Wordless Wednesday: Seriously??

Maligadu-Telugu Movie Banner all over Begumpet Flyover

There are no words really. This poster really makes me all tongue tied and shocked and angry. But what is anger if not directed into healthy discussion. What do you think it says about the relationship between a man and a woman? 

(Not-So-)Wordless Wednesday: Women are…

This video had a brilliant effect on me-goosebumbs, teary eyes etc! Its an opportunity for me to share this website too. Take a look at www.missrepresentation.org if you haven't already and join the movement!

Women are...

Here is a brilliant trailer of the movie Missrepresentation. I SO totally loved it and cannot wait to get the DVD and watch it. Who is making one for India?

Here is a link to an article on www.psychologytoday.com on 10 ways to reshape media's message about women and girls.

A time for tears

A difficult task to maneuver indeed-holding an alight candle, braving the freezing weather and the violent wind, straightening my legs from trembling, trying hard to ignore the acute pain in the small of my back and wiping away my incessant tears. I stand at the candle light vigil and listen to the voices of people who have the strength to speak at a time like this. Some have lost their loved one's in the tragedy, some other's are survivors of survivors, and the remaining were people overcome by grief at this large scale destruction that the Bombay's terror attacks caused.

Away from all things familiar, I stand with a crowd of Indians at Columbia U and the familiarity of sorrow invokes it. I cry. My incessant tears are adamant, they have a life of their own really, and I welcome the relief. I realize, this is my space for grief and my way with it is through my tears. Yes, we will act. Yes, we will be indignant. We will wonder where this is all going and we will demonstrate compassion and camaraderie. Now however, I need to cry, I need to express my grief. I need to acknowledge that before I turn my grief into anger, courage and commitment I am struck by the ruthlessness with which lives were seized away. I am struck by the void that I feel as I empty my heart out.


I like the tears
That flow from the depth
Of my helpless despair.
I love the tears
That flow from the depth
Of my dawning aspiration.
I adore the tears
That flow from the depth
Of my Liberation-sea.

By: Sri Chinmoy

The Great Indian Love

Bomb blasts in Delhi, yet again. This time it was five bloody blasts. The newspapers are ranting about the incompetence of Indian police. Authors of many books are furious at the Indian government that only found vital 'clues', the day after. The chai wala out front has hung newspapers with pictures of the blast splashed all over the front page, in at least 4 different languages (depending on where you live), and his everyday customers who keep a tab with him talk about how they had postponed their plans of shopping for Dussera at Connaught Place just yesterday. Meanwhile families who lost their loved ones have not fully acknowledged that they would never see their son, daughter or mother again. The common man however moves on.

The daily life of many is such. We move through the contours of terror, alarm, panic, scourge, poverty, distress and trepidation with the calm of a saint. We walk the narrow streets of the city with people from myriad states, speaking several tongues, and wearing different attires and often we'll ram into each of them unconditionally. We as a people dawn a smile in our heads and a frown on our faces; thats how we begin our day and that's how we wait for the next. Thinking back now, it comes as no surprise that I found myself often surprised, disturbed even, when people flashed smiles at me and looked straight into my eyes when I first got to Rochester's suburbia where my aunt lives. I'm told the people in the South are especially sacrine and chatty but New York is the place for me really. I am comfortable, thanks to previous practice, with the frowns and the busyness that uniformly masks faces here. I like to believe that like back home these faces have a smile behind them that comes with no expectation of yanking out those shiny 32 or so behind each lip.

At the same time, theres more to home than New York can offer, for me that is. Take for instance the overnight train journey. We squeeze into an already full compartment of a train to let a mother lay her sleeping infant down on the seat while also gladly making room for an elderly couple to sit together despite their seats being two coaches apart. We let our neighbor put his leg on our seat while we place ours right next to his and you want to know what the icing on the cake is? we would have gone through this entire transaction without exchanging any words! Whats more, we share our dinner with them and we become one big family with our very own make do annoying younger cousin, lecturing uncles, gossipy aunties and snoring grandparents. We also make it a point to take their luggage out for them and bid goodbyes. And finally we hold them in the stories we narrate to our real cousins, uncles, aunts and grandparents.

If you go back a little to the meandering streets I was talking about, you can easily find me, or your mum, your sister or even my friends, yelling in hindi with a colorful brand of additional urdu cruses (if you are a Hyderabadi that is), at the autorickshaw driver who thinks he can take us on a trip with all his "meter rate badh gaya memsahib" stories. Soon, you'll find one of us moving along within minutes to begging/bargaining with the vendor of a store and seconds after find us laughing and tugging away at people only to walk into another store to once again begin yet another dynamic interaction with yet another stubborn vendor with a "fixed rate" board hanging above his cashiers desk. And at each end, the vendors as well as the autorickshaw driver would have gone along with a frown that soon changed its direction or with a knowing smirk or even a nod at the predictability of their customers. There is a sense of belongingness that comes with knowing a language you can curse in, understanding inside jokes, humming the songs you can sing along, knowing that it is just as well that you dont know if Dussera was the coming home of Lord Ram or the celebration of the powerful Goddess Durga, you celebrate it with the same gusto and love as you would if you knew what it truly was for.

Its no wonder why, over time I've begun to truly believe that, there may be platonic love, sibling love, soul love and what ever else but, there definitely is what I'd call the Great Indian Love. It describes the frowns on the street, the silent comfort when your friend stands by you while you resolve a ruckus with the cops, the mass celebration when India wins the world cup or that single Olympic Gold medal. Its the force feed your gramma partakes in, the tears your mum sheds for you when you fail for the first time in school, the money you beget when your granddad receives your obeisance, the presence of your husband who moves with you when you want to or the tolerance of your wife who wakes up to serve you dinner when you come home at 2pm after a week long trip. I' ll also bet that you see it in the colors of Holi we gladly put on unknown faces and in the lamps we light for our neighbor who is out of town for Diwali. You certainly cant miss it in the assuring afternoon Namaz you hear from the boom box outside of the mosque or in the Suprabatam we hear ever so often from a similar boom box of a temple. Its in the hilariousness we share with our sisters when the priests compete for the mic during a wedding (in case yours is one of those love marriages within the Indian culture look out for it!) and in the laughter we share at a silent fart your your mother gets blamed for (for feeding you unconditionally ofcourse).

But I wonder often what this rampant bombing does to that Great Indian Love. Do we slowly stop smiling within ourselves? Do we gradually become intolerant with greedy vendors and see capitalist motives in autorickshaw drivers? Do we celebrate Ganeshcharuti or Mahashivrati will less gusto and color because we are fraught with fear about the next mob bombing spree? Do we become xenophobic every time our Hindu religious friend steps into our homes or our Muslim neighbor offers their delicious Haleem? Do we turn into bigots who offer our seats to our parents but not to the older gentleman standing in front of us?

What happens to the common 'man' over time if he is continually terrorized?

The Myth of the Martian

Men are from mars while woman aren't. Always hated that assumption and the need to bring it up every time I talk about why I don't get my man sometimes. At the same time, I totally love my man. But honey, if you're reading this, I m sorry, but you probably also know that it doesn't mean you wont be a complete backside sometimes. I have my reasons to justify this, dear man.

Why do you have to talk about another woman you find pretty? Why do you have to comment on how you think she is the fittest woman you have ever seen? No, I'm not saying I am close to being like her and I do admire that she represents India on the Taekwondo team nationally, internationally or locally...whatever... but why...WHY..do you need to tell me how much you admire that, especially after asking me when I would start my gym sessions again!

You are committed to your woman, I give you that. I am happy to hang out with you. There's much pleasure in sitting in your silence, I love that. There's joy in our cuddles and our laughs. All this good stuff reminds me of how much you mean to me. At the same time its hilarious really how often that big feet of yours finds its way with so much ease into that even bigger mouth. And its not a story of one. Women every day find their men doing this one-legged hop when their mouth is busy chewing on the other foot.

If i were to bring your slips of tongue back to the 'Man are Mars' rationale that would only enrage me more and besides, accepting such a thing without reason is not how I'm made my dear. So, I think about it, after all I do have my space to do that sitting miles away from you.
I see that it goes back again to the way you as a man are socialized and how it is very different from the way I am, as a woman. Woman as girls are taught to be like barbie dolls, taught to care for others and be maternal and domestic. We play with dolls while our brothers play with monster trucks. We play with our kitchen sets while you play with building houses, we are the nurses and the teachers while you are the doctor or the principal, in our little make do games that we play together. 'Boys don't cry' while us girls can wallow in self pity or flail our hands and legs about and weep to get what we want. Men have to be macho, cannot express affection at every turn, ride awesome bikes and be the knight in shining armor else your manhood becomes questionable. And all the nay saying about staying committed, I see how that's a survival tool to keep up this machismo facade you have going on. When I say facade though I don't mean to simplify the realness of it. But I think when one becomes aware of the impact of such socialization it becomes impossible to actually stay mad at someone with their feet in their mouth but at the same time it also makes it impossible not to help some one see light in such imposition. These stories of socialization are something we feel in our blood,our psyche and our being and I get that but how difficult is it to recognize the folly of a socialization, apologize and become mindful of it when it is repeated yet again?

A Bollywood Blockbuster Concoction

I recently watched Bend it Like Beckham with a dear friend when I got back to life on the other side of the planet. Was telling her about the rituals of weddings in India and was pointing out some commonalities among our myriad practices. One of them was 'bidai' or the traditional sending off of the married daughter to her husband's home. The bidai sequence of any Indian movie chokes me up. I'd imagine it goes into the list of cathartic scenes Bollywood could play with to create a blockbuster hit. Meanwhile though, I kept wondering if my friend who was watching the movie with me felt cathartic too. Now that I think of it, I should have asked, but you know how it is...you're all teary eyed and want to avoid any conversations during this time, you hide your face with your hand..."opp..my eye..damn this dusty room!" She probably did though, right? Its hard not to put oneself in the place of someone who is crossing thresholds and experiencing the becoming of someone more. Its pretty much why I think it'll make such a good Blockbuster movie addition.

Again last weekend I watched another movie with a wedding in it! Not a blockbuster hit, far from it actually, called 'Babul' . It was among the collection of cds I brought with me from home to generate the home-away-from- home feeling. It had its moments but for the most part it was really annoying and gave me the hiby-gibies. I was furious at the women's role in the movie and would have gone on a shooting spree had it not been for that fact that it didnt do so well on the box office. But seriously, even this movie made me cry during the 'bidai' scene which is probably why the newspapers gave it three stars out of five!

This got me thinking about rites of passage and how this sending off the daughter is one of the oldest traditions in Indian culture. I like the symbolism and it certainly is a rite of passage that is in essence very therapeutic because of the ingrained ritual, if you come to think of it. It brings us out of our liminal stages and supports our movement toward an integrated self. Barring the dogma and power dynamic that feeds into family lineages about upholding traditions, it can be enduring and very supportive, this process of noticing and being mindful of individual rites of passage. But obviously, even during my wedding, there was such righteous belief about leaving parents forever and becoming a part of the husband family that I was annoyed and pissed about the whole ritual itself.

However, much after my wedding, sitting far far away from all the bigots and dogmatic up keepers of traditions, I began to make peace with my own wedding and my three year long marriage. I came to see how naming ceremonies, birthdays, celebration of womanhood and manhood, graduations, weddings, anniversaries, childbirth, sixtieth and eightieth birthday, and death celebrates the circle of life that interwines itself with every other childbirth, naming ceremony, birthday, womanhood, graduations, wedding, anniversary, sixtieth birthday, eightieth birthday and death.

And what do you know! Bollywood knew this all along. Its precisely why mixing and matching any of these phases and the liminal stages within each of these phases totally creates a blockbuster movie!

The Colors of a Spectrum

The dynamic that often creates itself between most South Asians who are not American citizens and South Asians who are American Citizens in the United States is one to reckon with because, well, it stands out when you live here. Here's my perspective on 'us' who'd rather remain 'us' and 'them'. The FOBs and ABCDs as they are called as a rule don't get along with one another. When I say FOB, I don't mean it the import-export sense of the term, about the goods exported in and out of nations. Here its the human life with all its life's experience, love, anxieties, disappointments, expertise, fears, insecurities, and hopes exporting itself to another country. So, FOBs = Fresh-Off-Boat's, myself in the context. And ABCDs = American Born Confused Desi's.

No, I am not just making things up about them not getting along! Consider these terms, would we call people FOBs or ABCDs if there was compassion in the air? And besides I believe experience as holding enough verity for life as it occurs. Firstly, You have to agree that humans in general major in the language of the unsaid. We get what a frown means, what a shrug is and what that punch in the gut with your eyes mean. Its universal, the language of the unsaid. So we feel the love when us "FOBs" make the mistake of catching another "ABCDs" eye when there aint no smiles there for you. If we catch each other walking down the street...'ohh whats this new found treasure in my bad' routine takes precedence. If I am stuck in a class with no other seat empty but the one beside mine for my ABCD counterpart to sit on, there goes my evening! (probably her's too) My name is asked, my accent is known and the head turned to the other side. Ahem..what did i do? Did I say my name the way it should be said? Or did I not seem like I know English?

Its not so difficult to understand this dynamic actually. I am new to this country and I am excited to be here. I have idealized the West, enough to come here for my education and most likely live here for the rest of my life. The decision is based on the assumption that South Asia cannot give me as much as North America can- what with all the assumed opportunities, the status of being in a foreign country ( 'ohhh America!'), the distance from impoverished Dharavi 's of India, the list is endless, really, when you are on this path down bitchdom lane but you do get why the US is the 'land of opportunities' right? So yes, I love being the Monica of friends, or even crazy Phoebe or uptight Rachael and here I come to be this person and that but not what I apparently represent when I come from India. Besides, its not rocket science that people stereotype one another. And as an Indian in a paraiah country, I represent the stereotypes of being conservative, geeky, parochial, hardworking, good at math, etc. And of course when you see me you know, I am not the ideal White European symbol of a woman, and just as well.. I am not that important. But nevertheless, here I am, in the world where I wanted to be ever since I discovered geography, economics and the media. I truly knew that I will be a perfect fit here in a western world that advertises itself as being open minded, welcoming, multicultural, and liberating. Cultural Shock is what I beget, unexpectedly. I am told, I am an Indian, a brown person from a developing country with an accent that says I am not English. A misfit in essence, an odd woman out if you will. Laid out here, then, is the "Desi" experience of coming to "ohhh America!".

On the other hand, the life of an ABCD is not a personal experience, its a speculation and hearsay but methinks it has similar undertones to the life of a "real Desi"... with an important distinction that they have lived the life , from day one, of someone who has had to strive to be this White European symbol of who a good human is. Lighter skin, accentless talk, non parochial, non conservative, and free of constricting traditions. So when I come into the picture my South Asian American colleague finds that I am someone she has been striving not to be and, the effort is very deliberate. That said, the need to fit in is universal and no one is spared really, so while I am wondering with mighty anger why even though we look the same I get looked down upon, another South Asian American is probably saying no I am different from you and you need to respect that. Ironically, there is a common force even here- this need to be closer to the end of spectrum that is representative of who a westerner is or an American is (or in other words, who a White Euro American is) and as a result this pull and tug at being someone we aren't creates painful experiences for everyone involved.

Its a fact of our lives- the media reinforces for the society about who is at the highest rung of being "cool", accepted and acknowledged. White men write the story of America only to oppress every other race. I kid you not. Read some of the eight grade history lessons and you'll know. The VHP controls textbook content in the North of India, while the DMK does the same in the South, read them and you'll see. We are, as a global community taught to value wealth and the country that has it gets to enforce cultural dominion in some way or the other. Our collective psyches are affected by this pull and tug and we let this superfluous awareness dominate our daily interactions.

Thankfully though, I've learned over time that defining who I am today as a result of my experiences, my birth place, my class, my gender, my sexual identity and my religion, and being open to the person I will become helps in this process of acknowledging myself and others. I am certainly evolving and that's the beauty of it all but as far as I am concerned being on this path is what makes me more humane. The path towards acknowledging our similarities and respecting our differences helps us look at these punches in the gut and frowns on the faces of others with more compassion. It helps in the process of self love in that non-narcissistic way as well. Like Friere says, it also helps if we learn to critically question everything we take in as facts and realities. Media bashing is one thing, and on the other hand is critically thinking about what often goes into our psyches without much forethought.

A world that works towards understanding stereotypes, acknowledging familiarities, and respecting differences has such an amazing ring to it, doesnt it?

Are we there yet?

Two amazing months back home with friends, family, and my beau. Home is not a perfect place to be in but I do get my perfect dose of affection, fights, disappointments, arguments, laughs, and heartbreaks. I found myself moving from one end of this spectrum to the other with such ease that it often reminded me of my ineptitude at doing the same with such simplicity when I am alone stranded by choice in one of the most fabulous cities of the world. What can I say, that's home for me. A place where I am my best and my worst self.

This time around too I moved between the two ends of the spectrum-of joy and sadness, of hate and love, of anger and peace with ease but what stayed behind for due venting was the story about what made me truly indignant.

It began with a visit to the parlor, the beauty parlor, and I am sure you'll see the irony of this story soon, but I went in there to relax, I wanted to treat my mum for a wonderfully relaxing spa, I wanted us to go into a deep soothing sleep and be rejuvenated to face the stress of a vacation. But what do i get? The lady says " You are very dark, you should get the skin lightening treatment", the other one looks to me and says " Your face is full of zits! you should certainly get your acne treated". Well! that makes me feel all better! I am going to turn into a beautiful swan. No more ugly duckling days!Yahoo! And whats more, I am going to also free myself from the disappointment a brown woman feels, by being scrubbed into light!

Here's another story, I visit a married friend and she tells me her gynecologist told her 23-26 yrs of one's life are the most fertile years for a woman and I should hence think about having children as well, just like she did! Well, I am married so she tells me that, what about you unmarried 23-26 year olds eh! want to be a Baby Mama?

Incident number three, we are walking atop a hill to look at the scenic Vellore, and be warned I am not guardian enough, a 24year old adult woman, to be protection for my eighteen year old adult sister. We are shooed away by my sisters school that says 'Women Are Not Allowed in Secluded Areas on their own!' I reason 'but we are together, not alone!' oh well! it doesn't matter, a flock of birds can be more self sufficient, safer and stronger than a couple of women walking up a cool looking hillock.

You want a fourth one to really spruce things up? Ok, I am walking back home, the area I live in is an upper middle class neighborhood but what can I say, upper middle class is not synonymous to safety anyway, and here I am, a 24yr old woman sprinting down the street at 8 in the evening and what happens? A young man on a speeding bike gropes at my chest and squeezes at my breasts. No I am not an auto rickshaw, I am a woman-the yin if you are the yang and the amimus if you are the anima. On that note, don't even get any woman started on what she undergoes at least once in a lifetime if she commutes by public transportation.

Yes, I am hinting at the woman's place in the world. Directly referring to it actually. My examples may be a daily lived experience and perfectly fine with many but that's exactly why its an issue. We have assumed a place of a being not good enough. We are open targets for horizontal and vertical "oppression" (for a lack of a better word) and stereotype. No I am not a victim of all the injustice done unto me but I am a survivor nonetheless, like many million women who are, but nevertheless, I succumb in subtle ways to the stereotype. I confirm your assumptions about who I should be, all the same. I am a romantic, I want flowers from my man, I want love to be expressed, I want children one day, I want the happily-ever-after. Are these desires so imbued in me via the society that I live in and by the people who surround me that I am not sure if 'I' want this or my socially construed self wants it? Well, I dont know. And I dont think it really matters even. I am what I am, thanks to Popeye.

What I ask for though is a world that respects people for being different. Yes, I am a woman who will never marry and would not want children. Why should I be talked about and taunted? Why should I be the one referred to when my friend doesn't get married by the time she is 27 or 28 years of age. 'You don't want to end up like her, do you?'. Yes, I am a woman who thought arranged marriage was the way to go. Iam married and now I live with my husband and his family, I have my moments, its hard and its amazing both at seperate times, but why do you feel the need to mention to me as an example of someone you don't want to be? Why the comparison? Why the competition to be someone better?

But coming back to my indignant self and my place as a woman. Where is my place if you want to always put me down? Where is my place if you tell me I am ugly when placed in a scale that has what media construes as beautiful and their version of the ugly? Isn't having zits a human right? where can I shove my really 'dark' face ? Where do I live if I am groped at every time I step out of my home? How do I work if my man boss thinks I am a woman and cant handle the stress that comes with being the CEO of the company I've spent 20 years of my life working at? Everyday, millions of woman are rendered powerless by their men, by their society that tells them they ought to live that stereotype, in that vicious cycle that begets more fear and more subordination each time a man proceeds to be a 'man'. I say 'Yes' 10 times for that one single 'NO' that I strive to conjure up, and this is me, a woman of 24years of age, born in an upper middle class family, with parents who were nurturing and life which was relatively comfortable. What of your household help who comes in with a black eye and says she hit herself against the wall? What of that mother who works only to waste away all that money earned, into the desires of her drunken husband? What of that powerful working woman who gives up her career because her husband cannot handle the competition? What of that creative girl who marries early only to stall her life for everyone else's priorities?

Its a brand new century for a zillion different reasons, but when are we going to get to a place where stereotypes are acknowledged, addressed and peeled away, where differences can be rejoiced and respected, where equity and equality are both on the same pedestal, where saying a NO is just as simple as saying a YES and where its not so much more work to be just who you are?