Robin Hood were mere tales for me. Not to be believed in, just to be enjoyed as a read.

But while I discussed my views with my dad, who was the one to introduce me to Bengali books, I got to know a true story, an experience that his grandmother often shared with him and my mother. Dad’s grandmother was the daughter of a famous zamindar of Murshidabad. Her father died young and she was the only child. So she and her mother ran the estates. She remembered incidents where dacoits used to send letters in advance to state they will reach the estate to rob mentioning the time and date. Other than the fright of losing valuables, the women atleast never feared for their dignity. Dad’s grandmother had concluded that robbers and dacoits those days did have a lot of ethics. They came to rob. Women were not their target for sure. Even the leader saw to it that not a single man of his gang dared to touch any woman. We get a similar incident in Leela Majumdar’s Padipishir Bormi Baksho, while pishi travels through the forests and encounters a gang.

And surely, still living in Bengal in 2015, I can no longer hold the same respect for dacoits and robbers. Why in the heart of Nadia’s Ranaghat, at the centre of a bustling town, where a church and a convent not only becomes the target of robbers but also of one of the most henious brutality that India and Bengal has been repeatedly witnessing over the last few years? And it seems the reason for raping the 74-year-old nun of the convent was not because the nun was wearing revealing attire (as most rapists in India justify their action with, being provoked by women’s clothes and their attitude that lead them to rape!). Then why was she brutalised? Just because she tried to resist the robbers?

If so, then surely we live in a sick society. Where everything leads to rape. Rape seems to be seeing a new pattern in India these days. A woman resisting anything, be it a robbery, or be it protesting against rash driving, she is taught a lesson. And how? By violation of her body and in the process her dignity.

We all know for sure rape has got nothing to do with sexual pleasure, it has got something to do with domination, show of power. But what power were these robbers showing? From a place of worship they loot more than seven lakhs and some silverware from the church. If robbery was their only motive why did they need to brutalise an old woman? I wonder how a young woman like Devi would have been gangraped if she encountered the society of today? How Bhavani Pathak and his men would have enacted a scene out of the Delhi Rape Case.

And the adolescent me would have grown up with the sexual visuals of a perverse society where each and every crime lands up in rape. Just like my son is growing up. He sees the headlines every morning and relates stories of gangrape, while I at his age hero worshipped dacoits. After all we really do live in a sick society.  

10 REASONS WHY WOMEN DON'T NEED A 

WOMEN'S DAY 

• WE LOVE CELEBRATING OUR WOMANHOOD EVERYDAY IN THE LITTLE THINGS WE DO... EACH DAY IS OUR DAY.

• LIKE YOU SAY 'WHAT'S IN A ROSE', WE SAY 'WHAT'S IN A DAY?' WHICHEVER DAY OF THE YEAR, IT'S ALWAYS WOMEN'S DAY

•  WE WISH TO BE PAMPERED, LOVED AND RESPECTED EVERYDAY. WHY DO WE NEED THE WORLD AND OUR MEN TO REMEMBER US ONLY ON A PARTICULAR DAY?

•  WITH NATURE'S EVERY BLOOM, EVERY HUE, WE EXPRESS.. THE WORLD FINDS SPRING, RAINS AND SNOW WITHIN US.. WE ARE THE DAUGHTERS OF NATURE, GODDESSES, WHO ARE TO BE WORSHIPPED EVERYDAY

•  WITH EVERY RAPE, EVERY MOLEST AND EVERY FEMALE FOETICIDE, THE WORLD TRIES TO KILL US. YET WE NEVER DIE. WE LIVE ON. SO CELEBRATE LIVING DAY IN OUR HONOUR

• FOR ALL THE HOUSEHOLD CHORES THAT WE DO WITHOUT WAGES, YOU MUST COIN ATLEAST A WAGE DAY. WE CAN'T BE YOUR UNPAID MAIDS FOREVER!

• WE ARE PROUD OF OUR SEXUAL DESIRES AND OF OUR FERTILITY. WITH EVERY CHILD WE BEAR AND EVERY OVUM WE SHED, WE SHALL CELEBRATE FERTILITY DAY.

• AND HOW WILL YOU CELEBRATE ONE DAY FOR US? WE ARE SO  VERSATILE, IN THAT CASE YOU HAVE TO CELEBRATE A MOTHER'S DAY, A DAUGHTER'S DAY, A SISTER'S DAY, A LOVER'S DAY, A MAID'S DAY, A BIRTH DAY, A SUCCESS DAY, A HEAT DAY, A MENSTRUAL DAY, A SENSUAL DAY, A COOK'S DAY, A PLAYER'S DAY, A READER'S DAY..... THE LIST DOESN'T END.... WE CAN'T BE BOUND WITHIN ONE DAY.

•  WHY DON'T YOU NEED A MAN'S DAY? BECAUSE YOU THINK YOU ARE OMNIPRESENT AND OMNISCIENT? IF YOU DON'T NEED ONE, WE WOMEN TOO DON'T NEED ANY. DO WE ALWAYS NEED TO REMIND THE WORLD THAT WE ARE WOMEN AND SHOULD BE GIVEN SPECIAL STATUS?

• LET'S CELEBRATE EVERY 8TH MARCH AS HUMAN DAY, WHEN YOU MEN WILL LEARN TO LOVE US MORE THAN YOURSELVES, WHEN YOU WILL LEARN TO RESPECT US MORE THAN THE GODS YOU WORSHIP AND WHEN YOU WILL LEARN NOT TO VIOLATE OUR BODIES AND INSTEAD GIVE US THE PLEASURE THAT WE DESERVE, NOT THE ONE THAT YOU ONLY THINK IS YOUR BIRTH RIGHT......
•   

VRINDAVAN WIDOWS PLAY HOLI

(BREAKING THE SHACKLES OF SOCIAL STIGMA)

She was wearing white, her hair cropped short, she was still young, may be my age, a blank pensive look in her eyes, as she stared at the innumerable women in colourful cholis and men in white kurtas all smeared in colour passing her. She was asking for alms. I knew she was the famous widow of Vrindavan, on whom so many award-winning documentaries have been made across the globe. But she stood still the same, bound by the age-old shackles of a society where women have always been swept behind the doors to suppress her beauty. Yes, she was a widow, she had thus no right to be at her sexual highs, she was not supposed to be the centre of male gaze, she could corrupt men and force them to commit a crime! So she cannot play a colourful festival like Holi, else the colours might make her look sensuous.

Couple of years back I was at the holy land of Vrindavan during Holi, for I was keen to view the world’s most colourful festival being played in the most exciting way. Vrindavan, the land of Krishna, Radha and the Gopinis is said to celebrate Holi in the most innovative way since hundreds of years where the whole town gets engaged for a whole week playing with flowers and vegetable dyes, instead of the gulaal and water we are used to play with in urban lives. Getting drenched in the stream of colourful flowers and their fragrance, to join the human flood of devotees who all had colour almost everywhere on them, would have been a welcome experience for sure.

As I wandered the colour-smeared streets around the Banke Behari temple (considered to be one of the most sacred temples of the area and where Holi is played in style), I saw her begging for alms… the widow of Vrindavan. She was almost my age. Could have been a model if decked up in style, she had a lovely figure, at the surprising peak of her fading youth. She looked at me long, and broke into a heavenly smile. She asked me in broken Hindi, if I was from Bengal. I said yes and she was so happy that there was someone in that land with whom she could speak in her mother tongue.

I asked her why she wasn’t entering the temple where Holi was being played. The streets were all colourful, white clad men and colourful women, all smeared in coloured water passed by. She looked at me with a blank face and was quite taken aback at my query. She asked: “Jano na, amader khelte nei” (Don’t you know we are not supposed to play Holi?) My husband and son were still within the temple. She asked me “Tumi khelbe na? Ekhane darun moja hoy” (Won’t you play? It’s great fun here) For a minute her eyes lit up, might be the image of her playing Holi played on).

I said, “No, I don’t play. I just came to watch.” I gave her a 500-rupee note. She thanked and blessed me and said I gave her enough to sustain for a month, the money she had to pay to the head of the ashram where she stayed. I knew if she couldn’t pay the headman of her ashram, she would have been forced into prostitution to earn it. She held my hands, put them on her forehead and said again, “Tumi abar esho.” (Do come again). I told myself, “If my society doesn’t allow you to play, then I will not play either, that’s why I lost all interest in Vrindavan’s Holi that had always attracted me even as a child.”

She was wearing white. I too was wearing white. We were the only ones whose clothes had no colour on them.

So when I got to know that widows in Vrindavan will finally play Holi, this year, thanks to the NGO Sulabh International, I was excited. Thousands of widows living as recluse in ashrams in Vrindavan, Agra and Varanasi have started celebrating a special four-day Holi. So now I have a reason to visit Vrindavan again during Holi and maybe some day I shall play with her, the widow I last met in the Holy Land.