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?

ZEITGEIST (Dark)

These are the times we are living in,
when the hours are measured
by the ticking of time-bombs
and our slumber broken with wounded cries.

The taste of blood is unknown to none
though we choose not to see tears.
Smiles are forced and no
sign of mirth appears however hard one tries.

No more do the streets assume
the bearing of the City's Bride;
Lost is the innocent twinkle
which ever brightened those tramps' eyes.

Dear Madame President

Should I severe the ties that are almost a decade strong?

Should I chew my words and call my decision wrong?

Should I return the trousseau that my mother chose?

Should I turn all the festivities into an affair morose?

Should I go and tell him that I love him no more,

Shattering him again and making his heart sore?

Whose fault is it, dear madame, that I decide thus?

Would you say that it’s personal and I should not fuss?

Nothing, my dear lady, is personal about a soldier’s life.

For when has he thought of his mom, dad, kid and wife?

He, whose only call is the call of honour, forgets what he was

And becomes what he’s forced to be- a number among the Olive Green mass.

He demands nothing and goes about in silence.

Drinking and smoking, when clouds of desolation grow dense.

His mother awaits him and calls up time and again,

He switches off the phone to avoid that voiced pain.

His friends ask him to come (along with two Black Labels)

And see their plush houses and read therein their success’ tales.

His wife will wait for months to get some surgery done

As, in that dilapidated SF, caring enough she finds none.

She would remember sadly her starry-eyed days

When what attracted her was his gallant ways.

Never did she realize, that foregoing her Doctorate in the UK

All she would get is this battered house, stale ration and his meager pay.

He was no less- in fact, better than some now white-collared ones.

Only, he thought romantically as one of Mother India’s sons,

And chose the call letter from IMA, among several others,

And avowed his commitment to his land and his brothers.

He did push ups, while his colleagues abroad partied

His cousins wore designer labels, while he a “combat” dirtied.

He is unlikely to accompany his wife to that family function

Where she goes alone and starts crying from the junction.

‘Coz how would she face her friends and cousins and siblings,

Who would judge her attire, and other material things?

She never was a hedonist, but now she feels the pain

And curses the day when he ceased to remain “sane”.

For what else is this, if not utter insanity?

That he sacrifices his dreams at the altar of others’ vanity.

He sleeps in trenches along with his boys,

And yet unable to buy his kids’ favourite toys.

His kids are born and brought up in his absence

And he kisses their wallet-ed photos in silence.

For the first time, he demanded a share of what he deserves:

An agonized plea to the heads of the land he serves.

The petition goes from table to table, round and round

And he stands still, awaiting good, as if spellbound.

Someone, then, accuses him of hedonism and greed

And lists what he gets, and how it surpasses his need.

He feels cheated and in humiliation decides to take the call

To hang his starred uniform, once and for all.

But will he be able to carry through this decision?

After all, it was he who chose a Permanent commission!

When he decided to join, he overcome all resistance,

But when he decides to quit, he stands a bleak chance.

Why should I, then, be a fool and marry another?

Who, like his band of brothers, will find me a bother!

Why should I let go of my dreams to fuel his self-destructive fire,

When the nation that he serves will find no time to light his pyre?

Why should I, along with him, bear the burden that others discard,

And sacrifice all I have to be called an “emotional retard”?

Why should I not confront him and say-

“I don’t want to marry you because you cant nay

What your seniors orders, even if lay here dying.

I don’t want to spend my life waiting for you crying.

I get hurt to see the attitude of the unsympathetic crowd

To ensure whose sleep, your commitment is clear and loud.

They begrudge you, your little pay hike,

This would enable you to buy your coveted bike.

Who weigh your life in an imbalanced scale,

And choose to ignore the path of hardships you trail.”

WAR: Politics of Representations

WAR has always elicited myriad responses from artists, writers and philosophers of all the ages. Let us begin ab ovo. Homer’s fame rests upon his accounts of the Trojan War and its aftermaths. Back home, Valmiki and Vyas have given us the Ramayana and the Mahabharata, wherein the heroism of the ‘heroes’ is based upon their righteousness and valour, as brought out in the battle scenes. Literateurs have always looked upon War as a potent motif. As Schopenhauer says, “Without death there can be no philosophizing”, the writers have found WAR to be a philosophical battleground.

When we talk of the matrimony of War and Literature, the questions of ‘representations’ spring up at once. How is the war to be represented? Whose reality is to be given precedence? What is the focal point of the writer who has seen the war from close quarters and how is it different from the accounts of the “outsiders”? When one aims at a literary representation of war, does s/he, in turn, get represented? How does a representation of war fashion the audience’s response to the parties involved? Who are these parties involved? Too many questions and all as sensitive as the subject itself.

The war in Homer’s The Iliad is said to be undertaken to avenge the dishonourable abduction of a king’s wife. “Honour” is the buzzword in The Iliad, as in all other epics. Is the Trojan War, then, to be naively seen as an attempt to redeem one’s honour and reputation? Of course not. The war between the Greek and the Trojans is just another squabble, though of gigantic stature, aiming at absolute ascendancy. The different narratives surrounding the war bring out its multifarious elements and each narrative has its own focus and inherent politics. The story of Achilles emphasizes upon the ethos of camaraderie, whereas the key element in Hector’s story is ‘duty’. Both Achilles and Hector are pitted against a situation over which they have no control. At this time of crisis, they must act and act ‘heroically.

In the Indian epics the situation is more colourful. The battle between the Pandavas and the Kauravas and that between Ram and Ravan are projected as the archetypal scuffle between Good and Evil, where Good will eventually vanquish Evil. Here, again, heroism of the heroes is brought ought amidst strategies, bloodshed, wiles and victories. In these essentially “masculine” narratives the thrust is upon mental, moral and physical superiority.

The representation of war in any narrative is based upon the writer’s degree of involvement in it. The extent to which a war fashions his/her consciousness affects the manner of its representation. For example, a north Indian priest is likely to see the battle between the forces of Ram and Ravan as a divinely ordained event, facilitating the attainment of “Moksha” by Ravan. A south Indian philosopher, on the other hand, might see it as the Aryan assault upon the sovereignty of a Dravidian kingdom. In our times, an Infantry officer, writing his diary in the trenches, is likely to portray a battle in a variety of colours, which might remain unseen in other accounts of the same event. The works of Sassoon, Whitman, Owen and Hemingway are marked for their distinct perceptions of war.

When it comes to “involvement” in war, one can not wish away the problematics brought in by the women. As Hector tells Andromache in The Iliad, it’s the men who “must see to the fighting”. However, women inevitably find themselves in the middle of this essentially “masculine” exercise, often as victims and sometimes as participants. The victors have a right to ‘ravish’ the conquered city and the womenfolk. One of the greatest incentives for the Greeks soldiers in The Iliad was the prospect of bedding fair Trojan maidens. Coming to the “face” of the Trojan War, Helen, or her counterpart in the Ramayana, Sita, it is clearly discerned that these women are used as pawns. They become a “reason” to give a free rein to terror and violence. Honour, after all, comes with a huge price tag! The representation of women, thus, in the ‘phallogocentric’ narratives is restricted to either as the anonymous victims or, at the best, the ‘known’ victims (Draupadi, Helen and Sita) who have to be avenged. Interestingly, this ‘known’ victim could also be Mother India (Bharat Mata) of the colonial times, appealing to her ‘sons’ to avenge the wounds suffered by her.

In some of the cases, war has introduced women to unprecedented, though short-lived, enhancements of power. The foremost example is that of Clytemnestra, wife of Agamemnon. The Queen of Argos is in absentia in The IliadOresteian trilogy. She ceases to be a victim and becomes the perpetrator of violence by vanquishing the victor, King Agamemnon. This representation involves another level of politics. The woman in question is often demonized and finds a “deserving” place in the annals of the “wicked women”. Another example is that of Aristophanes’ Lysistrata, where the women launch an alternative war against their warring menfolk. Here, interestingly, they use their sexuality as a tool to bring the men back to their senses. This Greek comedy attempts to render war as a futile and laughable exercise by positing the women’s rebellion against it. The ethos of masculinity implicated in the exercise of war is ruptured by the women, when they deny sex to their husbands and leave them feeling less-than-man. but Aeschylus shows her as a formidable ruler in his

The representation of the wars and people involved therein undergoes a transformation when a woman chooses to use war as the background to her story. Scarlet O’Hara in Margaret Mitchell’s “modern epic” is a victim- yes, but her character does not fit in the frame of the archetypal victim, who has no control over the situation she finds herself in. This “weaver of wiles” is someone who avows, caught in the middle of the Civil War, that she will never be hungry again! And this turns out to be true.

In the novels of Bapsi Sidhwa and Liana Badr, the war-torn times are revisited to present the counterhistories of the Partition of India and the Lebanese Civil War. Both the writers have linked the political violence to the intimate violence supporting the structures of patriarchal social space, which the protagonists inhabit. Here the war “outside” is represented as analogous to the one “within”.

The depiction of wars and soldiers in literature and popular culture has undergone a change with the passage of time and the advancement of civilization. I would like to refer to some interesting posters from World War I and World War II. One of the posters beckons the youngsters to enlist, saying “It’s our flag. Fight for it, work for it.” Another says, “It is Far Better to Face the Bullets Than to be Killed at Home by a Bomb”. In the Indian context, till sometime back, the recruitment posters used to bear the challenging question- “Do you have it in you?” Interestingly, in the recent times, the focus has shifted to garden parties, medical facilities, elite clubs and grand officers’ messes, as noticed in the television commercials. The image of a soldier is no more that of a chin-up, burly man. On the contrary, today’s soldier is just another youngster who has chosen “army” as a profession. He goes to a war because he is ordered to do so and, sometimes, realizes its banality.

There are ‘types’ of soldiers in literature and popular culture. In Laurence Sterne’s Tristram Shandy, Doctor Slop’s surprised statement “I thought you gentlemen in the Army never said your prayers” points towards one of these types- a fearless, godless, heartless and, perhaps, brainless creature. The next image is that of a strict disciplinarian who swears by his watch and rule-book, a Corporal Himmelstoss from All Quiet on the Western Front. The third type of soldier is one among the “lost generation”. He is the one who has been taught to disconnect his mind from his feelings, keeping his emotions at bay in order to preserve his sanity and survive. Another type is soldier- the tyrant, who represents the autocratic State and is an enemy of heterogeneity and individual will. The artists and writers pick and choose a “type”, which either fits in their scheme the best or with which they can associate themselves. Therefore, the accounts of war poets are found to be replete with the agonies of the “lost generation” whereas, Rushdie’s Shalimar the Clown burlesques the soldier in the figure of “Kachhwa Karnail”.

The narrative styles also have a bearing on the representations of war and soldiers. The poems and novels that portray wars heroically are often written in a romantic vein, full of metaphors and symbols. The language is bombastic and rhetoric serves as the key tool. On the other hand, most anti- war literature comprises of the soldiers’ first hand accounts in the form of diary entries, autobiographies and amateurish poetry. In such works, graphic realism is used to counter the heroic notions of war. The use of colloquial language and unconventional verse forms gives these accounts a rugged and earthly feel, which appeals to the sensibilities of the readers and makes the works appear more realistic.

Discussing about ‘wars’ and ‘representations’, one can not, possibly, ignore the effect of the former upon the latter. A war often changes the way one perceives the world around him/herself. It is interesting to note as to how a war scenario leads one to think in terms of “us” and them”. It is no mere co-incidence that anti-Semitism was at its peak during the Second World War. The Nazi propaganda propagated this “them” and “us” belief by terming the Jews as traitors. Similarly, in India during the Kargil conflict, the Muslims were seen as the traitors. In a recent Kannada film by Girish Kasaravalli, Gulabi Talkies, the bearing of the conflict upon the protagonist’s life is sensitively etched. The midwife Gulabi gets transformed into the “boobamma” (the Muslim woman) Gulab Nabi, once the conflict escalates.

The flip, and somewhat relieving, side of the picture is that sometimes it is against the backdrop of war that relationships and some rare bonds are forged and realized. I would like to refer to another film to validate my point. Nightbus by the Iranian director Kiumars Pourahmad is a convincing attempt to show that ‘humanity’ prevails against all odds. The idea emerges during a bus ride, which proves to be a journey of a lifetime for a group of Prisoners Of War (POWs) and the enemy soldiers and the bus-driver. The film ends with the realization of old ties and forging of new bonds. Such a representation of war, the sanity-amidst-chaos mode, is simply in sync with the reality which, though marginalized, does exist.

War remains a complex phenomenon, a centre-stage where almost all the philosophies and ideas get acted out. Wars affect the societies fundamentally and the aftermaths are not only 'historical' but are formative in great swathes of literary and visual cultures, both popular and elite. All forms of the representation of war involve selectivity, politics and power relations. War is represented in different and conflicting manners and each representation has its specific political, ideological and cultural logics.

An ode to Sam Manekshaw

Here I offer my tribute, blessings and prayers in the form of a self composed poem.
I prided, smiled and feared as I composed it.

May Lord bless our beloved Sam!

NOTE:
Sam, 91, is battling for his life in a hospital at Wellington.


On the first bough of IMA did he bloom,
Later to weave his name through history’s untiring loom.
A “Royal Scot” and the gem of “Frontier Force”,
Destiny pampered our Sam as Her favourite horse.
At Burma we almost lost him decades ago,
It did not please a bit his Benefactress though
And thus She ordained- “Let him live long
And spur the nations with his valour’s song”

Then he arose, with a halo newly gained
And fortunes of nations with élan he reigned.
For millions was he an angel of freedom
Moony Tyrants could never match his rhythm
And the History of a landmass had to alter
For how could Destiny let her darling falter!
The rulers hailed him and plebeians cheered
And there stood he who nothing had afeared.

To cite Padma Bhushan and Military Cross
Against this Destiny’s child is rather gross
For he rose above these honours mortal
And entered with pride the divine portal
Beyond which lies a life which ends never
And where for the likes of him are sung forever
The odes of Victory and joy and valour,
Immortalizing their endeavours stellar.

Today he lies still in the no-mans land
Where Life and Death on either sides stand.
May who claims him treats him befittingly
And let him see nothing but mirth and glee.
He has resided in our minds and hearts,
Lord, let not him endure Pain’s deadly darts.
If he has to depart, as per the pitiless divine law,
Let not his beautiful and mighty mind suffer any thaw


For here is our beloved-
Field Marshal Sam Manekshaw.

I bleed when...

I can bleed red when the shining blade descends
Penetrating my core of being,
Tearing more than this weary fleece.

Though, tis not the only time when I bleed.

I bleed when I march past a hamlet
And see them churls crooning with a lyre
Or see smoke spiraling from a homely fire.

I bleed when I see a virgin wife
Delicate as daisy and as lily pure
Bearing much more than she can endure-

To have her beloved across mountains and seas
If he be breathing, she couldn’t be sure,
And she jostles with all visions obscure.

I bleed when some hoary ailing elder
Breathes his last with eyes opened wide
As if beholding his lad sitting by his side.

I bleed when I remember Hector
Bidding farewell to his wife and babe
Going to meet his foe, he couldn’t escape.

I see the little boy with fear written all over his face
Not knowing Achilles yet, tis his father that he dreads.


So, I bleed red when the shining blade descends
Though, tis not the only time when I bleed.

Daily Musings

Such nice weather!

One feels like stretching out, screaming out, moving out and reaching out. Delhi looks straight out of the bath- still moist and fragrant. And I comfortably ignore the filth, open drains, rotting piles of garbage.