Spark—March 2013 | Woman: Facets and Forms
Vol 4 Issue 3| March 2013 05 March 2013
Contributors
As much of the world gets ready to celebrate International Women’s Day on 8 March, we at Spark thought it’s time again to pay tribute to the various spirits of womanhood through this issue, themed ‘Woman: Facets and Forms.’ Our poetry, fiction and art bring out various flavours of womanhood in an attempt to make you relate to episodes in your life, make you ponder, smile, or nod in agreement. The guest column and non-fiction are sure to make you think about the various ways in which we easily and unknowingly deny women a fair playing ground in the world. In addition, The Lounge gives you the usual fare on life, books and spirituality. We loved putting this issue together, and so we hope you enjoy reading it! We will meet you again in April, and till then, do send us your feedback on the issue!
Aman Chougle
-Editors
Vani Viswanathan
Gauri Trivedi Jessu John Loreto M Parth Pandya Satish Pendharkar Sreetama Ray Srividhya Radhakrishnan Suchitra Ramachandran
Viswanathan Subramanian Guest Column Shreya Sen Cover Page Art
Spark March 2013 © Spark 2013
© Sreetama Ray
Individual contributions © Author
Cover Page Design
CC licensed pictures attribution available at www.sparkthemagazine.com Anupama
Divya Natarajan
Vinita Agrawal
All rights of print edition reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Spark editorial team.
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Spark—March 2013 | Woman: Facets and Forms
Inside this Issue POETRY Puppet by Vinita Agrawal Venom by Loreto M To a Waitress by Satish Pendharkar Unicorns and Better Days by Jessu John FICTION Ipshita – the Desired One by Gauri Trivedi A Dream in Shackles by Parth Pandya Watching Men Pee by Vani Viswanathan Gender-Boxes of Vanity by Aman Chougle NON-FICTION Home Affairs by Suchitra Ramachandran For the Love of Cooking by Divya Natarajan Do All Women Want Motherhood? by Srividhya Radhakrishnan ART Shakti by Sreetama Ray GUEST COLUMN For a ‘Youth Icon’, by a Particularly Pissed Off Young Woman by Shreya Sen THE LOUNGE TURN OF THE PAGE | A Review of ‘Saved by the Light’ by Vinita Agrawal THE INNER JOURNEY | Right and Total Action by Viswanathan Subramanian SLICE OF LIFE| Life On Two Wheels by Anupama Krishnakumar
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Spark—March 2013 | Woman: Facets and Forms
Poetry
Puppet
by Vinita Agrawal This is the story of a puppet that was brought home by a family as a souvenir of a good holiday. But eventually, it turns out to be something more than a puppet for the narrator. Vinita Agrawal captures the feelings of a woman through poetry.
We bought it in the bazaars of Jaipur - a souvenir of a good holiday. Unwrapped, it ornamented the living room wall A painted face on a red skirt body Large kohl-lined eyes, long-limbed Moving only when bidden.
It saw but never spoke Never cried Always smiled, looked bridal And the children wanted to play with it.
It never gained weight Never wanted sex
Picture by kaniths 4
Spark—March 2013 | Woman: Facets and Forms
Not even after a rain storm And had the detachment That the Buddha would have envied.
It stayed like that for years Until one Diwali you thought it had Gathered too much dust And trashed it.
I admired it too much to let go And secretly fished it out of the dustbin Hid it in the cupboard It was everything that I could never be.
Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi-based writer and poet and has been published in international print and online journals.
Debating some common myths about womanhood.
Don’t miss our exclusive line-up of non-fiction that question the myths surrounding motherhood, cooking and being a housewife. All in this month’s issue.
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Spark—March 2013 | Woman: Facets and Forms
Fiction Ipshita—the Desired One by Gauri Trivedi Fourteen-year-old Ipshita has questions about her late arrival and her place in the family. Her mother, though not revealing the odds she faced for wanting to have a girl, tells Ipshita exactly how it all happened! The story is an attempt to highlight the fact that even in some well-educated, urban Indian families the girl child is not as welcome as a male child. Read on.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“No sweetie, that was just his initial reaction, he was kind of taken aback and in a shock. You “Positive” she beamed. have to understand, this came as a complete “Hundred percent”? He was still not convinced. surprise to him,” I was quick to jump in de“I mean it reads ‘positive’, even the second time fense. around”. She was now over the moon. “Are you trying to say YOU weren’t taken by surprise?” she asked, her eyes naughty and curious at the same time.
“Oh” that’s all he could say. ***
“Maybe not!” I decided to match her question with some mischief. “In any case, a mother always knows first; before she goes on to validate her instinct with the help of scientific proof and much before she shares the news with those around her.”
“And that is the exact conversation which took place between me and Daddy when we first came to know about you. I can never forget the look on his face even after so many years,” I smiled as I told her.
“So Daddy wasn’t really happy when he heard And it was true, his initial reaction may have about me,” she sulked. been that of disbelief, but in a few minutes the 6
Spark—March 2013 | Woman: Facets and Forms
‘Dad’ collected his thoughts and sat beside me.
little left out of their manly pursuits of sports and science. Though unprepared, I never regret*** ted having my boys and love them to death, but “What do you want to do?” his eyes spelled I missed the kind of companionship they shared concern, the joy was to come later. with their Dad. I craved for a daughter who I “I always wanted a girl,” I knew it even before I could dress up, indulge in all the ‘girly’ things with and pour my heart out to, once in a while. said it. “It can be a boy too, again,” he spoke, he, the *** practical brain between us. “You must have counted days for the suspense “I just know it is going to be a girl,” I insisted, to end, isn’t it? How exciting!” Her eagerness stirred me out of the nostalgia. my desire blinding all reason. “Yes, sex determination wasn’t illegal in Why we were this country (which having this diswasn’t the case in cussion was my place of birth) certainly not and the day we were incons equeninformed by the tial. We got ultrasound technimarried at the cian that it was goage of 25 and ing to be a girl, I became parents thought I couldn’t by the time we handle the wait. were 26. Since Your father kept on worrying about my health then, a whole decade had just flown by in fren- and age and related complications but as weeks zy. After all, raising twin boys is no mean feat, passed, he couldn’t help but catch on with my so we learnt with every passing day. enthusiasm.” Some may say it might be too late to welcome a “What about everybody else in the family? Were new arrival when you are 36, but I had never they waiting for me too?” she quipped. been more ready. This was primarily because I had my boys too soon. Even before I learnt to For a second, I weighed being honest, but only be a wife to the fullest, I was a mother. Second- for that one second. The truth would simply ly, I desperately wanted a girl in our lives! There hurt. ***
was too much blue everywhere, a dash of pink As it had wounded me a more than a decade was just what we needed to complete the family back. portrait! Now, at 10, the boys had become my *** hubby’s best pals. I was outnumbered and felt a 7
Spark—March 2013 | Woman: Facets and Forms
When I had called my parents with the news, they were incredulous. “Do you really need a third child?” Mom asked as if she half expected me to get rid of it. My father went on to ask me about the weather and the twins’ soccer game, no mention of the baby that was to come and certainly no congratulations.
pregnancy that I cried, loud and lucid, enough to fill a bucket.
“We will have to see about that,” came the diplomatic response, “you know my knee pain gets worse in winter and there is also your cousin’s wedding here in the city around the same time. You have raised twins without much help; this can’t be as bad, I am sure it will be managed just fine without my help.” And this was my loving ma-in-law who would be willing to take the next flight here if the boys were to use their special “Grandma, we miss you!” voice even once
“Your brothers were thrilled and overjoyed and vowed to take care of you, even before you opened your tiny little eyes and flashed them a smile (which was absolutely the truth),” I replied to her earnest question. I could see she loved this part of her ‘birth story’.
Born, raised and educated in urban India, never in my dreams did I think that boys were still more welcome than girls in the families in and around me, or that women themselves enjoyed the elevated social status conferred on giving The in-laws were less direct with their disap- birth to a baby boy. When some women say proval. They enquired about my health and had they would have loved to have a baby girl, they the good sense to ask when the baby was due. are more than happy with their sons but when a woman with a daughter says she wants a boy, “Start packing your bags mom,” my husband she desperately seeks one, I concluded bitterly. took over the phone, “your expertise will be needed soon.” ***
“You came ten years after your siblings, but that doesn’t mean you were unwanted or that we loved you any less. And since you are now old enough to understand, I will let you on a secret,” I said and continued, after a brief pause, “You were not an accident or a surprise baby either. I craved for you, wanted you with all my heart and both me and your Daddy believe our lives would have been incomplete without your presence, my dearest daughter.”
A few of our relatives were more forthcoming with their expert advice. “You already have two sons by the grace of God; do you want to risk having a girl this time around?” Talk about being subtle. That was perhaps, the only day of my whole
Gauri Trivedi is a former business law professional who makes the law at home these days. A mom to two lovely daughters, her days are filled with constant learning and non -stop fun. All of her “mommy time” goes into writing and finds itself on her blog pages http://messyhomelovelykids.blogspot.com/ and http:// pastaandparatha.blogspot.com/ and if she is not writing she is definitely reading something! 8
Spark—March 2013 | Woman: Facets and Forms
NonFiction Home Affairs by Suchitra Ramachandran We praise housewives – we even call them ‘homemakers’ – because we know it’s no easy task to run a home. But have we ever thought of how leaving homemaking to women might be problematic and unfair – and not just for women? Suchitra Ramachandran explains. We have heard it all: "Being born a woman is great, because you get to be a nurse, teacher, cook and cleaner all rolled into one", "Sacrifice is the hallmark of womanhood" and "Don't be ashamed of being a housewife, it's not easy." These statements get passed around over and over, by women, by men, in popular culture and in social media. They glorify women who are keepers of home and hearth, women who are not career aspirational but prefer to stay at home.
but simply the fact that women opt to do it – because many men cannot think of opting to do it, or of giving up their career for this. These congratulatory yet consolatory statements commend women who keep the household going strong by ‘sacrificing’ their lives so that the family structure and social structure can be strong. These messages do not admire women for doing hard work, but admire them for doing their supposed duty. They don't glorify housework, they glorify housewives.
Let's start out by agreeing on something. Housework, like all work, is not easy. The women who do this on a day-to-day basis, definitely do a great job. So what is wrong with these statements congratulating these women? The trouble is, they tend to emphasize not the difficulty of work per se, nor the skill of the women,
Let me tell you three reasons why I find this attitude problematic. Reverentially congratulating a woman who agrees to be a housewife is in the same tone as congratulating somebody who volunteers to sacrifice themselves so that the village could have rain. It is this notion of sacrifice, imposed as a duty on women, that is not 9
Spark—March 2013 | Woman: Facets and Forms
good. What do children learn when such platitudes are thrown around? That “sacrifice is a woman’s hallmark”? What about the rest of us who have no willingness to sacrifice our aspirations at the altar of womanhood?
pick up after ourselves at home. If I don’t acknowledge my house as mine and take up responsibility for how I maintain it, then where is the question of maintaining my community?
In fact, this so-called sacrifice on the part of women has erased self-sufficiency in plenty of young people, many of whom proudly say they do not even know how to boil water. If mothers are expected to do, and end up doing, all the work around the house, when will the children in the house learn to be self-sufficient? Some girl-children are forced to learn at a later age. Many boy-children, when they grow up, are dependent on the same social structure and end up reinforcing the same principles. Let me tell you something more radical. These statements contribute to violence against women. Think about it –if we teach our children that housework is not for men, and men who do work around the house are comedy props, what are we teaching them about women? Aren’t we telling them that a ‘woman’s work’ is inferior to ‘man’s work’? The office-going woman is still devil incarnate in many households, because they “neglect” the children. Isn’t their lack of sacrificial spirit condemned? A woman aspiring for a ‘man’s space’ (like the city’s roads after 8 PM at night) is mostly vilified, but a man showing any interest in a ‘woman’s space’ (such as the kitchen, unless in a professional capacity as a chef) is mostly made fun of. Is this fair? Secondly, as a country, we do not have the consciousness to acknowledge our community and our spaces as ‘ours’. We litter in public, spit on roads and urinate on the walls. One reason this could be so, is because we have never learned to
Thirdly, if we stop to examine who can afford to be a stay-at-home wife or mother, it is a woman who is reasonably elite, someone whose husband earns enough to support a family and overhead expenses. The women who work in match factories or fields, as ayahs in schools and domestic workers, single mothers and breadwinners, do not have the luxury of staying at home. I meet a lot of women in my social circles who say, half in jest, half seriously, that they would rather give up their career aspirations and marry a suitable husband, and settle down as a stay-athome mom, baking cookies and reading magazines. The ironic humour in such statements
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aside, the very fact that ‘being a housewife’ is pots, because they need to be done. But if you not an option that most people have does not share a roof with this woman, do your share. very often occur to us. Even if she loves doing everything, do your share. Why? Because it is your house, it is your Indeed, what business do we English-educated share. It is accountability to yourself, not to her. internet-roaming folks have, to want to be confined to the house for the rest of our lives? If Let me end with a personal story. It involves we each ask ourselves, we have received a rea- one of my best friends. K. Growing up in a sonably sound education and we are worldly small town in south Tamil Nadu, K was the wise. We are street smart, we have travelled, we brightest girl in her class. We went to college debate issues of national importance all day long together in the nearest city, but instead of stayon Twitter and Facebook. Women, especially ing in a hostel, she convinced her parents to let educated women in a society like ours, should her rent a small apartment in the city. While ask ourselves if 'managing the home', and that studying in college, K was the only person I alone, is an adequate use of our time and educa- knew who made her own lunch, washed her tion. Isn’t our identity beyond that of a woman? own clothes, cleaned her house and then went Aren’t we are a part of the world and isn’t it a to college, unlike the rest of us pampered daypart of us? If we do not engage with it, how can scholars or hostel inmates. In a conservative city we give back to it? like mine, she would not think twice before flagging down a ride to the nearest bus stand if she “What if being a housewife is what the woman was late or jabbing safety pins into harassers and wants to do?” you may ask. Well, she loves to gropers on the bus and yelling at them. Thanks do it, so she would do the laundry and scrub the
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to her, I have explored my city late at night with a large group of friends, staying out as late as 3 in the morning. She is one of the boldest people I know. She wanted to be a doctor, a poet, a scientist, a teacher, and so many things. But she is married now, and has been a stay-at-home wife for three years now. All the fire that I used up in writing everything above, all those arguments, could not change her stand. “It’s not that I don’t want to work, it is that I would rather stay put and maintain peace in the family. It is hard to have to sacrifice all your aspirations this way, but I know that this is the right thing to do.” That’s when I realized you need a different kind of boldness to survive in our not-soon-tochange-patriarchal world.
I realize that there are plenty of women out there who are housewives like K, who might realize the sanctimony and hypocrisy in phrases saluting them for their ‘sacrifice’, but still hold out and prefer to maintain peace in the household. And that’s when I realize that our society is still a long way from being one where something as simple as shared work in the house can be taken for granted. The best we can do as an individual is to put our little drops in, by not getting lulled by the compensating joys of wifehood and motherhood, but by engaging with the world and being an example. For isn’t the entire world our home, and all people our kin? Let’s get a clean-up crew together.
Suchitra Ramachandran grew up in Madurai and is currently a graduate student in biology. She likes science, art and working with children.
Shakti, meaning sacred force or empowerment, is the primordial cosmic energy and represents the dynamic forces that course through the entire universe. Shakti is the personification of feminine creative power, actively manifested through female embodiment and creativity. This month we feature an art work by Sreetama Ray.
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Poetry
Venom
by Loreto M
Of the many facets of a woman, one is that of a possessive lover. Loreto M explores this aspect through a poem that also highlights the ‘woman’s instinct’.
Have you been with the man I love? If you have, I will know. And I will hunt you down.
I will squeeze your soul. For residues of him. Empty your sockets. For remnants of his gaze. Skin you. Inch by inch. In search of his lingering touch.
I will suck out your marrow To lay a finger On the shiver of pleasure he sent down your spine.
Tell me. Tell me now. Have you been with the man I love?
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Loreto is a Copywriter at an ad agency. She used to be an MBA student, and before that a Botanist at an orthodox Christian college. Thankfully, neither could break nor contain her odd streak. Her poems are confessions - of the alternate lives that she would have loved to live, and of emotions that cannot be expressed other than in verses. Most of them are written in a manic-depressed or unrealistically elated state.
Spark—March 2013 | Woman: Facets and Forms
Fiction A Dream in Shackles by Parth Pandya At the heart of Nishtha’s dream that literally keeps her going is Vikrant Kapoor aka Vik. Who is Vik? What is Nishta’s dream all about? Where does her dream take her? Parth Pandya’s story about a woman who alternates between two worlds has the answers.
Her eyes were set on the whirring fan overhead. She fervently wished that watching the fan move around with manic regularity would hypnotize her. She wished the reality of her moment would be shunted out of her consciousness. Nishtha Shashtri lay on her bed, the same bed she first slept on when she got married and came to this house. Its creaks and groans mirrored that of her husband, who was furiously at work on top of her, performing his daily ritual with robotic monotony. Since her husband rarely took her breath away with his daily exertions, Nishtha would willingly grab whatever chances she got to have some mental excursions of her own. She did the same every time her eyes were peeled away from the television. She allowed herself to be transported into the world behind the glass that she had
come to love and adore. That world spoke to her in a way that the world around her didn’t. Her heart was a vessel of complex desires, far too complex for her monotone of a husband to fulfill. The same could not be said of Vikrant Kapoor. Or Vik, as she liked to call him inside her realm of thoughts. Every day, her fantasies zoomed in on the cherubic face, much like the cameras that did from various angles in rapid succession. Vik was everything Nishtha ever wanted in a man. He waltzed into her heart the first day she had seen him on the grainy pixels of her old Videocon television. She was introduced to him as Vikrant, the scion of the Kapoor family. Vikrant, who spoke in a deep baritone. Vikrant, who would take over the reins of his father’s business when the ageing man dies of a sudden
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heart attack. Vikrant, the man who would be the one his family turned to in times of strife and who unfailingly bailed them out each time. Vikrant, a man like a man should be. Yes, a man, all blood and sinew and muscle and heart. A man who could arouse passion in a woman; whip her feelings up into a storm. She knew she was in a bind when these thoughts drove her to pound a lump of dough into submission far more aggressively than was necessary. This is what a real man could do, she thought. Not a man who left behind any traces of being one once the altar was crossed. Days had morphed into weeks and the saga on the series ‘ E k H i Raasta’ (There’s only one road) continued. Vik’s life had gone from that of a carefree youngster to the scion of the family, burdened with worries such young shoulders should not have had to bear. An episode had ended with Vik sitting on the edge of his bed, shedding silent tears. It was the first time Nishtha would speak to him, as if the transmission of those words to her on-screen beloved was an assured matter. She would console him and strengthen him with her love and support, as if the words would morph themselves into gentle strokes of her hand on his wide back. When Vik came back smiling the next day, she smiled contentedly to herself. There was a new
spring in her step and new meaning to her life. Her husband noted that she was adding more sugar to his tea than usual. But matters of the heart are never as simple as one would wish them to be. It was a Thursday, Nishtha remembers, when Vik was sitting in a coffee shop alone, sipping his favorite cappuccino. His eyes were pegged onto his laptop. She noted that his head tilted ever so slightly to the right. At that moment, violins filled the air and the world seemed to move at a slower pace than it used to. A vision in white walked past Vik’s table, whose gaze fell on her and did not leave her side. Vik was captivated by Ruchika, a girl who had no business being there, but who nonetheless, was transfixing Vik by her charms. This didn’t end there, and as Nishtha noted with growing alacrity over the coming weeks, there blossomed an easy romance between the two. Nishtha went through a wide array of negative emotions. Betrayal, anger, sadness, frustration, revenge – she felt them all and expressed them with a coating of melodrama on her hapless husband. She knew she couldn’t let Vik be consumed by this infatuation. She had to rescue him; make him see the errors of his way; tell him that no one could love him like she could. That Sunday night, she paid attention to the end credits of ‘Ek Hi Raasta’. She noted the address
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of the company producing the show. Then she stretched herself on a stool to reach the bags that were kept in the attic. Her mind was made up and her will was strong. On Monday afternoon, she finished her chores, tidied her kitchen one last time, grabbed her bag and rushed towards the door. She reached for the doorknob, clasping it firmly, as her determination willed her on to turn it. She pulled the door towards herself and propelled her right leg past the verandah, only to be hindered by a six-year-old boy hurtling towards the house like a meteor burning up. The bright flash of his aura arrested her in the place where she stood, which was neither here, nor there. Neither inside, nor outside. Neither home, nor
the world. Nishtha was Trishanku, cursed forever to be in-between. Her progress arrested, Nishtha watched her son Rohan scream his way to the sofa before settling on it in a heap. She walked back along the path of destruction, picking up his school bag after him, and restoring the symmetry of the cushions. She sat down in stoic silence, taking a moment to gather herself. Her illusion and reality had collided and left her disbelieving everything. Then, taking in a deep breath, she reached out for the remote. The screen flickered to life and Vik smiled at her.
Parth Pandya is a passionate Tendulkar fan, diligent minion of the ‘evil empire’, persistent writer at http://parthp.blogspot.com, self-confessed Hindi movie geek, avid quizzer, awesome husband (for lack of a humbler adjective) and a thrilled father of two. He grew up in Mumbai and spent the last eleven years really growing up in the U.S. and is always looking to brighten up his day through good coffee and great puns.
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NonFiction For the Love of Cooking by Divya Natarajan Do women love to cook and excel at it simply by virtue of, well, being born women? Divya Natarajan shares her thoughts. One of my most vivid memories of being at jobs and not expect anything other than food home since childhood has been the sound and from women! aroma of tadka as it sizzles into the rasam, sigThe idea that cooking in the personal sphere is a nalling mealtime and a sense of absolute joy. job to be handled by the woman and on a comI will unashamedly admit I’m a foodie. Nothing mercial scale by the man is absurd. No, it’s not can perk me up better than a good meal that her job – it is a heteronormative role that is a hits the spot (I wouldn’t say no to a book in- holdover from feudal times. The symbolism of stead, though!) irrespective of time, space or cooking for femininity goes back to ancient location. I revel in the very act of savouring and times when the ability to cook and keep house also creating the food. I can go into raptures solely determined the woman’s suitability for about the flavour of cumin, the beauty of a marriage. fresh sprig of basil and the heat of chilli and We are long past such “traditional roles” – towant to share both my opinions and experiday, when women are expected to know to ments with all the people close to me. change their car’s oil, balance their cheque Yet ever so often, the statement that “cooking is books and move their own furniture, men can a woman’s job, ‘cos they just do it better” is definitely be expected to cut, chop and whittle something that never fails to rile me up. Well to cook their own food. Mr. I’m-paying-your-race-a-compliment, why The problem is that the act of cooking has been don’t you also rule that all those celebrity highly characterised by a false dichotomy – cooking for -paid male chefs and critics just give up their 17
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money. The idea that cooking for your loved ones (be it yourself) is not for men is silly, as silly as saying love and sustenance are not for men, or money is not for women. Unfortunately today, we tend to paint what we do for money as worth pride and what we do for our family as necessity. By moving away from these preconceived notions of how cooking is a gendered activity, we can step into the pleasure of enjoying our food and wanting to recreate the experience over and over again, by imagining that sound of tadka and smell of sizzling food. We can redefine the act of cooking as a shared joy in which men and women can take part, keeping in mind that there is definitely a learning curve; assuming women can magically start whipping up five course meals as soon as they step into the kitchen is as crazy as imagining batsmen walk onto the pitch for the first time and start scoring centuries – what effort you put in is what you get.
slaving over making breakfast, lunch and dinner – naha, not happening, right? Then, why such unrealistic expectations of women alone? A good number of us admittedly privileged, educated women in today’s generation did not grow up thinking we should put our individual interests secondary to filling the expected role of ‘feudal femininity’ which demands that we are skilled in the housewifely arts. Do you see girls learning to embroider and play the harp today to prove that they’re feminine? It’s the same with cooking – the only difference is we need food for everyday sustenance, and by we, I mean all of us, irrespective of gender. Trust me when I say there is nothing more a girl would like than to wake up to the knowledge that she is in a partnership – where responsibilities and pleasures are shared alike, not just the occasional breakfast in bed photo you can share on Facebook – she will appreciate her man much more for being caring and considerate, rather than subscribing to some misguided notions of being ‘macho’.
Imagine you woke up sleep-deprived, worrying about a morning presentation meeting, needing So stop dreaming, wake up and make me the to rush to make the bus, would you rather that coffee darling! someone gets you breakfast or would you enjoy
Divya is a dreamer, bookworm and perennial student. After moving from Science to Design, she is currently pursuing her Masters in Sustainability in Cornell University. Words, be it set to music or in prose, never fail to reel her in.
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Poetry To a Waitress by Satish Pendharkar She is a woman who is bold, a woman who daringly meets the challenges that life throws at her everyday. She is the woman who serves the food and wine. Satish Pendharkar writes an ode to a waitress. Girl, what can be more cruel
We are both humans in every way
Than your having to serve
But there the similarity does end
A wretch, destined for hell
Your folks fritter your money away
Who does not an iota of pity deserve?
My royal inheritance I do frenziedly spend.
You are alive, a purling forest stream You rise up, look life in the face I, the remnant of a shattered dream
Satish Pendharkar lives in Mumbai and writes occasionally. His poems have appeared in Maverick, Amaranthine Muses etc. His short stories have been published in Savvy and Alive.
Do plummet, seeking a hiding place.
And is it not a vagary that Fate Should our paths so contrastingly define? A repast of labour in your plate; In my hands a goblet of wine? 19
Spark—March 2013 | Woman: Facets and Forms
Fiction Watching Men Pee by Vani Viswanathan Kamatchi is an odd sight on a Chennai road on a sweltering hot afternoon: she is obviously watching men pee, and writing something in her notebook. Vani Viswanathan pens a story. He unbuttoned his pants, opened the fly, pulled his briefs down, and whipped his cock out. As the urine began to flow, he threw his head back in a sense of relief. His bladder would have burst if he’d had to wait any longer. Within seconds, though, he looked straight ahead to the wall he was peeing on. He felt like he was being watched. He gingerly moved his head to the left. Who would watch someone pee?! But there was someone – wait, a woman! A woman. Looking at him. He didn’t know if he should look away, the unabashed way she was looking at him – straight into his eyes, no less, the cheek she had! – disturbed him. When would he be done, why was it taking this long? At long last, he was done, he hurriedly pushed it in, pulled his briefs up, zipped up and buttoned his pants, and quickly left. As he left, he saw her scribble something in a
notebook. Kamatchi’s silver-rimmed, oval-shaped glasses were slipping off her sweaty nose in the Chennai heat. Her dupatta felt like such a liability, synthetic and pinned on both sides. The cell phone, tied to a long cord, was hanging off her neck. She pushed her glasses back up, and wiped the sweat off with the dupatta – her nose burned. Near the tea stall, on a wall that says ‘Do Not Urinate Here’. She was the only woman in the tea stall, and the other men there regarded her with utmost curiosity. Making no attempt to mask their interest, they stared at her as she chewed the blue cap of a Reynolds pen. Their interest, however, changed to disgust when they saw her watch a man urinate and then write in her notebook.
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She took the 11G bus and reached home. “Adiye!” yelled her mother. “Where were you all this while? What the hell happened to your phone?” “Phone ran out of charge,” she said, and went outside the house to wash her hands and feet. “Where were you?” asked her mother again. Wikimedia Commons
Kamatchi walked to the public bathroom at the She sat there for two more hours, till the after- turn of the road and relieved herself in the noon turned to dusk. Rounds of men sat at the Wikimedia Commons benches and watched, and the teashop owner kept barking at her every other hour to buy something or get the hell out of the place. He shouldn’t have complained, though: the sight of a woman at the teashop was bringing more men in, and they ended up buying a beedi, paaku or a cup of tea and some biscuits. They watched her leave the shop and go to a bus stop nearby and sit there and do the same: watching men pee and writing something. No man dared to say anything, though. They just watched her, half- cracked, once-white toilet. And suddenly, she burst into tears. amused, half-annoyed, and fully curious. Eventually, she wandered out of their sight. Ka- She washed her face and came back home. Her matchi went on to stand near the men’s urinals mother was digging into her bag. at the far end of the road. She simply stood there, watching men see her, go in, pee and leave. She watched a man with a lungi folded halfway up his thigh go in with a bucket and a broom.
“Why is all this unsold?! Did you not sell anything at all today? How much did you manage to make?” asked her mother, pulling out packet after packet of savouries. Murukku, kaara sev, potato chips.
At 7.40pm, she snapped out of her reverie. The urinal was not being used anymore because it was pitch dark – it was an open one, with no roof, and there were no streetlights close to it. The men had taken to peeing by the road again, and she had long stopped taking notes.
“I sold three packets,” said Kamatchi, pulling out thirty rupees from a crumpled cloth coin purse. Her mother smacked her fiercely on the back of her head. “And what did you do all day, then?!”
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“I watched men urinate.” Her mother stared at Kamatchi like she had lost her mind. But her daughter was prone to these bursts of weirdness, she had realised long ago. Kamatchi pulled out the notebook in which she made her accounts of how many packets of what kind of savoury was sold, opened it to a page, and thrust it into her mother’s hands.
and no one knew who had the key. All the shopkeepers were men, and they chased me away when I asked them to stock these, and I can’t ask to use their bathroom anyway. I walked the length of the road, and found a mall. But they checked my bag, saw I’m selling this stuff, and didn’t let me enter. They made sure I left the mall grounds so I wouldn’t find the workers’ bathroom either.”
Near the tea stall, on a wall that says ‘Do Not Urinate “And so you decided to watch men pee?” Here’. “I saw one pee with abandon outside the mall. Behind the bus stop. One hand on the wall. No thought about looking for a bathroom. No need to shamefully ask Into an open storm water drain. anyone. Just unzip the pant, pull it out and The wall next to a police station. done. How do they pick a location, how do they think no one is watching, and why does no one Near a dustbin. tell them anything? Why was the women’s bathAt the turn of a road. room locked? And why can’t I pee on the road Inside a large cement pipe. too??” Where the bajjikaaran threw the waste.
Written to recognise the millions of Indian women who have no access to bathrooms, the millions who don’t Near some cows. drink anything all day and wait for the day to turn into Her mother sighed and threw the notebook to a night so they can relieve themselves in the dark, outside. corner of the tiny room. And written to make the millions of us realise how lucky “There wasn’t a single place I could pee in. The we are to be able to avoid using public bathrooms because only public bathroom for women was locked, no mall or five-star hotel will stop us from entering.
Vani Viswanathan is often lost in her world of books and A R Rahman, churning out lines in her head or humming a song. Her world is one of frivolity, optimism, quietude and general chilled-ness, where there is always place for outbursts of laughter, bouts of silence, chocolate, ice cream and lots of books and endless iTunes playlists from all over the world. Vani was a Public Relations consultant in Singapore and decided to come back to homeland after seven years away. Vani blogs at http:// chennaigalwrites.blogspot.in
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Guest Column For a “Youth Icon”, From a Particularly Pissed Off Young Woman
by Shreya Sen When Chetan Bhagat writes ‘I'd like Indian men to have an open mind about choosing their life partners and revise their 'ideal woman' criteria’, one expects that he is exhorting many Indian men to finally realize that women are equal ‘partners’ in a marriage, and are also humans with their own ideas and aspirations both within and outside the home, which are not tied to being someone’s wife or mother. But no, Mr. Bhagat fails miserably, as in his narrow view of the world that ignores disturbing everyday realities for much of India’s population, women’s lives still revolve around men. Shreya Sen tells us why this is not just pissing off, but also extremely problematic, and hardly “progressive”.
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Ever so often a new notification pops up in my Facebook account signalling yet another person who has “tagged” me in one of Chetan Bhagat’s “progressive” articles. Every single time, I furiously type out a long comment on why he annoys me so much and almost every time, I am accused of being a stereotypical-hystericalhumourless feminazi who needs to stop “over reacting” and start learning to look at the “good things” in what people have to say. So, to end this cycle once and for all, I want to rant at length about why the notion of the ideal, Bhagatian phulka-making, career bride isn’t my favourite idea in the world. Let’s begin with a little introduction to the premise upon which Mr. Bhagat bases these “progressive” articles. In his article “Don’t Worry, Be Happy” , we find out that in Bhagat’s world, women, namely “Indian women”, are awesome. So awesome, in fact, that without them the world would meet an inevitable doom – “there would be body odour, socks on the floor and nothing in the fridge to eat. The entertainment industry would die… Kids would be neglected and turn into drug addicts or psychopaths by age 10. Soon, all-male world leaders would lose their tempers at the slightest provocation, and bomb the guts out of each other's countries.” See? As a race, we women are indispensable. From being sexual objects on screen for men’s entertainment to creating their perfect, little, socially acceptable progeny to maintaining world peace to picking up their socks, we women can do it all. To this kind eulogizing of the feminine prowess, I have only one response for Mr. Bhagat and the ardent worshippers of his fine mind – No,
thank you. Shocking as this may be, I was not put into this world to make life easier and more pleasant for Mr. Bhagat and his brethren. And while I understand that the only way to get any validation as a human being is to match up to the apparent role model for young women, Yahoo CEO, Marissa Mayer (irrelevant trivia: Mayer publicly dismissed feminism as a “militant drive and sort of the chip on the shoulder.” ), I must concede that I, like most other women, am a mere human being with mere human powers. And my mere human brain cringes every time I read Mr. Bhagat’s well-rationalized enumeration of the “enormous benefits” of “choosing a capable, independent and career-oriented woman”. In his article, “Home Truths on Career Wives” , Mr. Bhagat uses his IIM-level salesman skills to sell the idea of the working wife. The working wife is better, stronger, sharper, more interesting, more arousing, more skilled and, subsequently, more worthy of modern day “Indian men”, than the boring housewife. Of course, he grants that working women have their “drawbacks”, but, by and large, wouldn’t “Indian men” rather have that extra money and mediocre phulkas rather than the embarrassment of a having a wife who is too unambitious, unenterprising and incompetent to even be a good partner? The idea that a homemaker may have just as much personhood as a “career wife”, or that household work may be just as important and fulfilling as work done outside, or even that household work is work at all, seems to be too radical to have crossed Mr. Bhagat’s mind. Perhaps, I should cut the guy some slack. He does say that the benefits attached to “career wives” only hold true if men learn to see women as
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“equals”. Good on you, Mr. Bhagat! – except for the one teensy detail where you completely miss the point: for equality to be achieved within a heteronormative marriage1, men and women need to be doing, and getting recognition for, work both outside AND inside the house! See? That way the “drawbacks” of “career wives” being mediocre homemakers cease to exist. But Mr. Bhagat is a progressive man. It “doesn’t really” bother him that his wife works as a COO (although he would have little respect for a wife who “spent her entire life in the kitchen”). He proudly claims that in his case the household work is designated to the domestic help instead. The fact that he is speaking from a position of class privilege – wherein he and his wife are able to afford to pay another woman to do the housework – and that he is, in fact, implicit in replicating both gender-based roles and class hierarchies are not facts he finds worthy of acknowledgment. What matters is that the “Indian men” know that you can get by fine with a “career wife” so long as she, or a woman belonging to a lower caste/class background, is taking care of your needs and whims
at home. Bhagat’s articles pitch forth a specific group of people as the “norm”. He tastefully describes the wants of “today’s young India” as being limited to “meri naukri, meri chhokri” (my job, my girl) . Nothing in his writing so far has given me any indication that he might be open minded enough to be actually talking about Queer identified women2, so I am just going to go ahead and assume, women aren’t a part of his discourse at all. So, when he says he is talking to the “Indian youth”, the people he is really in a dialogue with are urban, upper class/caste, cis3, men working in a corporate environment and either in, or are aiming to be in, a heteronormative marriage. When he refers to the female gender as “our women” or talks about how societies that do not allow for equality are “backward tribes”, he is constructing these groups of people in relation to this dominant, normative group that is supposedly the “Indian youth”. This normative group, the supposed “majority”, is apparently only guilty of “lesser crimes” such as when they “judge, expect too much, don't give space and suffocate [their] women's individuality”, as compared to the
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“extreme” instances of crime perpetrated by a “minority” who “abort girls before they are born, neglect them in their upbringing, torture them, molest them, sell them, rape them and honour-kill them.” Not only is he forming a dangerous hierarchy of violence where emotional abuse and trauma are completely trivialized, he is also ignoring the fact that what he flippantly terms as being cases of “extreme” violence are sadly everyday realities of the people belonging to marginalized gender groups and transcend class, caste and religious barriers. Mr. Bhagat’s “best-selling” novels celebrate the much romanticized space of male bonding (“bromance”, if you will), in relation to which women are either props or intrusions (think Five Point Someone and Three Mistakes of My Life). So it feels a little strange when he feels he has any authority to comment on what kind of relationships women have with other women and how they can work to manage/improve them. Thank you for being yet another popular “youth icon”
who perpetuates the insipid, misogynistic, patriarchal myth of women being women’s biggest enemies, Mr. Bhagat. Not to mention how hugely hypocritical that sounds since in the above mentioned articles it is you who has pitched daughters-in-law against mothers-in-law and working women against homemakers. Believe it or not, Mr. Bhagat, we do not always compete amongst one another over mundane issues like who will “make a better scrapbook for her school project” or who will “lose more weight with a better diet” or who will “make a six-dabba tiffin for her husband”, and stress among “Indian women” is not always caused because we try to achieve “A+ in every aspect of [our lives]”. And if these are ever the causes leading to stress, it is because a society that is steeped in patriarchal values gives us little space to negotiate our lives differently. All Mr. Bhagat’s “progressive” articles do is to further perpetuate these values, while, in the process, absolving men of having any part in the everyday violence faced by women.
“Mr. Bhagat’s “best-selling” novels celebrate the much romanticized space of male bonding (“bromance”, if you will), in relation to which women are either props or intrusions (think Five Point Someone and Three Mistakes of My Life). So it feels a little strange when he feels he has any authority to comment on what kind of relationships women have with other women and how they can work to manage/ improve them. Thank you for being yet another popular “youth icon” who perpetuates the insipid, misogynistic, patriarchal myth of women being women’s biggest enemies, Mr. Bhagat.” 26
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So here’s news for Mr. Bhagat and his cronies: while dialogues between privileged and marginalized groups are important, not only in relation to gender but also ability, class, caste, religion, sexual orientation etc., the privileged male cannot be the central figure around whom such discussions take place. I see nothing remotely ground breaking in Bhagat’s work because appeasing to the dominant group to justify an egalitarian society is a tried and failed method that has been around for years and has only reproduced and reinforced social inequalities. Why else are we still talking about educating women and girls for the sake of a better family, better generation, better Nation etc., while we can so easily imagine men getting educated just for the sake of education? So when Bhagat goes on and yawn about how men can benefit from working wives, the crucial point being ignored is that women shouldn’t have to decide their life’s trajectory based on their husbands’ convenience. Indeed, there is that rather strange possibility that a man might hold no position at all in a woman’s life’s trajectory. Whether or not we choose to work, share the work, make a top quality phulka, or refuse to have children should be based on our comfort and negotiations. “Our” successes are not for you to “accept” and “celebrate” or even “tolerate”, because they are
not for you to give. By acknowledging the rights of marginalized groups, you are not being benevolent; you are only being a decent human being who believes in equitable living. *** 1 Heteronormativity consist of desires, acts and behaviors that comply with the socially acceptable standards of what appropriate sexuality, sexual conduct, gendered expressions etc are. Therefore, a heteronormative marriage would be one where, among many other things, a cis, heterosexual couple, who belong to the same caste, class and religious background, are bound by the contract of marriage and follow conventional gender roles.
In this context, by “Queer” women, I mean all kinds of women who like having female partners-lesbians, bisexuals, pansexuals, asexuals etc. 2
3 ‘cis’ is the term used to address people who identify with the gender they were assigned at birth. Non-cis people are trans* people who would comprise of groups like Hijras, Kothis, Transsexuals, Transgenders, Genderqueer, Genderfluid, Agender etc.
A student of Gender Studies, Shreya Sen is a loud and proud feminist and considers herself the Batwoman of the internet world. She enjoys reading, respects chocolates for their benign presence in her life, and often ponders upon the merits of procrastination.
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Poetry Unicorns and Better Days by Jessu John A woman who has had a difficult and challenging past, chooses to relieve herself of bitterness by opting to forget and forgive, and move on. Jessu John writes a poem inspired from the single ‘Better Days’ by the Goo Goo Dolls. The poem combines fantasy and a few Biblical references including that of the story of ‘Balaam and his Donkey’, to paint the picture of a woman who doesn't fall too hard for or entirely disbelieve traditional faith. She spots them, rare creatures,
They are known to speak the truth.
On her virgin run in the hills,
If they warn of imminent death,
White donkeys –
Would they not forecast good news?
Aren’t they as good as unicorns, Even without horns?
From above the branches high As she pushes her way up the slopes,
She runs past the uncommon beasts,
‘Today the world begins again’,
One of them, pure white, says,
The songbirds resonate,
‘Woman, you’ll see better days’.
While a herd of unicorns tell her stories
She stops, panting, then recalling
Of a virgin expecting a baby,
Stories of donkeys talking,
Of mangers and the cold fields of Bethlehem, 28
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Of a new world order,
White donkeys on their way up a hill
Of grace and truth and salvation,
Now tell her there’ll be better days,
Of one Man who divided history,
These unicorns, they tell her
So nothing would be the same again.
The earth will see new mornings, Hear songs sweet enough each dawn,
She interrupts to say,
Play music for the soul at dusk,
‘One woman can divide history,
Tender some mercies for the night,
Even if only her own -
And that she will be alright.
And nothing will ever be the same again’. Everything’s forgotten now, She’s running, listening to unicorns chatter,
Everyone’s forgiven now,
Thinking of celebrations,
So just like that, the world begins again.
A world that needs old songs and new things, And how He is born in every new infant here, Like new hope born with every dawn So we can hope for better days, life extended. She’s thinking about it all, And it isn’t even Christmas. Children born every brand new day Who save the world with kindness, Keep peace and faith and trust alive,
Jessu John is a branding & communications professional from Bangalore, India. She also writes for mainstream Indian daily ‘The Hindu’ and is an amateur long distance runner. A lover of activities suited to the introvert, her inspiration for writing a piece often comes from conversations over coffee with friends or random peoplewatching and day-dreaming. She tweets as @JessuRJohn and blogs at ForceofDreams.
And so we all have those better days, Bringing us these signs of unicorns, Of white donkeys carrying messages Of wholeness, newness, restoration, Hope. Faint limitless hope for better days. 29
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Fiction Gender-Boxes OF Vanity by Aman Chougle As teenagers, what makes us consider a woman beautiful or attractive? And what happens to this definition as we grow up? Aman Chougle pens a story on the narrow perspectives of how men – and the society – view women, and why these narrow definitions might be to our detriment.
With a Greek nose, disarming grin, and long tapering fingers like that of a veteran artist, she was pretty in her own way, but we didn’t think that of her in school. When you’re a teenager, what you say you find attractive doesn’t often come from you, but from the level of acceptance the other person has as being attractive in the eyes of your peers (this is not to say that this always goes away later on, though). She didn’t have that, and so she didn’t have boys running after her. Even the ones who might have had a crush on her most probably kept it to themselves. When we were in class eight she had a crush on me. When I first heard of it, I thought it was a joke. I was completing my homework during a free period, copying it from someone else’s
book, when suddenly she appeared from nowhere at my left, lightly slapped me, and sort of floated back to her bench. Naturally I was a little taken aback, and when I gazed in her direction, I saw that a small crowd had gathered around her bench. All of them were laughing looking at me. When I asked one of them later on, he said they were playing “Truth or Dare”. And then I asked why me, and he said, "’Cause she has a crush on you, dumbass!" I didn’t take it that seriously at first. But as time chugged along, her flirting (if it can be called that) made it obvious. She’d always be writing my name on things, like during the computer period she’d always use my name for saving files and documents. And then her friends would amplify whatever she was doing so that they
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could “bring us together”, and have a laugh at us at the same time. Once I remember she wrote my name and enlarged it on the computer screen. My name was in pink and she was staring at me, and it almost looked as if a stupid hippie girl had found a new bogus spiritual-guru. And like how when away from the girl the guru’s amused by her, I was curious as to what she found so attractive in me. I never reciprocated that whole game of hers. Back then, like I said, she wasn’t considered as one of the attractive ones. Your aim most of the times were the ones that had an eight to nine out of ten score on them. All this may sound cold and cynical, actually it is cold and cynical, but that’s how things were back then in school, most likely things are much worse now. You’d conform to these absurd rules, not giving any heed to what you really wanted, and most of the times you were embarrassed with what you really wanted. Girls are better in that respect, a bit more humane. Somehow I feel they can look over that superficial trait of conventional beauty better than us when it comes to boys, even though they themselves subscribe to these standards of beauty. Her bench-partner was another problem. She’d always push her to do more, as if what she was doing wasn’t enough. If I were around she’d ask her, “Do you like Aman?” and the girl would say yes in a jiffy. Her partner would then look at me and say, “See!” and I’d stand there embarrassed like a small boy who has wet himself. Funny
how I wouldn’t even look at her, but I had already labelled her as unattractive in my head. I guess that’s how ignorance works. Slowly we became friends. The flirting didn’t stop, it would come up every now and then, and then I’d be silent and awkward for a minute. If we were to play ‘Truth or Dare’ the same thing would happen – it would be implied in the questions asked and challenges given. I should’ve just said it out loud, “Enough! I get it, you’re after me.” Then there was the time a few of us went to her house after tuitions. Her meddling bench-partner was there of course, and I’d taken a friend of mine. We ate some snacks made by her mother and then went on the roof. There the other boy and I told them jokes that made them go, ‘Haw!’ That friend of mine also whacked me a little because I was calling him names. Back then getting your ass kicked in front of girls was so embarrassing, even though it didn’t matter to them much, and in fact they’d always sympathize with the one beaten-up. As we were climbing down to go back to her house, she did something that truly alarmed me. We were just about to enter her house, when the next-door neighbour, a woman probably in her early thirties, opened the door. There were both good friends – it was obvious by the way they greeted each other – and then she said, “This is the boy I was talking about.” She presented me like she were some host at a game-show, and I was some little prize to be won at the end of the show. Maybe I’m reading into things, but it seemed like that, and I for one was very alarmed.
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I liked one thing about her though, the fact that she was a foodie. Girls nowadays take things a bit too far with this dieting craze going on. They’re already skinny but they still want to diet, as if they want no flesh whatsoever, like the wing of a bat. Nowadays you even hear twelve year olds talking about skipping their meals, and not eating fried stuff. And you’re like, “Sweetheart, you’re too young.”
about being a Sumo-wrestler, but you know what I mean – something enough to sink your teeth into. Anyhow, the bottom-line is: eat well and be happy. As I wouldn’t do anything, the girl eventually lost her interest in me. Things were smooth, and her flirting, like a tide ebbing away, finally started receding. After a few months I heard nothing of it, and then one day I found out she was into some other guy from school. Unfortunately even this didn’t materialise into anything. She was not the type an average teenager would fantasize about. She was the one you’d want to be good friends with, but not date. The girl whom you’d call when you’re feeling lonely or insecure, because she’s the only one who’d listen, and because you know you can’t do this with any of your male friends. Like an “emotional-tampon” she’d bear all your sad nonsense. A girl you should be dating, but would never. Not when we want to parade them around like fashionable sport cars. A beautiful object that’s now under your possession, because you’re “The Man”.
During class twelve I had a girlfriend who had the same problem. She was skinny, but she’d still diet. She’d skip breakfast, and only eat very little during lunch and dinner. Her arms were so thin that they would sometimes disturb me, say when she’d wear something sleeveless. Once we had bunked and gone to a café nearby. She was constantly complaining about how hungry she was but she wouldn’t eat anything as it wasn’t lunch yet. After few minutes of pestering her to eat something I left her to her own devices. She had coffee, though that wasn’t such a bright idea, for coffee always makes you hungry. We left the place around noon. I remember she was walking ahead and as soon as she stepped out, the Octo*** ber sun hit her head, and she fainted flat on the pavement. This girl wasn’t stupid like that. In fact during recess you saw her thoroughly enjoy her meals. I know fat is repulsive; with all that unutilised energy hanging there like a suspended waterballoon, that person’s body becomes a nasty symbol of inertia. But the other end of the spectrum is not that pretty either. I don’t even know how being a skeleton has become sexy all of a sudden. Men, most of them anyway, like some meat on the women they date and love. I’m not talking 32
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I hate it when I see these TV shows where they take a person, wipe out all of his or her “imperfections”, and then make him or her conform to these very narrow standards of what they think is beautiful. Those “imperfections” are what makes them human. What great harm could come from one person looking radically different from another? I’m not saying I’ve never fallen prey to the deception – this story proves otherwise – but I’m tired of it now; it’s just so constricting, so empty. Let’s be free from all this nonsense!
usual “Your desperation made me suspicious of you” excuse. I don’t know if she bought it or not, but anyway, I couldn’t tell her what I told you.
*** I met her once during my senior college years. We had a long conversation by the side of a pavement, and the fact that she had a crush on me came up. We were mostly rallying jokes about it, and jokingly she asked why I wouldn’t accept her as a girlfriend. In reply I gave her the
Picture by Megan
Aman Chougle is a sound engineer. He loves music, books, and collecting paintings. Besides art and reading, travel, nature, occasional cooking, and meeting the multifarious lives of this planet are his other interests. Currently, he’s working on his first novel.
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Non-fiction Do All Women Want Motherhood? by Srividhya Radhakrishnan Do women achieve ultimate fulfilment only by bearing a child? Is motherhood only about bearing a child? In fact, is motherhood only about a woman and can a man not experience it, asks Srividhya Radhakrishnan.
I have seen countless movies which take pride in parroting this dialogue –“A girl becomes a complete woman when she gets married and bears a child”. This skewed thinking makes me furious sometimes. If having a child makes a woman complete, what about those who decide not to have a child or for some unfortunate reason cannot have one even if they wish to? Aren’t they also women? What are they, aliens? I personally know women who think beyond their stability, their security and their own needs to dedicate their life to causes that truly mean something to them. They truly understood that you live life but once and it is of utmost importance to choose to do whatever means the most to you. They have not gone beyond motherhood. They have enlarged their sense of motherhood to accommodate people and societies around them and are trying to make a difference wherever
they can. They are experiencing fulfillment and motherhood by contributing actively to the society. So, it would be incredibly naïve and dim-witted to say a woman’s only contribution can be bearing a child. With her passion and dedication and the necessary skills and business acumen, she can make a difference in this world through any job she chooses to. We have seen women contributing and making a difference in various fields as writers, leaders, scientists, singers, artists, engineers, teachers, thinkers, social workers and even as warriors. We have even seen women out in the fields, working long hours under the sun as she supports her family by farming. So even when a job requires physical stamina, she is able to participate and contribute. Also, with the world getting increasingly mechanized, her job is made many times simpler and less gruelling and
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it broadens her choice of professions. As a civil Does this instinct of motherhood come naturally engineering graduate, I can proudly say that my only to women? We would be tempted to beclass had as many women as men. Traditionally, lieve so going by what we have observed in this branch of engineering has girls/women around us during not been preferred by women the various stages of growing up. as much as men but it is heartWomen are usually the first to ening to see women stepping reach out and cuddle an infant out and taking up ‘unorthodox’ even if it is not theirs. They are professions. So regardless of quicker to empathize and can whether women have children connect emotionally better to or not, they are capable of their surroundings. But are men shaping the world and finding are incapable of this instinct? No, their ultimate fulfilment from a definitely not. ‘Motherhood’ is job outside of home. independent of gender. It is independent of whether you have the Even if a woman chooses to ability to give birth to a child or express and experience her not. It is an experience that both motherhood by bearing a child and devotes her men and women can go through. time solely in nurturing the child, I can say beyond all doubt that it is one of the most im- When you deeply care for someone – be it your portant jobs on the planet. What kind of an indi- parents, a spouse, a friend, someone else’s child vidual she raises decides the future of the planet. or even a total stranger who needs your help at If she raises that one individual as a responsible that point, and when you truly put someone human being, that is one less problem for the else’s needs ahead of yours, you experience what society. To resolve almost all social issues today, is known as motherhood. So motherhood is not we need individuals to be more conscious, aware an action. It is an experience. This might sound and responsible. A group of such individuals revolutionary to people who are firmly set on becomes a transformed society. So raising a the idea that ‘motherhood’ is about giving birth child cannot be considered a job for the weak or and therefore about a woman. People who a job that is unimportant. As much as we cannot have dogs often refer to themselves as the pardeny women the right to work outside her home ent of the dog. People who have adopted chilor judge her for that, we have no right judging dren are capable of as much love, sacrifice and women who choose to make their home the responsibility as biological parents. So you centre of their existence. Really, if a woman can don’t need to bear a child for you to feel that make that ultimate choice on how she wishes to sense of protectiveness, the urge to reach out or live her life all by herself, I would celebrate at to nurture and watch someone grow and blosthe huge progress humanity has made. som and you definitely don’t even need to be a woman to experience motherhood. You just But is motherhood experienced only by women? need to be willing to see something or someone 35
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as more important than yourself. In fact people who have espoused a certain cause or are working towards a certain vision that they think will make the world around them a better place, often choose not to have families simply because their own needs are not important anymore. I would say that these people, men or women, are experiencing motherhood too.
cation and intelligence. This knows no gender.
So given the current climate of gender inequality in India (and in most parts of the world), we need to question our set notions about motherhood and women. We need to work towards ensuring women have complete freedom in choosing what they want to do with their life. We need to give credit to all those women and It is unfortunate that often boys/men who show men out their working with passion and diliempathy and compassion are branded by their gence to create the world they envision. peers as ‘gay’ or behaving ‘like a girl’. This probably stems from the mindset that compassion and empathy are weaknesses rather than strengths and that strength is purely physical in nature. But strength is not just measured by one’s physical capabilities alone. It’s also to a great extent decided by one’s perseverance, dedi-
Srividhya Radhakrishnan, a graduate from the National University of Singapore is currently based in the US. She worked as a civil servant in Singapore for four years before choosing to become a full time volunteer for the cause of bringing a holistic approach to health and wellness in the community. She is passionate about yoga, environmental issues, bridging the rural-urban divide in education and healthy cooking. She currently works with various organizations to facilitate meditation sessions and lives by the motto "Make your life count. You live but once."
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Shakti Art by Sreetama Ray
Shakti, meaning sacred force or empowerment, is the primordial cosmic energy and represents the dynamic forces that course through the entire universe. Shakti is the personification of feminine creative power, actively manifested through female embodiment and creativity. Shakti not only created the universe, but is also the agent of all change. The feminine incarnation exists without dependence on anyone, but interdependent with the entire universe. Picture Courtesy : http:// society6.com/Sree/Divine-series-3-Shakti_Print. Š Sreetama Ray 37
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The Lounge
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Turn of the Page
A Review of ‘Saved by the Light’ by Vinita Agrawal
Vinita Agrawal reviews the book, ‘Saved by the Light’ by Dannion Brinkley, which she says is an intriguing confession of the various revelations that a man who died twice experienced. However, it is this very metaphysical nature of this book that also makes it difficult to endorse it, she opines.
Saved by the Light
breath - here is Dannion Brinkley - a man who has ‘died’ twice and come alive each time! He Dannion Brinkley with Paul Perry describes his incredible experiences in his book With an introduction by Raymond Moody titled ‘Saved by the Light’. M.D. The first time Dannion ‘died’ was when a bolt The true story of a man who died twice and of lightning struck him. It was so powerful that the profound revelations he received it melted the telephone in his hand. His soul spiralled into a new world filled with light and Villard Books, New York 1994. love. It told him that his purpose on earth was Deep inside most of us squirms a fear of the "to create spiritualistic capitalism", and ordered unknown, especially the fear of death – Death is him to return to earth to pursue his new goals. a mysterious phenomenon - inexplicable, enig- The second time when his soul left his body matic and yet - inevitable. If Brinkley's book is (but returned to it again) was on the surgery tato be read and believed then the time has come ble while he was undergoing a heart operation. to moor our endless speculations on what happens to us after we die because - hold your After a series of heavenly experiences he was 39
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told "telepathically " to go back once again.
and original metaphors, which are clearly for the reader's benefit. For example, he compares fields of energy to "rivers and lakes the way you would see them from an airplane" and the idea of going back to earth after having experienced the freedom of the spirit "as confining as living on the head of a pin."
In each Para-normal incident, Brinkley admits to revelations by 'Beings of Light' that are simply amazing if they are true, brilliant if they are not. In most cases a person who has undergone such bizarre experiences is vulnerable to callous ridicule and disbelief that the rest of us mere mortals are predisposed to make. No wonder, Brinkley's defenes are up right from the start of his book. Fortunately for him he has a trump-card up his sleeve in the form of visions he receives from the 'great power' – supposedly God. Brinkley not only sees a review of his life but also a run of events that would happen in the future. Based on these visions, Brinkley is said to have predicted the coming to power of Ronald Reagan as President of USA in 1975, the war and strife in the middle east some years later, the Chernobyl disaster in the 1980s and the economic earthquakes across the world, to name only a few. He describes these predictions in great detail in his book, a la Nostradamus! Brinkley consciously avoids using adjectives to convey the extraordinary metaphysical transportations he (rather, his soul) made each time he died. He attempts to stick to a simple descriptive style, relying heavily on a set of carefully chosen
His book glorifies the good in man. Forgiveness, according to Brinkley, is next to Godliness. Unselfish service to our brethren, and selfless love ought to be the driving goals in our lives. No wonder then, that he dedicates his book to volunteers who perform the invaluable work of hospice. He himself is presently dedicated to the task of creating destressing centers where people could learn to set their spirits free. This he says is a mission assigned to him by the wonderful "Beings of Light" who also gave him visions of how to realise these centers. The book beckons us to abide by it even as tenets of our preconditioned minds feel provoked to challenge its every word. Ironically though, while this book is intriguing because of its metaphysical nature, it is sometimes difficult to endorse for those very reasons. Nevertheless, it makes for a fascinating read and one we might as well make as long as we are alive! After death, the truth will be ours anyway...
Vinita Agrawal is a Delhi-based writer and poet and has been published in international print and online journals. 40
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The Inner Journey Right and Total Action
by Viswanathan Subramanian The right way to understand reality is through the process of intimate feeling of one’s existence, rather than intellectualizing and making a theory of the message about the absolute reality. This is the right and total action says Viswanathan Subramanian. It is important to understand that the moment one is awake, memory stored up in our brain takes over. We have the self-recognition that “I am so and so”. This is in effect our identification with this body. Instantaneously, the brain starts building on concepts and this includes the sensation of ‘me’ and 'what is around me'.
Ego is nothing but the conceptual product that we have spoken about– an imagination.
The all-pervading awareness as we are is not process of intellectualization but is an absolute, intimate feeling of existence. Such existence does not need the confirmation of the intellect to realise itself! We all feel we are. Do we need And that’s when the Trinity of the Seer, Seeing to reason this fact out by intellectual agreement? and Seen comes into picture. Well, is the seen Obviously not. To know that you exist, do you independent of the so called seer? Isn’t it true seek confirmation from anybody else? that without the ‘seer’ to be first there to recogHence, according to Bhagawan Sri Ramana Manise, see and say “I have seen”, there would be harishi, there is only awareness and everything no ‘seen’? else, the names and forms are all imagination. With clear attention, it should be perceived that Having grasped the reality (not wordy explanathe trinity of Seer, Seeing and Seen are not three tion) of all that is conveyed here, there is only different things, but only one awareness. There being. Our duty is to be and not to be this or is nobody to be aware. When there arises somethat. Then, what happens? We are one with our body, problems start by such an imagined entity. Truth- we are consciousness. Can you not recognize this feeling as the ego? 41
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This consciousness has all the intelligence to act. Nothing is deliberate about it. Action then flows out naturally like all the natural happenings around us: flowering, the sprouting of a plant, the rising of the sun, the blowing of wind, the falling of drops of rain, and the flowing of a river. The sun rises in the east and there is no motive there. The rays of the sun change in colour with time, without any motive. The flower blossoms, of course, without any motive. Tender leaves sprout in a plant, with total vulnerability and no motive there! There is absoluteness about such movements of nature. There is integrity in all these.
reality! Unless the message is perceived totally, with no interference from a perceiver, theory only will persist. Alas, one does not get transformed then!
When we have realised our oneness – that we are none other than and inseparable from the consciousness that we are, action blossoms out of us. Then, there is no conflict in action as there is only awareness. Having said that, here is the paradox; whatever one has read so far – if the brain says it has understood all these, it is the theory of what it written here. Theory is not
Viswanathan Subramanian was a banker for over 35 years. In his new retired life, he loves poring over business newspapers and journals and making notes. Spirituality also interests him, and so a good number of Sri Ramana Maharishi’s and Jiddu Krishnamurthy’s books find space in his bookshelf. He is extremely passionate about movies and music too. You are sure to find some good old English movie DVDs and an enormous collection of old mp3 Hindi and Tamil songs at his place!
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Slice of Life by Anupama Krishnakumar
Life On Two Wheels This is a true story. A story about some bicycles, mopeds, scooters. And me. And how our lives have criss-crossed from when I was as young as five, writes Anupama Krishnakumar, fondly recalling memories of cycles and two-wheelers she has grown up with since childhood.
This is a true story. A story about some bicycles, interspersed with two-wheelers is both amusing mopeds, scooters. And me. And how our lives and interesting. As a child who didn’t have too have criss-crossed from when I many friends in the neighwas as young as five. bourhood and being not the very talkative types, I realise It all began with a BSA Champ, that I took to riding the cycle a red one, to be more precise. in and around the house with Even after so many years, the high enthusiasm and energy. image of that first ever vehicle Looking back, it filled me with that I owned is distinct in my a sense of satisfaction; it was memory. It had this inverted U that indulgence that suffuses a metallic back with a column of very sweet kind of peace within you. Of course, equidistant circles on both sides of the metallic this is something I would have perhaps not been rim to ‘adjust’ the height of the seat. A few phoable to articulate as a child but I realised this in tographs from my childhood years inevitably fuller measure when I lived in Chennai and used feature me with this cycle – either sitting on it or to cycle down to school from the bustling standing beside it. T.Nagar area through the ever busy, arterial To think that this was just the beginning of a life Mount Road – past the U.S. embassy, Sapphire 43
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bus stop and finally Peters Road to the posh parameters and decided to go for this cycle priGopalapuram area. marily for the way its handle bar was designed – it particularly reminded me of my good old SLR This cycle was the second one that we owned and filled me with a sense of comfort; also given and one that I used for many years. It was a the fact that I am a tall being, I felt those bikeBSA SLR – tall and elegant and deep brown in looking Streetcat type of cycles would only spell colour. My father initially bought it so my mothmore trouble for my already vulnerable back. So er could learn cycling around the time I was bingo! I was the owner of a bicycle yet again and about eight and was busy and contented with as if to stamp my ownership and authenticate my BSA champ. Eventually, when my mother the cycle’s identity among numerous such cycles learnt cycling and graduated to driving a TVS that would stand lined up outside the institute Champ moped, being the first daughter and all during class hours and among the ones that that, I sort of inherited the SLR by default. The would stand dignified in the hostel, the cycleexperiences with this cycle have been very varied wala at the famed Nutan market of PIlani paintranging from something as ethereal as racing on ed my name on the chain guard of the cycle, as it back from school, dripping wet, with the rain if etching it for eternity. lashing hard on my face to something as morbid as being hit by a car bang in the middle of Ah, memories! Those four years as an engineerMount Road! ing student, living away from home, are perhaps the most memorable years of my life. When I look back fondly at those years, the cycle inevitably features in the imagery that forms in front of my eyes – girls couldn’t have done without a cycle – we needed them to commute between the hostel and the institute. Of the many, many memories that surround the cycle, one of them is that of cycling through thick fog with zero visibility during the winter months for the 8AM, The third cycle to feature in my life was an Atlas first hour classes! And of course, there was this Goldline (again a shade of brown, I don’t know art that we all learnt to master – of negotiating what it is with me and browns and reds especial- the path of our cycle rides in the road to avoid ly when it comes to two-wheeled things!). This ‘being blessed’ with bird shit from atop the trees was one of my very first possessions that I care- that lined either sides of the campus roads. But fully scrutinised and picked up as my companion the moments I absolutely loved were the solitary of four years when I landed as an extremely rides that I used to take around the campus durproud first-yearite at BITS, Pilani along with my ing late evenings. Those were priceless instances equally proud parents who had accompanied me of self-introspection, of collecting oneself, of on my first ever trip to the place of my dreams, bringing together scattered thoughts emanating to help me ‘settle down’. I evaluated various from a confused mind and finding peace in quiet 44
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as the legs pedalled about rhythmically.
like to consider them as living things; perhaps it’s the fondness for them which is at work!) and After four years of a beautiful association that my father had a typical way of bringing it to acsaw me lending the cycle to close friends during tion. He would tilt the scooter to the left, hang an hour of need, sulking on encountering a flat tyre during the most crucial times, attempting to fill air into the tyres on one’s own, or simply feeling overjoyed at the sight of the cycle in the hostel shed on returning to campus after a long vacation, I finally had to part with the cycle when I was leaving campus once and for all. I sold it with a heavy heart to a fellow who worked at the Pilani post office, for one-fourth of the price I bought it for. And my words to him as he wheeled my cycle away were ‘Please take good care of it. I maintained it well when it on for a few seconds and then kick start it and was with me.’ lo, the cream beauty would roar into life, spurting gentle fumes as Dad worked with the accelerator! I also vividly remember the two seats that it had; one, kind of heart shaped or the father’s seat and the other, shaped like a rectangle or the mother’s seat. When I was still small enough to wedge between the two seats, I would literally do that – sit in that teeny-weeny space between my father and mother and my sister would stand in the front. And so we were this picture of a perfect, ‘we two, ours two’, wellAs much as one hears talks of the need to reeducated, reasonably well-off middle class famimain ‘unattached’ to worldly things, I have seen ly, out for that occasional, much-sought-after myself grow attached to the two-wheelers that family outing! have been a part of my life. And that includes my father’s scooter – a cream coloured Bajaj And like every other woman from urban India, I Chetak that indeed stood for what the ads sym- did get my two-wheeler driving license a few bolised it as – the luxury item that a middle class years down, not by going to a driving school and family could boast of. The scooter was a few learning on those silly-looking Sunnys but by months older than my sister and remained with confidently driving my mother’s TVS Champ. In us till seven years back. I always thought that the retrospect, this moped was just that – a motorChetak had a very cute, round face (somehow I ised cycle, complete with pedals and all that, but 45
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I still think it was way better than Sunny (that one was more or less a cycle with a motor!) and my grandfather’s black Luna, which remained one of his proudest possessions till we did away with it and brought in the TVS Champ. I have really fond memories with the Champ because my mother and I used to go out frequently on it and we would even take turns and occupy the driver’s seat! The funniest bit was the maximum speed that it could muster was a mere 32 km/hr! Starting this vehicle would invariably be a test of strength for both of us, for, more often than
when it was introduced into the market in 2003, literally through recommendation and influence from a distant relative who held a high position in TVS and mine was perhaps one of the first of the Scooty Peps to hit the roads! The charming lady (I have always perceived my Pep to be a ‘she’, a very daughterly affection) would invariably make heads turn on Bangalore roads and those used to be such proud moments for me! I could sense some of my office colleagues and Paying Guest mates go green with envy. I remember waiting and waiting with bated breath for two whole months to make her mine and my independence just found a totally new meaning with the arrival of this vehicle! My Scooty Pep showed me the joys of driving an elegant twowheeler and I quite felt like I had conquered Bangalore roads, whizzing past other vehicles in Inner Ring Road, and driving down to as far as Electronic City. Well, the Pep was also my partner in action as I roamed the whole of Chennai as a post-graduate journalism student. Ah, those were days
not, it would spring into action only after we have attempted pushing the pedal a minimum of five times. We used to go shopping and visiting relatives on it; my mother would drop me at my examination centre during the twelfth board exams and I would drop my mother at the school that she used to work with, with great ease, thanks to the moped! The last but perhaps the most significant twowheeler of my life is the one that I bought for myself when I began working. It was a TVS Scooty Pep, bright red, and literally the apple of my eye, even today. I still own it and it has been Today, I don’t ride the Pep as much as I used to with me for ten years now. I bought the vehicle and would in fact love to (the Bangalore traffic 46
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gives me the creeps, though!) but I occasionally take my son for a small ride around where we stay. The Pep is one vehicle that has seen me through the ups and downs of my life in the last ten years and for all the madness in the statement that I am about to make, I like to admit that it is sincere – My heart still melts at the
sight of her and I often wonder what would life have been without her and all the other scooters, mopeds and bicycles that made their ways in and out as I grew up. Definitely bland, I would say, for, they were nothing short of adorable memory markers.
Anupama Krishnakumar loves Physics and English and sort of managed to get degrees in both – studying Engineering and then Journalism. Yet, as she discovered a few years ago, it is the written word that delights her soul and so here she is, doing what she loves to do – spinning tales for her small audience and for her little son, bringing together a lovely team of creative people and spearheading Spark. She loves books, music, notebooks and colour pens and truly admires simplicity in anything!
SEND US YOUR CONTRIBUTIONS TO editors@sparkthemagazine.com FEEDBACK feedback@sparkthemagazine.com WEBSITE www.sparkthemagazine.com Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Spark/240605447679 Twitter: http://www.twitter.com/sparkeditor Pictures without attribution/links are taken from Microsoft clipart gallery and are copyrighted. Pictures of vehicles in ‘Life on Two Wheels’ from Google Images
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