SPARK
March 2012
Word.World.Wisdom : an om
W ce
Fa ts d an s
m
r Fo
05 March 2012 Dear Reader, Women are of many kinds. In our society, we glorify them, worship them, and claim we love them beyond anything else in the world. We also rape them, kick them out of our homes, make them slave for us, and think we are doing them a big favour by marrying them into our house. We wax eloquent about their beautiful bodies, and yet, something makes us think it’s our own, we think we can dictate how, where and when it’s seen. We claim proudly that our women reach for the stars, turn the world over, and so on, but also feel threatened if she dares speak her mind or be independent. Women are of many kinds, indeed, for we have about a million ways to see them. Goddess/Whore. Strongwilled/weak-rabbit. Pillar of strength/biggest liability. For every time she cries watching a movie, she will beat a man for good at playing Call of Duty. For as much as she cribs about walking through dirty streets, she will change a child’s diaper without a wink. For as demure as she looks, she might surprise you by leading you to do what she wants in bed. As much as she swears about her in-laws, she will quietly help them when needed. Women are of many kinds, yes. Manipulative/pushover-able, fiercely independent/extremely dependent, kitten/tigress, rational/out-of-her-nuts. We put up with them, we don’t know why. Perhaps because life is impossible without her. Perhaps because no achievement is worthy without her to approve of it. Perhaps because without driving her crazy, there’d be nothing fun to do. Perhaps without her, there would be no way to prove ‘superiority.’ Women are of many kinds. And this month in Spark, we’ll present you some beautiful ones. Read on, celebrate what she is, in the Spark March 2012 issue 'Woman: Facets and Forms'.
SPARK—MARCH 2012 TEAM CONTRIBUTORS Amrita Sarkar Anupama Krishnakumar Gauri Trivedi Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty Latha Prem Sakhya Parth Pandya Shraddha Vinod Kutty Shreya Ramachandran Sreetama Ray Vani Viswanathan Vyoma Dhar Sharma
GUEST COLUMNS Aishwarya S Venkatesh Krishnamoorthy
WRITERS OF THE MONTH Aparna Vedapuri Singh Samhita Arni
Cheers!
CONCEPT, EDITING & DESIGN Cover page art : Goddess Durga with a third eye, symbolizing feminine intuitive powers, done in Charcoal by Sreetama Ray Editorial Note : Vani Viswanathan
Anupama Krishnakumar Vani Viswanathan
Inside the March 2012 Issue
Before They Make a Woman Out of You—Poetry by Vyoma Dhar Sharma
Giving Sita a Voice—An Interview with Samhita Arni
Covetous—Fiction by Gauri Trivedi
A Conversation—Poetry by Parth Pandya
A Change of City, A Change in Me—Guest Column by Aishwarya S
“Miss”—Fiction by Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty
Dear Diary—Art by Amrita Sarkar
Womanhood—Do I Qualify? —Special Column by Aparna Vedapuri Singh
Of Women—Fiction by Shreya Ramachandran
Today I Begin to Wonder—Poetry by Vyoma Dhar Sharma
The Lady Cobbler of Elamkulam—Non-fiction by Shraddha Vinod Kutty
Hope—Art by Sreetama Ray
Two Women And Then, Another Two! —Fiction by Anupama Krishnakumar
The Silent Heroines of the Indian Growth Story—Guest Column by Venkatesh Krishnamoorthy
A Mother’s Day—Poetry by Latha Prem Sakhya
No, I Said—Fiction by Vani Viswanathan
Woman : Facets and Forms Durga, the Warrior Goddess by Sreetama Ray
Before They Make a Woman Out of You
Poetry by Vyoma Dhar Sharma
Before They Make a Woman Out of You Learn to be a woman
Don’t be forced to give it all up
Before they make a woman out of you
To the boy who says "I love you so much".
Learn to choose your colours Else they'll paint you pink
Stop faking worry over bodily fat
And call the other half blue.
When your soul carries uglier loads Those dark circles should only worry you
Know that words can be out of meter
When they're souvenirs of violent episodes.
Not every poem has to rhyme Love mostly sings off-key
Your freedom and desires are yours to guard
Not every boy who calls you pretty
There's no shame in wanting more
Has to be worth your time.
Don’t be afraid to shout and scream, or punch The man-slut who calls you a whore.
Know that it’s alright to face failure Don’t let your demons stop you from trying
Emotional blackmail is no brother to affection
It’s ok to be low when you lose
Dare, Dream, Rebel, Hope and Pursue
And you're not weak if you are crying.
Ladies, please learn to be women Before they make a woman out of you.
Know that your lovers will never be perfect
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Boyfriends or husbands aren't earthly Gods Fall in love without losing yourself Fight for your rights by all odds.
Virginity is not a deposit of family honour It’s not to be sold to the highest bidder How is it your fault that your body bleeds? Shame is what you should reconsider.
Those are your breasts they're ogling at That’s your body they're trying to touch
Poetry by Vyoma Dhar Sharma
Giving Sita A Voice An Interview with Samhita Arni, Author By Anupama Krishnakumar
Writer of the Month
Samhita Arni is the author of "Sita's Ramayana", a graphic novel developed in collaboration with Patua Artist Moyna Chitrakar and published by Tara Books. The book has spent two weeks on the New York Times Bestseller List for Graphic Novels. When she was eight, Samhita started writing and illustrating her first book. "The Mahabharata - A Child's View", (Tara Books, 1996) that went on to be published in seven language editions, selling 50,000 copies worldwide, winning the Elsa Morante Literary Award, and receiving commendations from the German Academy for Youth Literature and Media and The Spanish Ministry of Culture. Samhita is currently working on her third book and her first novel, a speculative fiction, feminist thriller. To know more about her, visit http:// www.samarni.com
Giving Sita A Voice In an interview to Spark, Samhita Arni, Author, talks about her book, ‘Sita’s Ramayana’ and women in mythology, among other things. Anupama Krishnakumar listens in.
Congratulations on the success of 'Sita's Ramayana'. The text for Sita's Ramayana, I understand, was woven around Moyna Chitrakar's art work. How was the experience of doing this? Did the paintings offer you the chance to convey exactly what you had wanted to in your retelling of Ramayana from Sita's perspective? I know it's surprising – but I didn't meet Moyna until the launch. She did the illustrations and then I wrote the text around her images. The visual narrative – Moyna's images – is primary. So in the text, I've tried to remain true to the spirit of the images, and not impose my perspective if it doesn't complement Moyna's point of view as expressed in the artwork. The artwork came first, and then the text – so the textual narrative is woven around Moyna's images. At a few places I had to ask her to draw a couple of more images – for example, when retelling the story orally it's not difficult to switch viewpoints. But in this book, we felt it would be best to stay with Sita's point of view. SIta's Ramayana is a collaborative effort – I'd like to emphasize that – it's the product of many conversations and discussions between my editor, publisher, layout designer etc. Incidentally, regarding my perspective, I have a novel out through Zubaan later this year on Sita, it's a speculative-fiction-feminist thriller. A few chapters were excerpted in Caravan., I believe as a child too, you were fascinated about mythology. So has it been the case that you had wanted to understand (and perhaps retell) Ramayana from Sita's point of view from a young age? Or is it an interest that bloomed fairly recently? What kind of research went into writing the text? Did you particularly look into versions of the Ramayana told from a woman's viewpoint? What
were they and what are some of the most important aspects that such narratives explore? As a child, growing up, I never really engaged with Sita's character. She was a collection of virtues, the ideal woman, wife, submissive and demure. I wasn't really interested in her until I came back to India, after being abroad for a decade. When I returned, I found my life circumscribed in many ways – but also, there was at times, a thrilling sense of empowerment. It's hard to explain. But it struck me that you couldn't make any generalisations about India. Things here are complex and layered – I always thought that Sita was a demure, submissive figure – and I couldn't relate to her as a girl growing up, ambitious, determined to make the most of the opportunities that were offered to me, see as much and experience as much as I could. But when I came back, I discovered that there were women who sang songs about Sita, wrote about Sita in the kitchen, in her trial, on her wedding day –and in each of those things, the frustrations that Sita experienced, the circumscription, the lakshman rekha – these were symbolic, women spoke about their own imprisonment and issues through this. And there was a sense of empowerment. Sita became a more complex figure – the Ramayana became a more complex, layered and engaging epic for me. The epics and myths, particularly the Ramayana, have a constant history of reinterpretation and retelling, but that seems to have dwindled now – and I think it's important to retell the epics to keep them current, alive, for these stories to continue to resonate. The epics are fantastic for so many reasons. As a writer, I've learnt so much about literary craft (metaphors, metonyms, character arcs, etc.) just from reading the Valmiki Ramayana and the Kamba Ramyana. And these stories are part of our consciousness – they're transposed on our landscapes,
An Interview with Samhita Arni
Giving Sita A Voice we watch them on TV, in films, they're there in our puja rooms, in the paintings and carvings in temples – it's so influential. The Ramayana is not just an epic – it's a tradition that is self-reflective, one that spans many countries, many different forms, written, oral and visual, in many different languages. It's a tradition in conversation with itself. It's amazing and incredible when you think about it. And that's made me realise that the Ramayana is SUCH a powerful story, and speaks so strongly to so many.
What is it that intrigues you about Sita? There's more to her – there has to be, she endures so much in the epic. She has to be strong, she's put through so many trials – I've tried to suggest that strength in the narrative. Here, we have given her a voice – with her point of view, that hopefully makes a reader empathize, and engage more deeply with her circumstances – her captivity, her hopes, her fears, the tragedies that consistently happen to her (exile, capture, war, distrust, the agony pariksha, also she's abandoned when pregnant.) Hopefully that makes her a stronger character. At the moment of the agni pariksha – I've tried to imagine what Sita thought. She would have been furious, upset, confused (and that's there in Valmiki’s Ramyana) – I've emphasized that. She's suffered so much, so many have died, so many women have been widowed – and now Ram doubts her? I make her say – "War, in some ways is merciful to men. It makes them heroes if they are victors. If they are the vanquished – they do not live to see their homes taken, their wives widowed. But if you are a woman – you must live through defeat." She goes on to say, "I thought the end of the war had meant freedom for me." It doesn't – instead of love, justice and freedom, she meets with accusation, distrust and anger.
the forest, raises two children, and then encounters Ram. When that happens, instead of going back to Ayodhya, she beseeches her mother to take her. In my opinion – when Sita rejects Ram's offer to return to Ayodhya, if she proves her virtue again – it's a powerful moment, and powerful statement. She doesn't need to prove her virtue over and over again, she's already proved it once and be doubted – so what's the point? She rejects being a queen, of a people who rejected her, to a husband who abandoned her in a forest even though she was pregnant with his children. Through the ages, many have been uncomfortable with that ending – is it a tragedy? Why, when Ram comes back to her, does she choose not to return? How do you understand that point in the story? Over the years, this is the understanding I've come to - I don't think that moment – moving though it is – need to be seen as a tragedy, it affirms Sita. I've tried to communicate that in the book.
Looking at the end, Kamban's Ramayana, for example, ends with Sita and Ram returning to Ayodhya. Valmiki continues the story – Sita is abandoned in
An Interview with Samhita Arni
Giving Sita A Voice
What were the challenges in telling the story from Sita's point of view? How did you tackle them? It was challenging, particularly when you realise that during the battle in Lanka – which occupies such a prominent place in the narrative, Sita was imprisoned in Ashoka Vana and didn't see what was happening. The difficulty I faced was how to recount the war, and yet preserve Sita's perspective? Trijatha, who is Vibhishana's daughter, occupies a prominent place in Kamban's Ramayana, she's Sita's friend and confidante, despite being a rakshasi. So in Sita's Ramayana, her role is a little like Sanjaya in the Mahabharata, she describes the war to Sita. I thought that it would be good to develop her more in this version – because, like Tara (Vali and Sugriva’s wife) and Sita – she spells out, she herself lives with and witnesses the consequences of conflict. Obviously, a lot of this Ramayana is also influenced by the Patua oral tradition; the episode, with
Renuka Devi-Yellamma, for example, isn't something that's found in the 'classical' textual traditions. Of course, I also referred extensively to Valmiki's version. Taking it a little further, do you feel a retelling of Mahabharata from Draupadi's point of view presents a broader platform for exploring and expressing a feminist perspective? It could. It's heartening to see that the role and perception of women in our country have been changing for the better over the years. Yet, it goes without saying that we still have a long way to go. In such a context, it is important for a woman to make the beginning from herself: to first feel good about her own self. Do you feel that women can draw inspiration from Indian mythology in this regard? Any
An Interview with Samhita Arni
Giving Sita A Voice particular women from our mythology that you feel are truly inspiring?
I wrote that book first, before Sita's Ramayana. I had been researching the Ramayana for this other work, a speculative fiction novel. Over three years Yes, definitely. I suppose any woman can, but it de- back, it so happened that I ran into the publisher, pends on how she relates to the story. For reasons Gita Wolf, at the Jaipur Literature festival. We startI've outlined, I found Sita interesting and inspiring. I ed chatting and I told her about my Ramayana rethink there must be women who find Gandhari in search, and we starting talking about the various the Mahabharata courageous, who empathize with Ramayana traditions and versions. It turned out that the tough decisions and choices that Kunti faces, Gita was working with a Patua folk artist, Moyna, and find an echo of their own experiences of viowho had a very interesting take on the Ramayana: a lence and humiliation in Draupadi's story. narrative that prioritized Sita. Both Gita and I were very excited: and it seemed like a perfect fit, and I Your third book, also your first work of fiction, is I jumped at the chance to be involved. believe, inspired by Sita and the story of Ayodhya. Can you tell us more about it and what makes you go back to the Sita theme?
An Interview with Samhita Arni
Giving Sita A Voice Here’s more about my novel.
both the victors and the defeated from the Lankan War. Soon, her investigation attracts the notice of Sita (tentative title) is a 'speculative-fiction-feminist- the Washerman, the head of Ayodhya's powerful thriller' which explores the end of the Ramayana intelligence agency. She is forced to flee to Lanka and the consequences of the war in Lanka. In a and Mithila to elude the Washerman and find the world that resembles ours, Ram rules over 'Ayodhya one person who has the power to answer her quesShining'. But even in this prosperous, perfect king- tions, to tell it like it really was – Sita. dom, darkness still lurks. A journalist realises that there are always two sides to history, when she Looking ahead, will mythology and feminism be meets Kaikeyi, Ram's stepmother and former Queen frequent themes in your writing? What features in of Ayodhya. Kaikeyi voices the one question that your future writing plans? Ayodhyans are afraid to ask - Where is Sita, Ram's absent wife, whose abduction triggered the Lankan Not sure! But my next work will definitely have War? And so the journalist begins the quest for nothing to do with mythology, although it's too earAyodhya's missing Queen, to ask questions that re- ly to say what it will be about. veal the 'other' side of Ayodhya Shining, and meets
All Pictures including illustrations ©Tara Books. Reproduced with permission
An Interview with Samhita Arni
Covetous What happens when you become a part of a woman’s club that meets every fortnight to discuss ‘important’ issues? A new entrant to this club discovers quite a bit. Gauri Trivedi writes a story. Inspiration comes in various forms. To me it came one day in the form of a woman running towards a school bus in a crumpled night gown, disheveled hair and breathless words. I was the newest entrant to the CCC (Cultural Club with a Cause) which met every fortnight in one of the residences of Spring Belle apartment homes. A mere 30 minutes or so in the presence of its members convinced me that it was indeed nothing but a ladies “kitty” party with a complex appellation. And I say this not in a derogatory sense. On the seventh day of our arrival here in the apartment, we were awakened to the incessant ringing of the door bell at 9 a.m. on a Saturday morning. Two healthy looking ladies with radiant faces and a perfumed presence greeted us like long-lost relatives, giving out details of their apartments and phone numbers, their husbands’ professions and their children’s academic achievements; all in a matter of 10 minutes and at the front door. A minute of interlude followed as they caught their breath and recovered from the brief introduction, during which I turned around for a quick eye-to-eye signal with the better half to decide on the next course of action, only to discover that the object of my affection had retreated soundlessly into the bedroom. Whether to call them inside and expose my housekeeping skills
Fiction by Gauri Trivedi
Covetous (or rather the lack of them over the weekend) or gently dismiss them from the front door with the promise of a pending invitation was the problem at hand. Thankfully, I did not have to make a choice. Rima, the taller of the two, thrust her business card in my hand and invited me to her house the coming Tuesday for an upcoming meeting of the CCC. “It gets really lonely here if you are not a member,” the other lady remarked before waving goodbye - point taken! Sleepily I glanced at the card in my hand before going back to la-la land; “Imported Beautician” it said. Now wait, was that even a profession? On second thoughts though, it explained the radiance and the fragrance. So there I was on a Tuesday afternoon at Rima’s place; being welcomed with delicate questions and investigative eyes by a group of well-dressed ladies. In fact, if you asked me, they were too well-dressed for the occasion. More than an hour had passed and I had yet to discover the noble cause of this particular cultural club. This meeting clearly had no agenda other than the display of ownership over fine cutlery and critical acclamation of each other’s designer wear.
earned money on good-for-nothing beauty treatments just to look young,” the host initiated. Earlier, when I had arrived, Rima took me on a tour of her house. We stopped some extra minutes in one particular room which had been turned into her beauty parlour. “I use only imported products,” she said, pointing towards a range of cosmetics lined up against the wall and so whatever doubts I had in my mind about she being the “imported” one were put to rest. The business card was just a classic example of the wrong prefix at the right place! Obviously our Sweety here was not one of Rima’s clients, I chuckled within. “And did you notice how she goes to the gym every single day wearing shorts and a sleeveless t-shirt? Not an inkling of shame,” Natasha chipped in.
“Just the other day we met her at the market and when my husband remarked ‘Bhabhiji, nobody can say you are a mother of two grown-up children’, she was blushing all over like a teenager,” she continued . Hmm, and what did you have to say to your husband about paying that compliment, I wanted to ask Natasha but decided against it; the conversation was getting bitchy and interesting. “But how does Now and then a name ‘Sweety” revolved around the she manage to keep her tummy so flat and toned?” group in hushed tones. After a little probing and in- someone whose name I didn’t know yet, asked matter- of–fact-ly. tent hearing, I gathered Sweety was a member of the club still to arrive (she always runs late, probably The other ladies gave her a scornful look, enough to putting on her layers of makeup!) and looked upon shut her up from asking any further questions, the by the other ladies as some kind of a fake, supercili- answers to which may highlight Sweety’s virtues. ous woman. As for me, I was still having trouble “She wears those tummy tuckers and always posigetting past the name; it sounded like a nickname tions herself such that her paunch remains hidden,” that got stuck on you forever. Sheila (the one who had accompanied Rima at my door) revealed as if she had unrestrained access to “She spends thousands of her husband’s hard Sweety’s wardrobe and bedroom.
Fiction by Gauri Trivedi
Covetous A swift scrutiny around the room confirmed my suspicion. For each one of the present occupants, belly fat was a problem area. No wonder they found it exceedingly difficult to accept another woman’s good fortune! I wondered if they were next going to accuse Sweety of not breathing to appear attractive! They went on and on about other things, now and then returning to their favourite topic. And the more I heard, the more eagerly I waited for our infamous member to show up. Based on her attributes as characterised by the group making generous assumptions, if I had to say a few lines about Sweety before even meeting her, I would have said:”Sweety is always dressed up to attract attention SO she must be spending all her time in front of the mirror THEREBY not having any time to take care of her home and kids MAKING her a careless homemaker and an imperfect mother”. They all dressed up words to hide their innermost sentiments, but this is exactly how they felt.
over the new shade of her lipstick (It’s called fuchsia, she pouted). She charmed her way into the group as effortlessly as one puts on a bracelet. “Hi, you must be our newest neighbour,” she said making her way towards me, “I am Sweety,” she introduced herself. “I know,” I smiled. Later in the day, I returned with a stomach full of delicacies and stories to tell. At the next get together of the club, someone mentioned that Sweety’s daughter had been admitted to the hospital with a severe case of pneumonia. Apparently a neighbour who had visited, came back with the news that even with a sick child in the hospital, Sweety had managed to paint her nails and comb her hair to perfection. Talk like that made me sick to my stomach. I saved Sweety’s phone number and made a mental note to call her after a couple of days. It didn’t happen so soon and by the time I realised my oversight, it was too late to call.
Ten days later I was walking towards home after the usual morning walk, when the school bus came to a halt near the gate. I waited by the side for the crowd of kids to get in and suddenly out of nowhere came a figure, running right in front of the bus, waving wildly. The bus was about to leave and sensing that, the figure leaped When Sweety finally did turn into the bus and spoke in hurup one-and-a-half-hour late, ried words to the driver. From the ladies did a complete turn around and I could the distance that I stood at, the figure appeared to see why. She inched herself out of thin high pencil be that of a woman not very aptly dressed to step heels and cooed “hi girls” in a sexy voice. The “girls” out of the house. Her nightgown was crumpled and in their late thirties felt younger by the mere adshe looked like someone who had jumped right out dress of it. Impeccably dressed in a low cut kurti of bed and onto the road. Her hair was roughly tied over skin tight jeans, she had the club going gaga in a knot but probably without using a comb which Being a good mother and an efficient homemaker epitomized success for them and they wanted Sweety to fail in what they regarded as the two most pivotal roles of life because she bothered to maintain her figure and look appealing even after giving birth to and raising two children.
Fiction by Gauri Trivedi
Covetous only highlighted the unkempt look. She had a bottle of what looked like medicine in one hand and a spoon in another. At her request, the driver called out for someone seated somewhere behind and a slim teenager slid near the front row in slow steps. This woman shook the bottle hard, poured a tablespoon of liquid and made the teenager gulp the whole of it and even rubbed the extra off the recipient’s mouth with the sleeve of her nightgown. Looking at the whole scenario, I put two and two together and summed that a child had forgotten to take her dose of medicine for the day and it was important enough for her mother to rush out towards the bus in an unflattering state to ensure it wasn’t missed.
As the woman stepped out of the bus nearly missing the last step, I was surprised to see someone I would have never expected to see in a shapeless nightgown and sans makeup. It must have always been there, this facet of her, I admitted feeling embarrassed for being a mute part of the underlying accusations hurled behind her back. It was the jealousy of not being like her that kept everybody from acknowledging it. She was breathless and suddenly aware of many familiar faces staring at her. No high heels marked her exit as she walked back bare-footed. To me though, she never looked more beautiful.
Fiction by Gauri Trivedi
A Conversation
Awash in color, The paintings stared back at her. An atavistic past Talking to an apprentice future.
“In that little basket, Float away the sins of naiveté. Kunti stands ashore, Having exchanged Guilt for a son”.
The 21st century woman moves From one canvas to another; Her eyes registering The journey of a mother Through her many travails.
“Staring at the descending sun, With a man full of hurt by her side, Kunti stands ashore, Having exchanged Victory for a son”.
The sisters speak across Barriers of canvas and ages, A wry smile voicing words that Pic by Charanya S Kumar
Neither has to utter.
With destinies written and burdens borne, With lives raised and lives razed, By women with pain and empathy, Why are the Gods
Poetry by Parth Pandya
Of creation and destruction all men?
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Guest Column by
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Aishwarya S
Hollaback! - Fighting Street Sexual Harassment
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Hollaback! is an international initiative that aims to spread awareness about street sexual harassment. It is currently active in 16 countries around the world. In India, Hollaback! operates in Delhi, Mumbai, Chandigarh, and the Chennai chapter was launched in December last year. Aishwarya S, a project associate with Hollaback! Chennai talks about street sexual harassment and what she has learnt and done as part of Hollaback! Chennai.
The first time she faced such an incident was when she was in 6th standard. She was cycling down the road when some guy on his cycle slapped her chest and rode past her. A few years later, an autorickshaw driver who had parked his vehicle right in front of her school flashed himself to her. By the time she could bring an adult to confront him, he had vanished. When she was in class ten, she was travelling with her friends by bus when they were flashed at, once again. Terrified and shaken, they told another woman on the bus about him. The woman stabbed the guy with a pen right where it hurts. He was kicked out of the bus. But everyone in the bus turned to the girl and said to her, “Ivlovum thimiru irukka koodadhu ma unakku.” (You shouldn’t be so arrogant). So you see how the general public reacts to such incidents? All these events scarred and shook my friend. After the first incident, she was scared to even step out of the house and in fact shut herself up. She says that if she had gone to her parents about it, they would have told her that she was inviting attention and that she should cover herself up.
In the last few years, she has started taking a stand against invasion of her private space. Once while she was walking on the road, a guy passed an extremely lewd remark at her. Instead of ignoring him and walking on, she turned back and retorted verbally. Maybe she should have slapped him too but at least she didn’t ignore what he said. Another time when she was on a train with friends, a passenger kept staring and winking at a friend of hers. She called a couple of people from the compartment for support and beat up the guy. The same friend went to Mumbai last year for a three-month training programme. She found Mumbai to be much safer than the city she grew up in. Here in Chennai, she thinks twice before wearing something ‘different’ so that she doesn’t attract attention. In Mumbai, she wore whatever she wanted and felt comfortable. I have known her for almost 15 years now and this was the first time we talked about this issue. And personally, having moved to Chennai only seven months ago, I have felt violated more often on the streets here than in the seven years I lived in Mumbai. I hate to make comparisons, but as much as I love this city, these experiences have made me slightly bitter. This is another reason for me to be a part of Hollaback! Chennai. Hollaback! is an international initiative that aims to spread awareness about street sexual harassment. It is currently active in 16 countries around the world. In India, Hollaback! operates in Delhi, Mumbai, Chandigarh, and the Chennai chapter was launched
A Change of City, a Change in Me
Guest Column by Aishwarya S
A few days ago, I explained to one of my closest childhood friends what exactly the Hollaback movement is all about. She seemed very confused in the beginning. But she slowly began to understand, listened patiently for a while and started telling me about the umpteen times she has been the target of harassment on the streets of Chennai. My friend has lived in this city all her life and she loves it as much as she hates it.
Ever since the website went online, more and more women have been writing to us describing their experiences. We’ve also had men writing in with their observations. We had one post recently where the writer tells us about a bunch of men he knew who treated the activity of sexually harassing women in public places as a fun thing to do and boasted about it to everyone. There are also stories that tell us about the helplessness women felt and couldn’t do anything about. On the other hand, we have inspiring stories where they have taken action. They have slapped the man, or dragged him to the police station, or retorted one way or the other. I think these are stories that inspire all other women to not remain silent. Hollaback! Chennai is not only an effective platform for everyone to vent and recount past experiences, but also a place where we try to arrive at solutions and help each other. Men play an important role in the process. I believe that many of them have been more sensitized to this issue after reading the posts on our website. It is very difficult to make a difference without having men on board and spreading the message. It is also important that both men and women stand up for their female friends or any
woman who has faced sexual harassment. What saddens me is that a large percentage of women continue to place the blame on the victim for not “dressing properly” and hence inviting trouble. They even go to the extent of considering street harassment normal. We have a turned a blind eye for long enough. Although I knew that street harassment was a major problem, I realised the seriousness of it only after joining the Hollaback! initiative and reading the terrifying recollections and incidents on our site that have been pouring in. I never bothered to ask my friends about their experiences earlier. It never struck me. But lately, I’ve begun to talk about it. I realised how much the whole issue had been hushed up. Most women are embarrassed to even open up. But when they do, they recall everything in excruciating detail—when, where, what, just like my friend did. These events continue to haunt them, even after years.. I, for one, regret all the instances I didn’t fight back and just walked away in fear. But today, I fight it. The fantastic accounts of women when they fought back, those are what inspire me to muster up courage and retaliate. I am prepared to go to any length to protect myself and not let the offender walk away, lest he tries the same with another girl. This is what I’ve learnt from Hollaback! Chennai. At the risk of sounding too idealistic, I hope Hollaback! Chennai is soon able to reach out to the society at large, not just the population that has access to internet. We have been working towards this purpose and look forward to executing our ideas. At Hollaback! Chennai, we are striving to remove the general perception that we should just accept things as they are as far as street sexual harassment goes, and move on. We instead ask women not to take anything lying down. We tell them to take control. After all, every woman deserves nothing less than to feel safe and secure in her own city.
Hollaback! Website: http:// chennai.ihollaback.org/
A Change of City, a Change in Me
Guest Column by Aishwarya S
in December last year. When I was invited to join the project, I wasn’t sure what I was getting into. Now I am glad I didn’t let go of this opportunity. Over the last few months, our team, headed by Chennai-based non-profit organisation, Prajnya, has visited colleges in the city and conducted interactive workshops on this issue. Each workshop started off with first making the girls define “Street sexual harassment.” Our team then delved deeper into the problem and made a list of everything that should be considered harassment. The students were urged to shed their inhibitions and share their experiences. Numerous girls came forward and released bottled up frustration and emotions. Finally the focus was on how to confront it and deal with the situation how to speak to the harasser, approaching the police, etc. The workshop at at one of the colleges proved so successful that Hollaback! Chennai was invited back to conduct a new series of workshops on workplace sexual harassment for final year students. The overall response to the workshops and our website has been tremendous.
“Miss”
Fiction by Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty Anurag is deeply worried and is struggling to figure out what’s actually gone wrong with his life all of a sudden. Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty writes a gripping short story.
“Miss” “My chest feels so heavy. I feel as if something is pressing against it with a blunt load. It is all because of her. Why did she do that? I really do not know. No, what is it that I did which made her do it? What is it that Vivek did that made her so happy? She even called me Anurag Dixit instead of just Anurag like she does on other days. I don’t understand.” These ponderings went on endlessly, even as the rest of his family went on cheerfully discussing something really funny which he felt too tired and too sad to pick up on.
So, when, about two months back, Miss Neeta praised him, Anurag, in front of all his friends, it was
So, what was the malaise afflicting Mr. Anurag Dixit, who, it would seem, had discovered the invisible key into Miss Neeta’s treasured good books? It was a month back. Anurag had been riding the triumphant wave of glory. Every word spoken by Miss Neeta resonated with him. For his part, he attuned every action of his own self, every word of every reply, every strategically interspersed smile to ensure that the preciously earned attention would be kept and maintained. But what knight is he who cannot sense the treading of his brethren? They who shared with him his daily routine, had fallen behind in the quest for the divine attention of Miss Neeta.
Fiction
“Anu, dear, anything wrong? Why don’t you eat? The food is getting cold! What’s again going through that big brain of yours?!” Mrs. Dixit cut into his thoughts. He felt very guilty. She was the only woman he had ever really known. As far back in his memory as when everything around him had started to settle into definite somethings. And, boy, did he love her! It was such a natural thing that it had never occurred to him in a conscious way. That is, until he had come to know her - the source of his ponderings, his sadness and his loss of appetite. He had first noticed her, last year, talking with some of his seniors and their families. Of course, back then, he was too busy with his friends, with the daily routine that had suddenly jolted his life from a peaceful, idyllic schedule into ritualistic runs - all nice, prim and proper, down to the curiously regimented lunch timings. This year, however, was different. He had moved up, along with his friends. The ritualistic runs, though still in force, did not seem so bad, after all. He had even got used to the strict lunch timings. And there was Miss Neeta. He liked her. Really, really liked her. Also, everyone else seemed to like her. All his friends. Getting her personal attention seemed something of a contest. Nobody talked about it. But they were all zealously participating.
definitely something. But, he soon realised that the contest was far from won. His friends were not going to give up so easily. Nor was he going to let go. He had tasted, before anyone else, that sweet taste of her approval. He wished he would do it again. He soon found out that he could. Even he did not know how exactly it was, but he had found a way to sense her pulse, her mood, and to read the silent expectations of that particular tilt of her head. He had to be on the watch always, of course, to favour the delicate balance of her precious approbation towards himself. This particular way of “earning”, although he never consciously thought of it that way, somebody’s attention, seemed to him eminently new and exciting. It was certainly different from the love and care he got and took for granted at home. And, probably it was because his own love, back home, was so “unrefreshingly” natural that for all the sensing of the pulses, the moods and the reading of the silent expectations he had recently learnt to wield so chivalrously for Miss Neeta, he simply had no inkling what to reply to Mrs. Dixit’s latest half-anxious queries. Thus, with the safe mumblings conferred by a grudgingly taken mouthful, he replied: “No, nothing.”
Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty
“Miss” But they too, it appeared to Anurag, seemed to have picked up a smattering of the unwritten, unspoken, yet sophisticated language in whose grammar he had so valiantly surged forward. It was in those circumstances that an epiphany struck him, just as he was about to start his lunch one day . He had noticed Miss Neeta meticulously working on an important looking register, her head tilted and resting between the index and thumb of her left hand. With a strange confidence that he had never felt at home, Anurag went up to her, and said: “Would you like to have a sandwich, Miss ... ?” “Oh, Anurag, thank you so much. Sure.” In that very moment, with the master-stroke he had just played, he knew he had not just upped the ante; he had sealed the message that even if they all vied for her attention, it was only he who cared for her. No one else did. Not like him.
Fiction
was it Vivek who was offering to share his lunch with Miss Neeta?! Even that was not the problem. The problem, the great tragedy was Miss Neeta had accepted his offer. Not just accepted – she seemed positively delighted while accepting the offer from Vivek. It was absolutely unacceptable to Anurag. More so, inexplicable! What had he done wrong? Where was all the ground-work on Vivek’s part that he himself had laid for weeks? Had he been too blind in his own triumph not to have noticed what they, his friends, were up to? Such profound deliberations went on for the rest of the day, bringing us to the point at the dinner table where Anurag, with that grudging mouthful, mumbled his way away from the truth. What was he to do, after all? Surely, there was no way he could tell Mrs. Dixit that he had been sharing his lunch with Miss Neeta every day. One full sandwich was the best he could get away The sandwiches, of course, had been prepared by Mrs. Dixit. Anurag knew the dangers of upsetting her with. if he told her about what he had done at lunch. But, The next day, Anurag felt that hurried tiresome rush he could not bring himself to keeping “the sandwich of the ritualistic run he had long forgotten. Yet, at episode” from her. Half-expecting a tirade that had the same time, he found himself hungrily looking often broken out at the dinner table for reasons far forward on a full stomach - again, courtesy, the less benign than one full sandwich, he gingerly told doting, natural, anxious care of Mrs. Dixit – to what her the truth. “Oh well, did she like it?” “I think so.” would unwrap during lunch time. He did not have to The danger so anti-climactically side-stepped, Anu- wait that long. Half-an-hour before lunch, he had to rag felt his taut, braced-for-a-tirade jaw, giving into hear from the very lips of Miss Neeta, words that he a victorious silent smile. never imagined would befall him; him – he who had sensed and learnt to attune himself to the most miThus, it came to pass with the implicit blessings of the lunch-creator herself that Anurag started shar- nute detail of her voice, her mood and her expectaing his lunch with Miss Neeta, every day. He did not tions, he who had so rapturously listened with devoted attention for the jubilant joy of those momenneed to look at his brethren to know their vantous moments when she would shower her undividquished quests; well, may be, except for a few furtive glances for a delicious dollop of silent gloating. ed attention solely upon him, elevating him, as he had felt, over his brethren, over all the Viveks, the This contest, after all, he had definitely won. Rajivs and the Nikhils. But those words spoken that Or so he thought. day were nothing short of outright disapproval! How had he let this come to pass? It was one thing for It was Vivek. He would not have been utterly crestfallen had it been Rajiv or even Nikhil. But, why her to cheerfully share Vivek’s lunch, even to call
Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty
“Miss” him Anurag Dixit, even not to positively shower approbations – but this? There was no way he would offer her his lunch half-an-hour later. He sat throughout lunch, seething with the rage of “uncried” screams. The best vent he found for that rage was to stab into the packed sandwiches (ah, sandwiches again!) mashing each bite even as his chest heaved and he fought back what he would never admit as tears. Strangely, all that concentrated stabbing and mashing (perhaps spiced with the heightened emotion, too!) brought out the taste of the sandwich like Anurag had never felt before. His attention went back to the creator of those sandwiches, the naturally caring Mrs. Dixit, she whose love he knew for granted was his. And, suddenly, he could not wait to get back to her. The rest of the daily routine that he had come to share with his friends went by in a daze of impatient waiting and a defiant disregard for every word and movement of Miss Neeta.
anything with Miss again. I hate her, Ma. I hate her. I will never give her anything from now on.” His mother realised that the world had finally caught up with that bundle of joy she had brought into the world seven years ago. She also knew better than to leave that at that.
Fiction
So, there it was – Mother and Son walking into Class KG-B, the battleground of the epic saga. Setting aside her grown-up bundle of “joy”, she said a few somethings to Miss Neeta. Anurag couldn’t understand that confusing mix of words, of course, but soon saw both the ladies coming towards him with strange smiles – the ways of the grown-ups, huh! He looked down – mind you, only looked down, not hung his head; after all, what had he to be ashamed of! – to avert his gaze from his class teacher. Miss Neeta came up and knelt in front of him, like his mother did every morning while tying his little necktie, and with all the personal attention he wouldn’t know what to do with until yesterday morning, said: He ran out, his eyes frantically searching for Mrs Dix- “Anurag, are you really angry with me? Come now! it. Finally! All will be well now. He lurched forward, You know, I like you very much. I like all of you. Esand wrapped his arms around her. Something inside pecially the ones, like you, who are attentive in class his chest broke free of tortured restraints, and with and who do their homework always. I am proud of you. I was not angry with you today. I just told you a voice broken with guilt, love and the pangs of a to look into the book we were reading in class. You thousand hitherto unfelt feelings, he mumbled had been looking at Vivek all throughout class, inthrough his streaming tears: “Ma, I am very, very stead of your books.” Those words sparked a guilt sorry.” that spread like wildfire inside his chest. Of course “What happened? Why are you crying like this? Are he had been looking at Vivek the entire morning to you hurt? Did you fall down from the swings again? see what special thing he would do to get their Let me see. Tell me. What’s wrong?” teacher’s attention. Suddenly, he realised that he And Anurag poured forth in a curious slush of tears, did not know very well, unlike other days, which snobs and sniffs – which only his mother could fully pages had been covered in class today. He sniffed decipher – the entire saga of the sandwich, explain- back, slightly ashamed this time. ing how he hadn’t told her about it because he Miss Neeta stood up. And, if only we could ask Anufeared she would be angry with him for not eating rag to brace himself, for magic was about to happen his full tiffin, finally ending with an angst-ridden full- – wrapped her arms around his shoulders and gave throated: “I promise I will never never ever share him a loving, caring hug. Taken aback for a
Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty
“Miss” few moments, he slowly let himself sink into the folds of her saree. Shame, pride, guilt and a newfound wisdom, of course, ensured that he did not hug her back like he had hugged his mother.
-------
“And, oh Anurag, I do remember you were the first one to share your lunch with me.”
Dedicated to all the lady teachers of junior school, who cared enough to love! And, in particular, to one “Miss” with whom, I promised Ma, I would never share my lunch again.
Whither tears! What pride! Let the world do the catching up later! For now, Anurag gave in, and hugged his dear “Miss”, even as his mother saw the joy return to her bundle.
Fiction Jeevanjyoti Chakraborty
Dear Diary...
Art by Amrita Sarkar
Dear Diary...
Art by Amrita Sarkar
Dear Diary...
Art by Amrita Sarkar
Womanhood—Do I Qualify?
Writer Of the Month
By Aparna Vedapuri Singh
Aparna Vedapuri Singh is the Founder and Editor of Women’s Web, a progressive online magazine for Indian women. Women’s Web offers women interesting and insightful reads on a wide range of topics including career growth, parenting, health, leisure activities and social issues.
Womanhood is becoming a collection of images that we must all aspire to, says Aparna Vedapuri Singh. Do body parts of women have to be judged?, she questions. Aparna, one of our Writers of the Month, discusses this very important dimension in a special column.
Writer of the Month
Womanhood—Do I Qualify? Some months ago, while I was out shoe shopping Gradually, womanhood is becoming a collection of with a friend, I happened to look at her feet and ex- images that we must all aspire to (and spend large claimed, “Oh, you have such pretty feet!” amounts of money on attaining). I understand that To which she replied, “I don’t have pretty feet! the word ‘feminine’ is loaded, but I would like it to refer to a set of qualities such as empathy, compasThey’re too wide.” sion, tenderness, insight, generosity and kindness At first, it struck me as bizarre that feet could be that were traditionally seen as the preserve of disqualified from the beauty stakes because they women. These qualities are now prized by a growing are too wide. I judged my friend for having bought number of men too. into the beauty myth. I do not want the feminine to become an exclusive Then, it struck me that I was no different. After all, club for those with age-defying skin, voluminous how had I arrived at the conclusion that her feet hair and manicured nails. I am woman. I do not were pretty? What standards had I measured them want to have to qualify. by? Let me see. She had no spots or marks on her feet. Her toenails were well-shaped and painted a pleasant colour. Overall, her feet looked delicate and ‘well-kept’ – in other words, the feet of a woman who does not have to trudge miles in the sun and can afford to have regular pedicures done. This is what I meant by pretty feet, but what had taught me that feet need to look this way in order to be called pretty? And, do feet even need to be judged – as pretty or not? For that matter, what about other body parts? Why must a woman’s skin not have any spots or signs of ageing? What will go wrong with the world if my waist is thicker at 35 than it was at 25? Who will faint or have a seizure if my legs show some hair?
Women’s Web website : http://www.womensweb.in
While this horrifies me, a part of me still wants to be a part of it. This is the part that has internalized these images and automatically judges feet as pretty or not.
Writer of the Month
By Aparna Vedapuri Singh
I realise I am using a whole lot of question marks, but the truth is that I have no clear answers. I find the constant barrage of perfect images the world throws at me horrifying – and this is no longer just a question of advertising images, which one could still ignore, because you know they are make-believe. No; perfect images have now insinuated themselves into much of the content we consume – such as cleverly put together advertorial copy (that is not disclosed as advertorial) or the photo-shopping of almost-perfect celebrity images to reach even higher zones of perfection.
Of Women
Fiction by Shreya Ramachandran
Of Women This is the story of three women, in which one of them learns to apply Maya Angelou’s words, “I’m a woman, phenomenally phenomenal woman, that’s me.” to the other two women she knows. Shreya Ramachandran says more in her work of fiction. “I’m a woman
Anita held the phone away from her ear and turned to look at Shareen with alive, glittering eyes. “Good morning didi,” she said, with an easy grin.
phenomenally Phenomenal woman
“Already on the phone? Accha, make me an omelette, without chillies. I’ll just be back.”
That’s me.” - Maya Angelou
Anita waggled her head in response and went back to laughing loudly, and the seeds were hissing; they seemed to laugh along.
Shareen woke up at seven in the morning that Wednesday. It was the middle of the week; nothing special about the noisy, big-nosed autos that mean- __ dered sleepily through the streets. After a quick shower, Shareen entered the kitchen Upstairs, her Goan Catholic neighbour, Mrs.D’Silva, with wet hair and freshly moisturised feet. was singing loudly. There was something so out of “Anita, where’s the omelette?” Shareen asked, tune about her melody. It was tragic, really, because to Mrs.D’Silva, the sound was probably beautiful. Or when she saw a clean and empty table. maybe there was no sound at all. If you sing the Anita stalled and again held the phone away from same song for 60 years, do you even notice the way her ear. “Didn’t make it, didi,” she said. it sounds? Or do you sing out of habit, because “Didn’t make it? Anita, I just told you to ,“ and with a that’s all you can do? pause, Shareen collected herself. “It’s okay... I’ll just Shareen slithered out of bed and plodded to the kitchen. Anita, her cook, an animated young woman from Orissa, was talking loudly on the phone and laughing. The oil in the vessel was spluttering and bubbling and smelling of heat. Anita threw mustard seeds into the vessel and ducked automatically to avoid the rogue drops of oil that hissed through the air. “Good morning, Anita,” Shareen mumbled.
make a sandwich.” Shareen opened the cupboard next to the fridge – it was empty except for a freshly accumulated layer of dust. “No bread? Anita, I told you at least three times. You went to the market in the evening!” Anita moved her arm in an “I don’t know why or how” gesture and said, “I forgot, didi.”
Anita didn’t hear her over the sound of the conversation she was engaged in. “Anita,” Shareen repeated, her voice subtly raised.
Fiction by Shreya Ramachandran
Of Women Shareen stared coldly at the cupboard and shut the door. Anita had made her pay for a cell phone, a SIM card and an unlimited monthly STD call plan, but the bread cupboard was empty. “Give me that cell phone,” Shareen muttered, and Anita handed her the phone, looking confused. The woman on the other end was still shrieking and giggling about a giant joke, and it was all a giant joke apparently. Shareen turned off the phone and said, “Now maybe you can work.”
What are you suggesting? I’m some kind of a…” “No no, of course you’re not, darling…” “Don’t call me darling. You’re such a hypocrite,” she said, almost whispering. “No one’s a hypo-” “The world is a carnival, is it? And you only leave when YOU’RE ready to? But I have to stay?” Tarun looked blank. “There’s no carniv-” “All these months. That’s been nothing?”
__
“Anju, there’s nothing like -” When she reached office, Shareen saw Tarun stacking old, worn brown files on top of each other. She “Shareen,” she said, and with a great effort, she walked up to him and tapped his shoulder. “Hi. Sorry looked away. “My name is Shareen.” ___ I’m late.” He turned around and shrugged almost imperceptibly, so that she was no longer touching him. “Shareen.” He stopped after saying her name. “Tarun,” she retorted. “Listen, uh…” She folded her arms.
At six o’clock that evening, Shareen calmly entered her house. She shut the door behind her and slipped onto the brown bean-bag by the window. With her chin resting on her fingers, she looked out of the window. Some people, doing some things, going somewhere. Stories that would never be told. A sound, soft at first, and then soaring, filled the room. Mrs.D’Silva was singing again. And then suddenly, Shareen was so incredibly sorry.
“I just can’t. It’s too…reckless.” She folded her arms tighter. “Reckless?”
She got up in a hurry and opened her handbag. She “If Anju knew…” He picked up a file and examined its fished out Anita’s cell phone and ran into the kitchlabel. en. Anita was cutting onions. Shareen was crying. “Anju doesn’t know,” Shareen said, sounding like a She handed the phone to Anita, and said, “Here. child. “We’ll make sure she doesn’t know.” Please. Talk.” “No, but it’s still…” Tarun placed the file carefully on Anita kept down the knife and wiped her hand on an the pile. “There’s something so wrong. I just don’t old, ratty towel. Then, with her large eyes, she said, know why I didn’t say something sooner.” “Sorry for the bread, didi.” Shareen gazed at him with a looming panic. “It was your idea.”
Shareen shook her head, and said, “Sorry for the phone.”
Tarun flinched and pushed the pile away. He rested his hand on the bare desk. “She’s my fiancée, Shareen, that means something.” “I know it does.
Fiction by Shreya Ramachandran
Of Women She left the kitchen and fell, exhausted, onto the bean bag. A few moments later, a polyphonic ringtone beeped in the kitchen, and then Anita was laughing and talking excessively loudly. Shareen smiled, but then she held her head in her hands and sobbed. She couldn’t stop the tears; she was so incredibly foolish to think that the world was filled with problems and importance and agenda.
blue batik-print nightie, and singing loudly and tunelessly. Before she could say anything, Shareen spoke. “Mrs.D’Silva, I love the way you sing. I just wanted to tell you that.”
Shareen ran out of her house and climbed up the narrow stairs, pushing and crying, and she rang Mrs.D’Silva’s doorbell. After five entire minutes, the sixty-year-old woman opened the door, wearing a
Fiction by Shreya Ramachandran
Today I Begin to Wonder...
Poetry by Vyoma Dhar Sharma
Today I Begin to Wonder... Today I begin to wonder
Why did I always appear withdrawn?
Whether you will ever wonder As I once had, and my mother before me
Did I stay up throughout the night
About what your mother was like
When relatives and friends came over to stay?
Before your mother she came to be.
And did we fight Yet appeared polite?
Your questions will often surprise me
Lest each other’s secrets we would betray.
And seldom will I tell the truth
Will I too
Just as my mother said, “Let me be!”
Fail to understand you?
“I’m oh so busy, can’t you see?”
Since many blame their mothers for this crime
As I asked her about her departed youth.
And will you, too, in years to come Question yourself in a riddled rhyme?
When you’ll see photos of me and a friend Will your mind wander beyond the frame? How were the times that we had spent, Before that friendship came to an end? I never did find out who was to blame.
As you will go through all my diaries There’s no doubt that you one day will Will you laugh at my ranting stories? My foolish self enquiries? And the dreams I could not fulfil?
Will you wish the room of my adolescent days Could tell you tales of the times long gone? Who did I criticise? Who did I praise? Was my first love just a passing phase?
Poetry by Vyoma Dhar Sharma
The Lady Cobbler of Elamkulam A tough life in a city not her own. A life where she doesn’t know how much money she will have by the end of the day. And yet, a ready smile on the face. Shraddha Vinod Kutty talks about a migrant lady cobbler she met in 2010, and her perseverance and fighting spirit despite staring down the face of poverty.
Non-fiction by Shraddha Vinod Kutty
The Lady Cobbler of Elamkulam Patriarchy may never be murdered in cold blood and poverty may never be served the death sentence. Though always stuck in this impasse, the human spirit shall never abscond.
Muniammal’s story can be built around one small plastic cover. A plastic cover she keeps close by always. To peek through the contents of this cover one only need ask her a simple question: Do you have children? She stops work, wipes her calloused hands on her sari and reaches for the cover. Photos of her children, for whom she came to the shores of Cochin with Nagarajan, are proudly displayed. The fact that they have now ostracized her from their lives only makes her eyes glisten with unshed tears; the smile and pride are intact. She is happy that they are safe and settled in Madurai, her home town. She is satisfied that over two decades of toil have not come undone. It will not matter to her that three years back the government passed the ‘Maintenance and Welfare of Parents and Senior Citizens Act.’ It will not matter to her that she has been denied what is due to her. It will not matter because, as Dostoevsky mused, ‘Man grows used to everything…’ Muniammal has grown used to the toil, the shunting and the stench of leather. After a point, you just stop fighting.
tenacity of her handiwork and gently places the sandal near my feet. I slip it on and ask her, ‘How much?’ She says, ‘Thirty’. I have a crisp hundred and a twenty eight. I couldn’t give the hundred – they hadn’t any change, as a client before me had just been informed –or the twenty eight. My eyes fall on a neat stack of shoes. I ask whether any of those shoes are for sale. No, they weren’t. People who rushed by in cars left them for repairs and never came back. The newest one has been there for six months now. Why did they work so hard on these shoes? Why do they guard them like their own? I have no answers to these questions, so I scramble for change. She asks me to give whatever I have. I give her the twenty-eight and she is visibly glad that her customer is left in debt.
As I bid goodbye, I realise that she is infact a revolutionary of sorts: An adept cobbler, a working woman, a mother, a true partner to her husband, and a migrant with a fighting spirit. Poverty may have ravaged her soul but she won’t stop working. Most importantly, she won’t forget to intersperse her But you never stop dreaming, weaving the story of a tears with a sparkling smile. better tomorrow. Muniammal’s hopes lie in two But as I walk away, a small voice also tells me – hutattered pieces of paper (also enclosed in the cover) mankind may grow used to everything, but not the – photocopies of their election identity cards. And embarrassment of inequality. her hopes, she believes, will be realised by an aging
Non-fiction by Shraddha Vinod Kutty
politician who looks at the world through dark glasses. His photo is bound securely to the identity cards. She bows before it and says, Ivar than en thalaivar (He alone is my leader). She can’t wait for the elecMeet Muniammal (45) – the lady cobbler of Elamku- tions to rush to Madurai and cast her vote; where lam, a minuscule ward in Ernakulam district, Kerala. else would you get a kilo of rice for one rupee? Her black hair tightly spun into a bun, a dirty yellow It is a different thing that she may never save up shirt smartly buttoned up over a fading sari, she sits enough for that journey. A loan taken to buy the imon the footpath near the bus stand, deftly mending plements they use; a monthly rent of Rs.900 for a shoes, bags and umbrellas. A set of stiff pliers, a roll shanty in the city; a bare minimum income of Rs.50of strong black thread, a blunt needle, a bottle of 100 a day (or maybe Rs150 on a rainy day) divided wax and a smile; these form Muniammal’s bailiwick. between two people. The arithmetic of her life will Hammering recalcitrant leather on the metal last never make sense. But she still smiles as she talks to and mending thick gents shoes are inevitably her me – a mischievous smile, in fond reminiscence of husband Nagarajan’s job. She calls him ‘her protec- times far gone: when she bunked school to play tor and guru’. Ivar than en kaduvul, en guru, she with her friends. She will also smile a smile that says pointing at him. He smiles shyly and continues gently muffles the sorrow of not passing her first his work. Around one o’clock he stretches and pro- standard exams. And in jest she will say, ‘Even in ceeds to the main road seeking some food and a that he (Nagarajan) is two classes ahead of me – quick puff of tobacco. She continues working for her he’s third fail!’ last customer –yours truly. She ties a firm knot after the last stitch, tests the
Hope
And we dream that the sisters will grow up into a world we dream that women should live in...
Art by Sreetama Ray
Sreetama Ray
Two Women, And Then Another Two!
Fiction by Anupama Krishnakumar Savithri moves into a new apartment and soon, her neighbours, Mrs. Bose and Mrs. Iyer have lot to talk about. How do women perceive women? Do they really understand that the needs and ideas of one woman could be different from another? – Anupama Krishnakumar explores this perspective through a short story.
Two Women, And Then Another Two! When Savithri had first moved into the apartment, where she was living now, Mrs.Bose, who lived in the opposite flat, had scanned her, much to Savithri’s irritation, from top to bottom. She had barged into the house, bursting with nasty curiosity, the very day Savithri had moved in, and asked all about her. Introducing herself as Mrs. Bose, the lady had pointed to the opposite flat and said she lived there with her family. Savithri guessed Mrs.Bose would be perhaps in her late-40s – a typical homemaker, with cooking, tear-jerker soaps and family being the only three items to be ticked off with a sigh of complete satisfaction in her daily existence. Attend to these and your day’s karma is done.
mortal to mere ashes, well, in poetic terms. And what’s more – they had talked in such hushed tones. The gossip mills had already started working. Savithri of course hadn’t cared a damn and still didn’t. A week later, Savithri had found out that two of the eight flats were locked for whatever reasons, two more housed two young couples who lived in their own worlds and in the last one lived a certain Ms. Ruby D’Souza and her unmarried son – the only friendly souls that Savithri had seen in the entire building – so far. ***
Savithri had first run into Reema at a common friend’s book launch. They had this typical book lov‘Not married?’ Mrs. Bose had posed the obvious ers’ common talk and had exchanged numbers and question. The 35-year-old Savithri had worn a forced their respective blog URLs. And thus began a journey smile on her radiant face that moment and menof an intellectually driven friendship. Reema realised tioned – ‘Divorced’. Mrs. Bose had grown pale and that Savithri was captivating in a beautiful sense – even shivered visibly as if she was having an attack. hers was a story of independence – she had shown But what amused Savithri even more, in retrospect, the world that she could do very well without a man was that the lady’s curiosity had not subsided yet – in her life. Savithri had lived thus for ten years alshe had indeed deftly warded off any further signs of ready. At 35, Reema believed, Savithri had all the panic attack and effortlessly dropped the next ques- maturity to take on the world that one could not find tion like jamuns into sugar syrup – ‘Children?’ even in a 60-year-old. The icing on the cake was that ‘None.’ Mrs. Bose had rolled her eyes and left, and both she and Savithri shared so much in common – like Savithri thought, with the response weighing charming personalities for one, and well, books, heavily on her chest –rock heavy. The word ‘Sinner’ writing, music, wine and that unique taste for a had boomed and echoed through the insides of the prized independence – the drive to chart their own not-so-friendly neighbour, who hadn’t even offered inspiring journeys, too featuring in that list of comanything by way of courtesy. mons. The apartment which was part of a society that had Reema, 28 and single, after completing her posteight such flats had yet another interesting occudoctoral research in domestic violence, worked with pant. The day following her brief interaction with an NGO that focused on women empowerment. Mrs. Bose, Savithri was climbing the stairs after Over her interactions with Reema, Savithri realised getting back from work. Mrs. Iyer (and Savithri figwith wide-eyed wonder that she was almost looking ured out her name thanks to the name plate), who at her younger self when speaking to Reema. While lived downstairs, and another woman, had given her Savithri’s role as a copywriter with an ad agency menacingly piercing looks, enough to burn down a fetched her the money to meet her roti-makaan-
Fiction by Anupama Krishnakumar
Two Women, And Then Another Two! -kapda motives of life, it hardly had anything to appease her intellectual hunger, to live her feministic ideology. The answer to this intellectual question came in the form of her relationship with Reema. Over days, Savithri understood that she and Reema fitted like a perfect two piece puzzle. So, when Reema had mentioned that she was looking for accommodation, Savithri had jumped in with a suggestion, a subtle request – please move in. Savithri had spoken to her landlord, promised him higher rent and won the deal.
from those ‘awful ladies’ – she was trying her best to go the arranged marriage route for her son, find a bride who would be a dutiful wife, catering to the needs of her husband’s family and be someone who would duly stick to their family traditions preserved over time. Most importantly, she wanted a woman who would relieve her of her own duties and give her one or more chubby grandsons. But Mrs. Iyer panicked at the very sight and sound of the ‘ladies’ upstairs. When they walked down, she froze. When they laughed in their apartment boisterously, she When Reema had walked into Savithri’s housing soci- trembled. And soon, she began praying to God with a ety for the first time, she had worn a big white daisy, shameless request – do something and get them out right above her left ear, over finely straightened hair. of here. She was dressed in an ink The young Miss. Shwetha Bose blue sleeveless top and had too had received her dose of matched it up with a floral threatening advice from her wrap around. The street urmother. ‘Don’t even talk to chins round the corner didn’t them, they will mislead you’. miss her white stilettos and Honestly, Mrs. Bose needn’t her perfect figure. Neither have gone that far. The girl did Mrs.Bose and Mrs.Iyer. had grown up learning that They had stared open women were meant to be docmouthed at her and their ile and subdued and any mouths had grown even widbreach of conduct would land er so much so that their her in utter misery. So, she, by mouths would have ripped default, began in the ‘hate apart at the corners, when those women’ mode with her they saw her knocking at Safirst sighting of Savithri and vithri’s door. later, Reema. And whatever she dreamt of being and could“That slut,” Mrs. Bose had n’t be, translated to verbal aswhispered loudly, referring to the new visitor, “I am not surprised, she is Savithri’s saults on the women among her own friends. One night, the young Miss. Shwetha Bose had run to her guest.” room, shut the door, turned off the light, and in the A few days later, when Mrs. Iyer, the faithful friend of cool darkness of the night, muttered with slight hesiMrs. Bose, realised that Reema was not a visitor but tation – BITCH …and had covered her mouth, shaking was moving over to share the apartment with Sawith guilt, lest the word would escape her mouth, vithri, she had bawled loudly. Mrs. Iyer now constant- penetrate the wooden door and travel out, tarnishing ly wondered how she would protect her only son
Fiction by Anupama Krishnakumar
Two Women, And Then Another Two! her good girl image….she hated her mother, the victim of the swearing, for not letting her be. Just like them. *** On a warm Friday evening, back home after a not-soeventful day at work, Savithri sat on the plush leather sofa with her long skirt tucked neatly under her legs. Resting her chin on her knees, she lazily browsed channels on the television, waiting for Reema. Suddenly, Savithri’s gaze fell on her black personal diary thrown carelessly on the sofa. Looking at the calendar, Savithri realised that it was four months already since she had moved into the flat. And three months since she had met Reema. About a fortnight since Reema had moved into her apartment. As she sat musing, she heard the sound of Reema’s car reverse alarm. Savithri went into the kitchen to quickly make some tea for the two of them.
of pride and fear blossoming on her tired face – pride for the fact that she thought she guessed it, fear for the fact that she was letting a sinful thought cross her mind. “Yes, I think so…” Mrs. Bose answered matter-offactly, “Otherwise, why would that Savithri pinch that whore of her friend in her waist near the gate, and that too in front of the security guard? Surely, there could be a better way to laugh at a joke?” “You never told me about this…” Mrs. Iyer began on a complaining tone. “Ah, come on, I just forgot...” Mrs. Bose said, sounding a little irritated. “My husband saw it too from the balcony.” she continued, as if it was a very valuable piece of information.
“You must speak to the other residents...and their landlord…Think of your children!” suggested the third woman nonchalantly as if it was such an important Reema chirpily climbed up the stairs, whistling a tune business of hers to share a suggestion. and twirling the key in one of her fingers. As she headed to her flat, she saw Mrs. Bose, Mrs. Iyer and “We should speak to our husbands,” the other two ladies chorused. They made up their minds. another new woman outside Mrs. Bose’s door. And then, the twirling key set off its pivot – her finger, and Inside, Savithri raised her porcelain tea cup in a toast. flying high, landed a foot away from the women. Clank, Reema joined in. ‘Cheers!’ they sang – and When Reema bent down to pick the keys, she relaughed loudly, well aware that Mrs. Bose and Mrs. vealed ample cleavage, a colourful tatoo and a signifi- Iyer would be tearing their hair apart, wondering cant portion of her breasts. The three ladies gasped what their ‘weird’ neighbours were now up to. in horror and their lips quivered. Their faces turned pale. When Reema walked away and shut the door behind her, Mrs. Iyer began in a low tone. “Shameless. I can’t stand these two.” “You know..,” Mrs. Bose spoke slowly, “I have heard some weird sounds and laughter coming out from their flat…”. Mrs. Iyer and the new woman gasped. “Do you mean…?” Mrs. Iyer spoke knowingly, a mix
Fiction by Anupama Krishnakumar
The Silent Heroines of the Indian Growth Story Guest Column by Venkatesh Krishnamoorthy Venkatesh Krishnamoorthy, co-founder of a funding organisation, Social Investment Foundation of India, talks about the importance of reaching out to women to put India on a definite track to development. The Indian growth story is a phrase that is quite often used in the media. Stories of Engineering and MBA graduates powering growth-rates through large corporate houses always seem to find their way in to our ears. Along with China, India is said to be the future of a world which is increasingly beginning to look eastward.
the top with the likes of Finland and Singapore. In healthcare, Dr.Manmohan Singh was ‘ashamed’ to see that 42% of Indian infants were malnourished. We are looking at healthcare and education, the foundations of any society, and they are in complete shambles. It is not just audacious to compare ourselves with China, it is stupid.
But behind the hype, India is still largely a developing nation. A survey on education-levels of 15– year-olds was Kyrgyzstan’s only claim to fame as the country ranked below us. Shanghai, which participated in the survey for China, was right at
When Mohammad Yunus started the Grameen Bank in Bangladesh, he targeted women to take loans that he offered. Why did he do that? Because he believed women are more committed and trustworthy.
The Silent Heroines of the Indian Growth Story More significantly, they can plan their own fertility and subsequently make choices in household savings. These are instrumental choices which shape developing nations. We started the Social Investment Foundation of India (SIFI) on similar principles and invested in healthcare and education, both of which have a large workforce of women as nurses and teachers spread across our country.
wanted to live in. SIFI is supporting a group of 10 children with learning disabilities in the Tamil town of Madurai.We are working alongside the teachers in the school to help them learn. If not for the commitment of their regular teachers, for these 10 kids, education would be a dream deferred and ultimately a dream denied.
At SIFI, we always answer every question with ‘How much impact would it create?’ We have found that In our visits to the field, we come across countless nurses in Government Hospitals across Tamil Nadu. investing in programs that are centered on women, They patiently operate the manual pumps when the like teaching and healthcare, create more impact. We quite often hear them saying: “Though I didn’t get power goes off, shutting the ventilator-support down. We found babies, hardly a month old, separat- that opportunity, I want to make sure that the children belonging to the next generation go to a good ed from their mothers. Babies have an emotional bonding with their mothers, but these nurses fill that college.” This emotional-will to perform is powerful. void easily through their commitment. Most govern- Staying in remote villages or working long shifts in government hospitals, sometimes cannot be purely ment hospitals in our country are severely understaffed and under-equipped. We see that nurses are motivated by money. These committed women are no lesser than those in the army or the navy who extremely adept at handling these situations and dedicate their lives in service of our country. making that extra-effort to deliver the government’s promise to each tax-paying citizen, so that no one SIFI was formed by like-minded youngsters who had shall be turned away from healthcare for the lack of a passion to create social impact. Moving beyond money. Through our campaigns, we plan to better passion to make a change in society, we understand equip these hospitals through ventilators, syringe that doing ‘good’ needs to go hand-in-hand with bepumps and other such equipments which helps these ing efficient. Our vision is to create impact that is long-lasting and self-sustaining. To create such an nurses perform better. impact we needed to partner with those who are The teachers of our country are no far behind. Imageventually the ‘agents of change’. In all our interacine you live in a village, studying in Class IV. Your partions on the field for our healthcare and education ents are farmers who might have failed at Class VIII projects, we found that the people who shared our and then dropped out of school. Most of your neighcommitment most were mostly young girls who had bors are from a similar background. Who would you taken up teaching or nursing as a profession. When look up to for inspiration? The most educated person we ask them why they chose this profession, they whom you would meet is your teacher. These are look at us with bewilderment and if it was only the teachers in Government schools who have finished most natural thing they had to do with their lives. their Teacher Training course, which is their degree Tomorrow would be no different. They would wake in post-graduation. For a young girl, who wants to up and go about their job in their usual unassuming have a software job in the city, she would solely have way. At SIFI, we hope to provide these young womto depend on these teachers. For them, these teach- en the required means to do so. ers are a window to the world they have always
Guest Column by Venkatesh Krishnamoorthy
SIFI is a Non-Government Organization formed in 2011, which seeks to provide a strong and transparent medium to contribute to the society by investing in sustainable NGOs and social projects in the fields of healthcare and education. Currently, they are seeking funds to equip government hospitals with ventilators. For more information, visit http://www.sifindia.com/ Email : mailsifi@gmail.com
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A Mother’s Day The day dawns with a long list Of things to be done before the sun is up. The hustle and bustle of routine life Begun at four in the morning, Stretches long-reducing one to an automaton. Cooking, cleaning, packing lunch boxes, Finally off to work.
A frictionless day of labour Renders pleasure, but a sour day drains you. Reducing your job to drudgery.
Back home fatigued, the sight Of tired hungry mouths, back from school. Waiting patiently, for your arrival, Kindles fresh energy—for another round Of mechanical cooking, feeding Helping with homework, and putting them to sleep.
Finally the much awaited private minutes, Beside the loved one, sharing problems, and jokes. But often these too are marred by flaring disagreements, Quickly smothered by fatigue and sleep-a blessing.
Picture by Asha Sudhaker Shenoy
Poetry by Latha Prem Sakhya
Fiction by Vani Viswanathan
No, I said When I was 12, and I asked why my male cousin couldn’t help me set the table for dinner, the aunts laughed. ‘Feminist!’ they joked. No, I said, I just wonder why cooking and cleaning are woman’s jobs.
all. Because I don’t want roles to be stereotyped for women and men. Because I don’t think women should pay for an unknown man’s fault and my dressing is nobody’s business. Because I demand my government remembers our existence and isn’t paWhen I was 15, and wanted this gorgeous, flowertriarchal about ‘protecting’ us. Because I think chivprinted top that I had just spotted at the shop, mother said no, the neck is too deep and you can’t alry is overrated and basic respect is underrated. Because men and women across the world don’t go anywhere wearing this because you’ll be harassed. Isn’t that the harasser’s fault, and not mine, I consider women as rational and equal partners in a asked. Don’t pull this feminist card on me, said ma. relationship. Because I realised ‘feminist’ isn’t a bad No, I said, I just wonder why I should curb my free- word that I should shy away from, I’m simply asking for women and men to be equal. Yes, I said, prouddom because someone thinks it’s ok to abuse me. ly, I am a feminist. When I was 18, and had just moved to a hostel for college, I told my friends how it felt so good to be out in the streets at 2 in the morning, because the government had taken enough to treat its women as citizens too. You feminists, no… they started. No, I said, isn’t it unfair that my government treats me as a second class citizen? When I was 21 and protested that a friend offered to carry a bag of groceries that I could very well carry myself, wow, feminazi! he said. No, I said, don’t patronise me, I’m a perfectly able human being and will ask you if I need help. When I was 24 and told my parents that I broke up with my boyfriend because he told me once we get married I shouldn’t go out with friends for drinks, they said Kutty, we’re tired of your feminist tricks, it won’t work in real life. No, I said, how can I spend my life with someone who tells me what to do without treating me as a conscious individual who can think and reason? And suddenly, at 25, I realised I was a feminist after
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