Draupadi asks...

Sakha, why did you come to my swaymvar,

When you had no intentions of marrying me?

Our eyes met surrounded by the lusty gaze of Princes.

(Was I the prize their manhood waited for deservingly?)

Blue-skinned with honey eyes; you were not to be missed,

Balarama was by your side, but you talked to me  

With your nonchalant gestures and movement of lips,

The memory of which is both fresh and distant,

Just like a forbidden dream: cherished but not to recall.

The eye of a fish had a fate captured inside:

To be disgorged, displayed and dictated upon a woman

Who was supposed to make her choice.

Oh, that star-crossed bride!

If I really had a choice at the swayamvar, I would have chosen you,
But you were immune to my charms.

My eyes should have decided my husband, not the ones of that fish. 
But you were immune to my charms.

Your eyes spoke to mine when Karna lifted the bow.

I jilted him, insulted him, crushed his manhood so,

(He must have sworn there to quash the confidence

That this doe-eyed princess drew from a pair of lotus-eyes.)

I then weaved the dreams and clothed them in blue colour

Only to be jolted out of them by a growing murmur

A Brahmin now came forward to test his prowess,

Better than the rest, I conveyed to you, with a hint of coyness

And you assumed I was smitten by the fair-skinned.

But when he hit the fish’s eye, tell me, were you chagrined?

Arjun was second only to you, Sakha, in form and in speech

But did I deserve a mere consolation? Tell me, I beseech!

You pronounced that I have been won rightfully

To stop the princes who began to resemble a sight ugly.

Arjun was comely, and I was consoled, for you had chosen him.

He was your kin, thought I, and the pain suddenly grew dim.  

With you in heart, Sakha, I allowed Arjun to claim me,

And what did your Arjun do?

He surrendered me to the whims of an ageing mother

And unmistakable lust of his elder brother.

Hold my hand, Sakha! Are my five fingers the same?

No, and how can they be?

They are but a reminder of my husbands,

Who turned into a robust fist, united by me.

Five pairs of arms have been known to this body,

But the memory of those blue-skinned ones is still not foggy.

On some days I wondered,

Would it have been better to be one of the thousands?

A princess would then have steered clear of the woodlands.

But tell me, Sakha, how do you distinguish them in dreams?

In mine, even five become faceless, formless, bereft of seams.

Also, what if you cried a wrong name in throes of passion?

Did the consort forgive or decide to chasten?

But most importantly, Sakha, tell me why I invite blame and violence,

While you enjoy devotion, love, awe and obeisance?

I’m ridiculed for my five husbands who were thrust upon me

And your thousands of women become a matter of glory?

You are worshipped despite stealing women and inaugurating battles

And I save my husbands' honour yet blamed for their troubles.

I stay hungry to feed the clan, and you eat to do the same

What’s more ironical than this: we both share a name.

Salma Ansari: ‘Scandalous’ necklines and horse-riding sprees that changed a few things at AMU and beyond

Mr Hamid Ansari is sworn in as the Vice President of India for the second consecutive term. I feel very happy. Not because I support the party that backs him. As a matter of fact my reasons to like him are very personal. I am a big fan of Mrs Ansari, a lady who dares to bare: society’s cultural hypocrisy as well as her own matronly yet beautiful back. I remember her as the Vice Chancellor’s wife in AMU, who had visited Abdullah Hall on Founder’s Day to attend Sir Syed’s birth anniversary celebrations. Her shockingly bright silk Saree worn with a fashionable blouse gave the resident girls food for thought, and gossip, for many days to come.

Most of the resident-students were scandalized, for Mrs Salma Ansari was the First Lady of AMU: an institute where parents sent their daughters to receive education in keeping with their Islamic traditions. Where anyone not wearing a shalwar-kameez would be looked down upon as a ‘transgressor,’ to use the most polite and literary term. It was the most commonly used epithet for girls (even the 11-12 years old residents of Sultan Jahan Hostel) who wore jeans and T-shirts. The only time one could paint one’s nails was when the menstrual flow forbade offering of Namaaz. Mrs Ansari, certainly post-menopause, had painted her nails bright red that evening.

I remember each detail of her appearance on the Founder’s Day dinner at Abdullah: the blinding orange and green of her Saree, the size of her Bindi, the colour of her nail polish, the fashionably cut blouse which drew glances and the confidence in her gait. I met her twice again after that first encounter but I cannot recall what she wore on those occasions. Once she had given me a trophy for being the best debater in the university. Next time, she took me by surprise when she entered my room in Old Waheed Jahan Hostel with another smartly turned out woman of her age. The other lady was the wife of the then VC of Jamia Milia Islamia. As it turned out, she had occupied the same room during her student days and wanted to take a trip down the nostalgia lane. This was just before my std 12 board exams and Mrs Ansari asked me what was I going to do in life. I shared my wish to ditch the commerce stream and do ‘English Honours’ from DU. She was delighted, being an English Honours walla herself.

Both of us left AMU in 2002: I got admission in DU, while Mr Hamid Ansari’s tenure as VC ended the same year. We never met again. On the Army Day this year, however, I saw Mr Ansari at the high-tea hosted by the Army Chief. Being a high-profile event, reviving the University connect seemed a little out of place. I wanted to tell him that his wife was a rock-star in true senses of the term. I’m sure he is proud of Al Noor, the educational trust founded by Mrs Ansari in Aligarh. What he might not know is the fact that Salma Ansari made a difference, however small or insignificant, in the way many girls in Abdullah Hall perceived tradition, modernity and religion. My room-mate, for one, decided to stash away her burqa and we went to take a round of the “University area.” An aapa from Women’s College began to be seen sporting large colourful bindis, ignoring all the smirks and dismissive looks that came her way. At the farewell party organized for our batch, I had overheard somebody whispering, “Look at her blouse, toba! Who does she think she is, Salma Ansari?” While the comment may appear regressive, it held some promise. Once you reach Salma Ansari’s stature, you can wear ‘scandalous’ clothes. Earning a right to choose one’s clothing is a great incentive to do well in life. I am neither in touch with the girl who dared to emulate Mrs Ansari, nor the one who passed the comment. I hope the former retained her rebellious streak and the latter made good of her practical cynicism. Mrs Ansari, apparently, impressed them both.   

I wonder, however, what that class-mate of mine would have said to those criticizing Salma Ansari for doing horse-riding in Aligarh. Being the VC’s wife did not exempt her from parochial censure. And yet, Salma Ansari silenced the ‘culture’ brigade by giving them Al-Noor, an idea that she conceived during one of her rides.   

Salma Ansari, an alumnus of AMU, certainly is a worthy bulbul  of this chaman.

Reclaiming the Vagina

(Inspired by watching Scent of a Woman for the millionth time tonight) The other day vagina was trending on Twitter. No, not vagina, but the demand to look for its euphemisms. Twitteratti or tweeps went into a frenzy looking for appropriate substitutes for the vagina. Oh well, anything can “trend” there: people to policies, names to numbers and Jolie’s leg to Sonakshi’s forehead. Vagina also had its claim to fame for a few hours. Tweeple of Tworld were united in finding a new signifier for the “space between a woman’s legs.” There was humour: crass and sophisticated, the characteristic “outrage,” indignations and pontifications amidst the search for a perfect substitute. After the “silencing” of the Michigan representative in a floor debate about women’s health (she used the V word), this was a logical aftermath.

Personally, I have my doubts if anything can substitute vagina. The word works just fine. It is used in clinical sense and clearly conveys what it is supposed to. What further renders the quest for euphemisms and substitutes ludicrous is the fact that even the word ‘vagina’ is a euphemism. Etymologically speaking, ‘vagina’ comes from a Latin word vāgīna, which means a ‘sheath’ or a ‘scabbard.’ So, vagina is something where the ‘sword,’ man’s weapon, is supposed to be kept. The English word, therefore, is a joke unto itself: a canonised euphemism. The prude in us attempts to look for a euphemism for a euphemism. Al Pacino tried to convince us in Scent of a Woman “There's only two syllables in this whole wide world worth hearing: pussy.” The very title of the film can also be seen as a beautiful euphemism for the vagina. Pheromones at play! Slangs are easier to use and relate to. The usage of slang-words, however, poses a serious problem when the aim is to sanitize the language. The ‘taboo’ words are replaced with slangs and euphemisms.

Three years back, an ‘English Honours’ final year student of mine introduced me to a silly-sounding word for the female genitals: vajajay. This slang for vagina was first heard in popular TV series Grey’s Anatomy. A little later, the glorified queen of blah, Oprah “legitimized” the word and used it ad nauseum during her talk shows. There are over 1200 slangs for vagina in English language alone. It appears that too much human effort has gone into keeping the little female organ wrapped in a shroud of mystery and secrecy. In the age of information bombardment, however, the intrigue has remained only in the matter of naming ‘it’ and not seeing or knowing about ‘it.’

The recent TV commercials for the vaginal fairness creams are a classic case of cultural hypocrisy. While the cosmetic companies are bringing vagina- the organ to the mainstream for sheer business gains, they are hesitant to use vagina- the word. As a potential consumer, you are made aware of the fact that fairness (synonymous to beauty) is and must not be confined to your face and body. Vagina is brought out of the closet, yet without its name.

My question remains, why don’t we let vagina be? Both, the word and the organ. Almost all the expletives are designed/coined around woman’s body, especially the genitals. And it is perfectly alright to use those words. We may cringe a little and yet do not really hold it against those who use “geni-pletives.” In my hometown, people are comfortable listening to and using certain words as expletives. But the same people find it scandalous to hear those very words in the course of a neutral conversation. Women, unfortunately, are no exception. Their modesty is outraged during such innocent and neutral conversations but not listening to the ‘gaalis’ that people around them keep hurling at each other. And often it is done in “good humour.” Eve Ensler’s 1996 play, The Vagina Monologues, was an attempt to free the word of taboo. The play has assumed a cult status in the discourse of women empowerment. And yet, even after sixteen years the taboo stays. So do the expletives and the euphemisms. The taboo around ‘naming’ the female organ is almost as barbaric as female circumcision. A ploy to subjugate women by denying them the right to use what is theirs, the organ and its name. The vagina is held hostage, now is time to reclaim it.

From the woman who marched in shorts with her daughter at Slutwalk

Through this message I intend to show my gratitude. My first big fat ‘thank you’ goes to the camerapersons who kept shooting me while I changed into my now famous shorts. It is because of their dogged determination to find the ‘slut’ at the otherwise modest walk at Jantar Mantar that I and my jean-shorts shot to fame. I wish to thank the people at the editing desk as well who decided to focus more on the mundane act of getting ready for the walk than my reason to be a part of it. Runs and reruns of the footage have done wonders. Actions speak louder than words, certainly. I’m also grateful to the dedicated men and women who hounded me for ‘bytes’ and would not relent even when I requested them to leave us alone. My two year old was not comfortable with microphones thrust upon our faces. Thanks to their desire to develop a sensational mother-daughter narrative, I am now the face of Slutwalk, Delhi.
I want to show my gratitude to some of these men and women who twisted and turned the basic facts about my life to turn me into a phenomenon. I became “a housewife from Manesar” who came thus far to be a part of the Slutwalk. Quite radical! The participation of a lecturer (English) from Delhi University and the editor of a national magazine is no big deal, it is the daring ‘housewife’ that is capable of catching eyeballs. Thanks for stripping me off my professional credentials. Other people doing similar commendable job are the great minds discussing the Slutwalk on live talk shows. By a woman politician who ‘supports’ the Slutwalk, I am identified as a “videshi mahila” for whom donning such clothes is “aam baat.” Thanks for robbing me of another element of my identity. I’m not an Indian woman anymore since I was not dressed like one!
The worthy men and women leaving their comments on the online articles covering the event also deserve a big thanks. I’m so glad that you understood the whole concept very well: women like me are asking for their right to be scantily dressed. No, this is not about equality. We don’t want to question the lop-sidedness of gender relations in our society, we just want to strut in bikinis. Thank you, my dears, for giving me lessons in moral science, religion, psychology, sociology and even biology. And I loved the way you put across your thoughts. Here are a few samples:
My personal favourite and the most informative of all is, “Men are born with an organ that puts them in a different state as soon as they are excited…the gorgeousness of some girls (in delhi esp).. turns us excited. Why do you want to purposely wear something very provocative and then expect men to turn down ?? You want to tame them Or in an attempt to be 'gentleman', do you want them to grow impotent ??”
I feel sorry for this community of poor men who are threatened by the crimes of women.
“the insect drools only on the uncovered savouries. If you're properly draped, you earn respect for yourself.” No burka clad woman will ever be raped, then?
A respectable woman typed, “Girls grow up and realize its your responsibility too. If you dress up half naked with your body parts jutting out of course the men will stare at them.. it's just natural - be it any part of the world.”
I will also follow the “natural” and leer at the men dressed in shorts and vests. If I get an opportunity, a little grope here and a smack there may also follow, duly peppered with lewd remarks.
“Now all women can wear skimpy shorts and sleeveless tops in India as Nisha anticipated. Bra and thong will be in demand eventually. That might solve womens' issues.” I hope I’m offered a billion bucks to be a brand ambassador, then!
Thanks everybody for trivializing the entire issue and bringing it back to clothes. Of course, it has always been about clothes!
Wear something trendy: you asked for it!
Wear shalwar-kameez: It’s sexy enough to turn me on.
Wear a sari: Oh, the exotic Indian beauty, cant wait to see what you got under drapes!
Wear a burka: You think you can escape me? OR How dare you?