The Female Humpty Dumpty

"Woman woman sat on a wall,
Woman woman had a great fall.
Four-score Men and Four-score more,
Could not make woman where she was before."

After all how could they, when they are the ones who perhaps photographed the 'fall' (the first four-score) and consumed it too (four-score more and more). Or maybe not. Katrina Kaif's bikini pictures with her alleged beau Ranbir Kapur are all over the print and television media today. Why do I get a feel that her bikini has a bigger role to play than anything else- holiday in Spain or even Ranbir Kapoor? The angel-faced actress, who we easily forgave for being Sheila and Chameli (though we cheered and leered), sporting a bikini on a private holiday is surely a big thing. How could she! And if she could, we are very well within our rights to bring it to the world- thus spake the unidentified photographer and the team of Stardust and other media. 

Kaif is completely justified in being upset at the invasive nature of media. But we the people and media do not want to allow her that either. Just because she is an actor, female at that, puts her in a doubly disadvantaged position. She is not supposed to separate her public and private selves: each aspect of her life is up for consumption. She must deal with the voyeur in each of us, for she chose to be an actress. We, the voyeur, have an upper hand always and she must submit. Laura Mulvey of Visual and Other Pleasures clearly states that "Voyeurism has associations with sadism: pleasure lies in ascertaining guilt, asserting control and subjugating the guilty person through punishment or forgiveness." So yes, we may 'forgive' her, but she remains guilty. 

As a female actor in the Indian film industry, Kaif clearly is devoid of the power that another victim of this low breed of journalism the Duchess of Cambridge wields. A formal investigation has been initiated against the publishing head responsible for the French edition of Closer magazine and two photographers for Kate Middleton's topless photographs published last year. Many things are in favour of the Duchess: she is, well, a British Royal and she was holidaying with her husband and not an alleged beau. I doubt, therefore, if any such investigation or even an advisory will come the way of Kaif's photographers and publishers. Alas, Katrina Kaif, you are no queen. Not even of our hearts. You are perhaps just a female humpty dumpty. Your 'fall' makes us laugh. 

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.

क्योंकि आज "मेड" नहीं आई.

कल रात को जब उसे चुपके चुपके रोते हुए सोते देखा

 तो दिल में कुछ तड़क सा गया था.  

सोचा कि आज फुर्सत से बेटी के साथ कुछ पल बिताउंगी,

(रोज़ तो उसके कमरे में आते ही त्योरियां चढ़ा लेती हूँ)

आज किसी काम से कहीं बाहर नहीं जाउंगी.

मीटिंग नहीं, और ना ही ई-मेल्स में समय बिताऊँगी 

साथ साथ कोई खेल खेलेंगे, और शाम को पार्क में झूला झूल कर आयेंगे   

प्यार से निवाले गिन कर अपने हाथों से उसे खिलाऊँगी

ना-नुकर तो करेगी मगर मैं हार थोड़े ही मान जाऊँगी!

tinkle tinkle lillistar सुनाएगी तो ताली बजाकर उसे गोद में भर लूँगी

और जब johnny johnny बोलेगी तो  "Yes Papa" मैं चिल्लाऊँगी

दोपहर को कोई भूली बिसरी कहानी उसे सुनाने के बहाने 

बचपन को एक कोने से निकाल कर तकिये पर साथ लिटाऊंगी

हर शब्द को पकड़ कर यादों में बसाना उसे आता है

और हर शब्द को भूलने का स्वाँग मैं करती ही चली जाऊँगी

कहानी फिर वो मुझे सुनाएगी और उसका सर मैं सहलाऊँगी

सो जाएगी जब बाँह का तकिया लगाकर, मैं भी सो ही जाऊँगी

शाम को पानी के गिलास के साथ जगाने की कोशिश करुँगी 

और "जल्दी तैयार हो जाओ" कहकर घुमाने का लालच दूँगी

फिर पार्क तक जाने में दौड़ लगाएंगे और 

"मैं फर्स्ट आ गयी" सुनने के लिए उसे आगे निकलने दूँगी. 

लेकिन झूला झूलने से डरने लगी है- उसका डर कैसे भगाऊंगी?

घूम कर वापस आयेंगे तो साथ में मिलकर टीवी देखेंगे 

गाने और न्यूज़ की जंग में उसको ही जिताऊँगी

फिर खाना खिलाकर, Night-Suit  "टॉम एंड जेर्री" वाला पहनाकर

एक नयी कहानी या कोई पुरानी ही सुनाकर gale लगाकर सुलाऊँगी 

मगर, सुबह उठते ही फ़ोन पर खबर मिली कि आज "मेड" नहीं आएगी. 

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.

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?