My Sharira, my pride

I am sharing what I wrote a few weeks back. I feel this is relevant now in the light of the Tamil Nadu High Court ruling on dress code in temples.

I just got back from Sharira (the body). 

Confused? How can one come out of “the body”? Well, one can if one is in an introspective mode. Why can't we see ourselves, our body from outside, as an outsider. Perhaps, we will get a clear idea of what we are, who we are, where we are.

I will end this confusion, Sharira was a dance performance, a breath-taking one, for lack of a better word. This spectacle had been choreographed by the late danseuse, Chandralekha.

This is not a critique of the show. I am no connoisseur of art and art forms. I love watching various art forms and more than delving on the theme or concept, I like to understand the emotions behind them. Sharira, for me, was not just a theme. It was an emotion, a feeling of comfort, a feeling of self-worthiness, a feeling of wellness.

Till I reached puberty, I was “allowed” by a patriarchal set of people to roam around in frocks. Once nature gifted me the beautiful feeling of becoming a young lady, my wings were clipped. The frocks were, rather drastically, replaced by long skirts and sleeved blouses. One stray sleeveless shirt or a short skirt was not welcome at home. “You are growing up now. Wear clothes which are safe,” I was told.

“Safe? Now what was that?”

“There is no room for arguments. But if you insist on knowing, you must not be wearing clothes that attracts attention from boys.”

As a young girl, isn't it natural to want to feel good about oneself, and feel attractive?

I was asking impossible questions that had no answers, but only dirty glares and dirtier chides. I was a young girl and had to behave like one. I had to bind myself to the conforms of patriarchal prudishness.

As I went to college and was at an age when I wanted to look good, not merely because I felt I must make at least one boy “turn around once more to see me”, but because I wanted to feel good about myself.

“Don’t wear T-shirts. You will attract unnecessary attention. No, not sleeveless either. Your arms have to be covered; they are not something to show. Oh no. Change into something else. This is plunging low and showing a hint of cleavage,” were the constant checks. “Stick to safe clothes. There are wolves all around. This is for your good,” was the constant reminder from my “benevolent” elders. This was the toll tax I had to pay before leaving home.

With every step I took towards adulthood, I was monitored. One “wrong move” of wearing a seemingly inappropriate attire, something that I felt was befitting my casual demeanour, was invariably shot down rudely, my rush of confidence ripped apart with a pair of puritanical scissors.

So I began hating my body. I hated the way I looked; I hated my bosoms that, I was told, would attract unnecessary attention; I hated my arms as I was told they were fat and not worthy of showing to anyone.

So that left me with, sorry for a politically incorrect term, with a dowdy dress sense! I was a woman, carrying the burden of a false sense of virtue around her fully-clothed neck.

I got married, which meant I sleepwalked into another sententious household.

“Your kurta is too tight. Wear a dupatta,” I was told. “Oh no, you cannot be wearing a sleeveless shirt while visiting an elderly person.T-Shirts? Donate them!”

The messages were the same, the voices were different.

My body was tired of being constantly under probe. It was rather ironical that in the course of the sartorial diktats from puberty to motherhood, I realised my body was constantly being subject to gaze.

Why must I be the subject of someone else’s gaze? I asked myself. My body is mine and I have a right to make it a subject of my gaze, my expression and my emotion. I have a right to love my body, express myself the way I want to.

One cloudy morning, I realised “that was it”. The change was not really a overnight one. It took days of anger and helplessness and nights of introspection. I had to snap out of the manipulative restrictions that taught me only to hate my body, to be ashamed of it, so ashamed that I had to keep it covered all the time.

I realised loving my body is no different from loving my soul; Sexuality and sensuality are not dirty words; and Sex is not an unpronounceable three-letter word that never dares step out from the confines of the bedroom.

And, when I watched “Sharira”, I found that it reiterated all that I felt. It gracefully whispered in my ear; it reinforced my faith in the fact that being a woman meant feeling beautiful inside that would manifest outside. And unless I freed myself from feeling guilty of my body, I would never feel beautiful.

Today, I am unapologetic about expressing my sexuality. I am no longer envious about another beautiful woman or rue about what my body lacks. This also means I never allow a man to force himself on me and I exercise the choice to say no.

Finally, I gifted myself my femininity.

The garment and the goddess

My husband and I went on a feel-Kolkata nostalgia trip. I am from Kolkata, he is from Lucknow. This walk down memory lane was his gift to me.

I am a Calcuttan; grew up there, studied and worked there. I was somewhere in the warp and weft of the city’s fabric; a thread that retained its texture, flavour and culture even after having been separated from it.

This time, when I revisited my city and explored it, I realised how little I knew about it, how much I had taken my city for granted.

We set out exploring the city like two college students, sometimes by foot, sometimes by public transport.

The morning had begun with the sharp rays of the sun, but it was soon diffused by the rush of clouds as if protecting us. The riverside was breezy as we took the launch, settling ourselves near the railing for a clear view of the river, stunningly silhouetted by the Howrah bridge.

We wanted more of the ride as the boat dropped anchor at the Howrah pier. So after a sumptuous breakfast of puris and aloo bhaji washed down by an earthenware cup of hot tea at a roadside eatery, we sat on a boat to go across to Kumartuli, an erstwhile village and now part of the expanding city of Kolkata.

It had rained the previous evening, but the ramp on the pier was surprisingly clean.The climb led us to a narrow tar road bordered on both sides with slush that was not to be confused with drain. Though there were tea or snack shacks on the bylane snaking out of the narrow tar road, its cleanliness took me by surprise.

We had entered Kumartoli, a village of artisans; that place where the clay from the river bed is transformed into Gods and Goddesses; the river side which anchors divinity; the place where images of Gods and Goddesses embark on a  journey, reaching out, like the rays of the sun, to other parts of the globe.

The narrow alleys had garage-like shop floors on either side, with no distinct gates but just tinned frames that stood away from the opening. They probably served as gates at night when art went to sleep.

We peeped into the first opening, and were delighted to see the clay models of Durga with her 10 hands after a fierce battle with Mahishasur. The models were in various stages of completion. The sheer size and the number of the idols were fascinating.

Now I will start speaking in first person: replacing we and us with I and me; as it is only fair that I spoke for myself!

The faint whiff of hot samosas and tea from a nearby snack shop did not affect me. Two gentlemen were engaged in a conversation about the type of Mahishasur idol a client had ordered. But I focussed my attention on the artisan working on goddess Durga. There were many other huge, imposing clay idols of the goddess, a face that looked calm after her slaying the demon king.

I walked on to the subsequent work floors, where the artisans had yet not begun their work, where the goddess was on her own, looking happy in her space.

I moved on and stood outside another work area. An artisan was working on an idol.

“May I come in?” I asked in Bangla, a language I find myself at home.

There was no response.

I asked again. The artisan was working on Durga’s face. He was holding on to something that looked like a sandpaper with which he was chiselling her nose. He was so engrossed creating her, he did not even hear my repeated requests.I decided to quietly go in, uninvited.

By then he had shifted his sandpaper to the breasts of the goddess and was rubbing it up and down, chiselling their shape.

I stood there in a hypnotic gaze as if I was stuck to the ground, as if I too was under his spell. At that moment, he was a sculptor, creating a voluptuous woman, with a full hip that had a few folds and a curvaceous body. Though his creation had 10 hands, probably reminding him that he was sculpting a goddess, it was still the curves and contours of the woman that seem to have enslaved him to the moment. Yes, he was creating a goddess. But she was a woman first, and that was what he created her as: a beautiful, curvy woman.

This was the artist’s space of expression; and the idol, with its curves and folds, was his realistic understanding of a woman’s body. He did not set any limits to his imagination. It was his theatre, his stage, where he was in charge of the dramatic strokes. He scripted the sequence of the  spectacle and was in command of its execution. It was as if he was in a trance during his creation, his worship of the divine feminine.

Soon, the artisan would paint the sculpture; and the transformation would begin.

I went the next day to the same work floor. The artisan had painted the goddess. She was a beautiful woman with large eyes, that must have been fierce, but was now reflecting her triumph and compassion; what a heady combination that is!

And then I witnessed the most amazing, magical moment: this was a moment of truth, of realisation.

He took a bright orange and gold garment, and slowly began draping the beautiful idol, carefully making the pleats in the front, that casually fell over the lion she stood on. Then he carefully dropped the saree over Mother Durga’s right shoulder and the let the pallu drop down gracefully till her curved bottom. He adjusted the six yards of silk slowly, covering her body, her breasts, her thighs, leaving her waist with those little folds and curves exposed.

I was stuck to the clayey ground. The curvy, voluptuous woman, was an idol. But the six yards of garment, the saree, turned her instantly into a goddess.

Durga now exuded confidence, where even a hint of vulnerability was suddenly buried under the garment; her demeanour radiating love and charm; her eyes showing affection and care.

She suddenly turned from a woman to a goddess and a mother, it looked like she was gently scolding the sculptor to stop thinking of her as just a woman with curves, but to think of her as a goddess, as a mother.

Yes, she still had the curves, she was sensuous, exuded sexuality; but she became a woman, a goddess, a diva, ready to take on the world with her beauty and courage, with her strength and wisdom.

This transformation became complete only after the sculptor draped the six yards around her.

This is not about dress codes; it is not about what women must wear. It is about women and their choices. Men might get more intimidated by women in western clothes. They also tend to take the saree-clad woman as a demure person, always seeking protection. But this vision of the goddess, who combined beauty, power and courage after being draped in the saree, was certainly a divine message to me: that the saree would express my sexuality, explore my femininity, preserve my sensuality, and at the same time exude confidence, strength and power.

Krishna consciousness

Chennai’s Carnatic music aficionados were in for a shock when the maverick musician, T.M. Krishna, decided to stay away from the December music season.His announcement in his social networking site went viral with shares and comments from fans and critics.

This most awaited annual event has global resonance, with people from all over the world converging to the sabhas (concert halls) to soak in the music and savour the sumptuous food dished out by the auditorium canteens!

But this year will be different.

Over the years, this art form with its exclusive caste and class patronage has been frustrating this controversial musician. He has been called “eccentric” by the patrons, who were essentially the educated elite Brahmins, for his on-stage “brusque” body language. 

His recent book, A Southern Music: The Karnatik Story, delves into his growing restlessness in wanting to change this caste and class dynamics. The book not only explores the historical evolution of this art form but also asks uncomfortable questions on the discordant notes of caste  hegemony over this art form.

A few years ago, he sang a different note during the December season to break the class jinx by making his performance a free-for-all. The sabha committees had no choice but to agree to the condition made by one of the biggest crowd-pullers. They decided to give him the morning slot as they could not afford to reserve the prime evening schedule, where the strains of music would ring in cash into their coffers.

Last year, Krishna organised an alternative December music season, roping in both classical and folk artists. The weeklong open air music concerts on the Chennai beachfront was a unique initiative to net the interests of fisherfolk and Dalits, and in the process break the concert walls that had been made sound-proof by the elite.

In a social networking site, Krishna recently added a dollop of dollar dynamics into the simmering caste-class Carnatic music pot. He alleged that the strength of the dollar against the rupee was causing corruption among the sabha committee members and middlemen who arrange the “meetings and concerrts”. This meant that Thyagaraja kritis emanated more from the vocal chords of NRIs, with the burgeoning local talent being sidelined.

After an uncomfortable silence from the music fraternity, soft whispers are being heard in the corridors of social networking sites. Critics point to Krishna’s “hypocrisy” in accepting fat cheques for concerts abroad while turning his nose up when dollars make an entry into the Chennai music circuit.

The musician’s decision has clearly stirred the fuzzy caste-class Carnatic broth, sometimes adding to the flavours and sometimes adding to the stink.

The Dravidian politics in Tamil Nadu has always kept the caste cauldron simmering. It came to a boil last fortnight in IIM-Madras after the authorities banned a Dalit study group, and later revoked it after protests spilled over across the country.

Today, the raga has gone off-tune.

My Appa and I

The movie, Piku raised a lot of laughter, its humour endearing audience across age groups. But I lifted the thin layer of film that coated the screen and felt the underlying happiness and melancholy in the relationship between my Appa and me.

My Appa was certainly not a copybook-style “cool dad” that we read in books and see in advertisements. Whenever my friends made glowing tributes to their fathers, I would create a tally sheet to see if any of this matched with my Appa, and failed miserably. God must have been at his creative best while assigning him the most unique human traits. He was a bundle of contradictions. He had his own way of looking at life and interacting with people.

He was generous to the point of suffocating our guests. Our home was an open house and our house guests were not just familiar relatives and friends. They comprised mutual friends, friends of friends and relatives and friends of friends of friends. Many taxis from Howrah station and Dum Dum airport have brought guests to our place for them to enjoy Appa’s almost-claustrophobic hospitality. We were the casualties in this: the constant activity at home denied us the pleasure of peaceful reading or concentrating on our quadratic equations!
He has helped a lot of people find jobs, but refused to recommend one for his brother because he hated nepotism!
When I was barely six months into my first job, he planned a summer holiday to Chennai. He was entitled to air fare for his dependent family members. But I had to take the Coromandel express train, while the rest of them availed the travel allowance. He reasoned that technically, I was earning and was, therefore, no longer a dependent. That was the level of his integrity.
He was opinionated and intolerant of dissent. I would argue, fight, sulk and sometimes mutely follow his diktat. Our relationship was anything but smooth and easy.
He was embarrassingly honest and, believe me, I have often wanted the earth to part so that I could sink into oblivion to avoid Appa’s gift of putting me in the most awkward of situations.
But he was a gem, an unpolished gem.
And then, late one night Appa slipped into coma in his sleep after an attack of cerebral haemorrhage. His eyes were closed and he seemed to be at peace, without feeling the pain of multiple needles connected to tubes going in and out of his frail, diabetic body. Normally, a minor cut was all it took for him to bring the house down. I saw him through the glass window and visualised him waking up and shouting at the medical staff for “torturing” him. “Wake up, Appa. See what they are doing to you,” I silently instigated him.
Five days passed, and he showed no sign of waking up to throw his weight around. The doctor told us he would be a vegetable even after coming out of coma because his haemorrhage had caused significant damage to his brain. That was when I wanted him to die. I could not see him helpless.
There were many who revered him, but there were also many who ridiculed him after taking advantage of his generosity.
He passed away after 13 days. The doctor told us he lost the battle and died. I told myself he has won the war. He has left for a better place. He may have been whimsical, but never boring, he may have been annoying, but never unpleasant.
Whatever he was, he was my Appa. I could say anything to him, but could not tolerate anyone saying anything against him. He left me 14 years back, but I still love my Appa.

Smartphone: Connected or addicted?

“I am part of five WhatsApp groups, and sometimes find it so cumbersome to chat with all of them. I find myself chatting the whole day and it is tiring,” commented my friend, an avid smartphone user. I felt the comment sounded more like a lament.

This prompted me to think about whether I must buy a smartphone to stay “connected”. I own a conservative, 1200-rupee Nokia handset, which helps me take and make calls, send and receive messages and set the alarm for 5 every morning. It is rock steady even after having fallen from great heights a million times.

Coming back to chats, we are often faced with these virtual interactive sessions. Often, in the middle of some work, I hear the ping sound from the desktop (by the way, I am really old fashioned. I still do not own a laptop, happy with all my virtual connections through my desktop!) I always respond, though I must admit, it is sometimes done with a little reluctance as it would disrupt the flow of my work. I answer, not just out of politeness, but out of reciprocation. This is because I am equally guilty of clicking on my friends’ names that have a green circle next to it, indicating his/her availability. Sometimes, even when the circle is red indicating availability, though busy, I have pinged to say that “quick hi”.

I have been blissfully unaware that my virtual friend might really be busy and is responding out of politeness. And, what is more, I am unaware of the expression on the other side.  Then, of course, the chat never seems to end. The “byes, take cares, we must catch up soons” keep continuing, unless one of us abruptly pulls the plug.

When laptops replaced desktops, it made internet accessibility more mobile. And now, the smartphones/androids have made us all roving, active social butterflies. We are taking the idea of always being connected too seriously. Is this making us intrusive and ill-mannered?

Intrusive?  In a way, yes. We tend to intrude into the other person’s space, without realising the time that goes on in this cyber socialising. And, it can happen at any time of the day, night and late night. We do not even bother to feel whether that person is really free. We often assume and take their time for granted.

Ill-mannered? Again, yes. Virtual chatting can slowly eradicate manners among us. We tend to say things which we would have otherwise shied away from.

Virtual chatting can be dangerous, and sometimes even fatal. There have been cases of suicides after a virtual spat.  We tend to cross our limits as we are ensconced in our private space and there is no indication of any discomfort either in the form of body language or in the form of physical eye-contact.

Touch phones have made virtual interaction very convenient and trendy. College kids and adults often swim along in the (un)intentional flirting that goes on, which is often laced with sensual/sexual references. Lack of proximity helps virtual friends get that feeling of being “emancipated”. Sadly, that is only in cyberspace.

Another point is that this bunch of youth, which is so comfortable with virtual chats, is often seen to be pathetically backward in real interface. Small wonder then that they are unable to fluently communicate in the real world in a single language as they are often breaking into pitiable linguistic pauses like “you know”, “like” and “umm”.

Of course, I know I am opening up a can of criticisms as many of my friends will be hopping mad at my way of looking at things. The cyberspace has been a wonderful world where we picked up pieces of our childhood and found so many friends. So what is wrong with that? I do not have a problem with social networking at all. In fact, it is blessing that has made me run into friends I had lost touch with; my friends with whom I had shared my lunch in primary school.

Virtual chatting is my concern, not an abhorrent. Concern because it is time-consuming. I feel it is alienating us increasingly from the real world, reducing us into zombies, with our fingers moving back and forth, up and down the screen all the time, even when we are among “real” friends.

Having said this, do I switch to a smartphone when communication will be at my fingertips?  For the moment, I will stick to my old Nokia.

I want to stay connected, without being addicted.

Virtual bouquets and brickbats are welcome!

Rail’wayward’

If you wish to escape to Bangalore from the “unbearable” Chennai heat in the air-conditioned comfort of Shatabdi Express, think again.

The Indian railways’ recent decision to “upgrade” the coaches of that train by installing television screens in them, has, in effect, downgraded the sensibilities of passengers having to travel amid the cacophony of pure, unadulterated film music.

A travel by Shatabdi to Bangalore is anyway irritatingly punctuated by the catering department, from the sinful snack tray that ushers in the journey to the overloaded and overflowing dinner platter for that climactic ending.

But the torture is now magnified by the continuous cacophony of “fresh from the oven” raunchy film songs that comes packaged with provocative movements. What is very disturbing is that the railway ticket does not carry a U, UA or A certification. The coaches are indeed full of children, running up and down the aisle. Now, they have a distasteful baby-sitter, blaring raucous songs accompanied by gyrating pelvises and heaving bosoms.

The point is: Is film dance and music the only entertainment for us? Television channels observe even Gandhi Jayanti with “superhit” films, sponsored by videshi colas.
But why did the glorious Indian Railways succumb to this lewd temptation? The old and prestigious institution can surely sense aesthetics and introduce a low-volume, high-interest package on television. It could be a circus show, a gymnastic presentation, an animal channel, anything but these suggestive visuals. Is the Indian Railways listening?

Chaos or custom-made cities?

A river cruise takes me till the area where the sea takes over. The port is Malaca. The river is dotted on both sides with beautiful, old quaint buildings. Portuguese architecture vies for attention with stunning Dutch and English buildings along the way, as old-style bridges connect the opposite sides.  There is a connect, after all. The connect of the ancient and modern; of an antiquated post office building and an internet café; of the gastronomic excellence of a Nasi lemak and the ever-present pizza-burger; of ancient churches and the new temples of worship: malls.

The first Dutch ship to have landed in Malaca has been redesigned as a museum for the younger generation to understand the dynamics of a nation, born out of maritime trade relations between East and West. This southern Malaysian port is sleepy, but it had once been a hub of active trade, and one of the inspirations of European colonial ambition. Today, it stands as a mere reminder of the past. The aggressive sophistication of the present has conveniently swept those memories under gorgeous Persian carpets, desperately being preserved by standalone connoisseurs.

But this was one of the small pieces of Malaysia one can taste. The rest of the cities are like any other. The buildings, the flyovers, the malls, the brands, the food: there is no sense of heterogeneity. They all look alike. Probably they would in any city in the world, what with its indistinguishable flavours of burgers, pizza and mall “getaways” stocking identical brands . Is there anything native about a place today? I doubt it.

At least, the countryside in Malaysia has some pockets of pleasant distractions in the form of stray landforms and stuctures. But its neighbour, Singapore, was built, it seemed, in an assembly-line factory. The residential buildings and spaces look alike, the parks are mirror images; their cafeteria-food line-up almost clinically exact. It was as if a template was created and the city built on that. This clinical and too perfect a city can evoke a sense of boredom. Its lack of authenticity and the absence of nativity reflect an identity crisis, a personality disorder. Are all cities going this way?

Pockets of Indian cities, for sure, look the same with their malls, pizza-coffee-burger outlets and brands. But there are still native elements preserved in its chaotic nerve structure. Give me the chaos; I will choose it any day to the clinical precision of modern cities.