We Cannot Afford To Ignore Those Warning Signs Anymore

This is my second entry to Indiblogger's "The Moral Of The Story Is...." contest in association with Colgate. Check out My Healthy Speak Blog.

My first entry can be read here.

5 year old Raju wakes up with a start. For a second he wonders what woke him up. Then he sees his father – his thin figure swaying back and forth. He takes a menacing step forward and aims a kick at his cowering mother, completely missing her in his drunken stupor. Enraged further, he grabs the little alarm clock on the bedside table and throws it at his wife. The clock strikes her on the forehead before hitting the floor and smashing into a hundred pieces. Satisfied, he collapses on the bed and almost immediately starts snoring.

Little Raju had been huddling under his thin blanket with his heart beating furiously. Now, he slowly creeps up to his mother and buries his face in her lap. His mother strokes his hair and whispers to him, “It is okay Raju. He is drunk. He is not in his senses. All men are like this – remember how Mani maama created a ruckus yesterday? It is my fault, I should not have asked him why he came so late. Don’t worry, everything will be fine in the morning.” Raju nods silently and gradually falls into a dreamless sleep in his mother's arms.

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10 year old Raju shouts frantically at Lakshmi who is sweeping the floor, “Why are you not wearing your uniform? Hurry up! It is getting late!”

“Your sister won’t be coming to school anymore Raju. You get going,” says his mother.

“Why not?!” asks Raju perplexed.

“Well there is a lot of work to be done at home. I can’t manage everything all by myself can I? Besides what is the use of her going to school? Anyway she’ll get married in a few years; she’d better learn how to run a household properly.”

“But… but…” stammers Raju.

“You’re going to be late. Run along now!” says his mother, gently shoving him out of the house.

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12 year old Raju is walking back home from the market. He hears someone shout, “Hey Raju! Come and see what we’ve got here!” He turns and sees that three of his classmates are kneeling in the dusty alley looking at something. Curious, he goes over to find out what is happening. “Oh my God! What are you doing?!” he shouts in horror.

The boys have tied the legs of a puppy with a rope and are poking and prodding it with a sharp stick. The poor animal looks terrified and is obviously in pain. The sight moves Raju to tears. Noticing this Mahesh laughs, “Haha! Look at this cry baby! He is going to cry!” Kanna chimes in, “Are you going to cry? Are you a girl? Go home and wear your sister’s skirt!” Raju runs away with jeers of “You’re a girl!” “Cry baby!” ringing in his ears.

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16 year old Raju is lounging in the tea stall. As he is about to take a sip of the steaming hot masala chai, he hears his friend Kumar shout, “Super figure! What is your phone number darling?”

The girl in the yellow chudidhar, across the street, stops in her tracks and gives him a hard stare. Raju and his friends break out into sniggers while Kumar starts whistling. Disgusted, the girl turns and walks away. Kumar too joins in the laughter. He hitches up his shirt collar and says, “These girls think too much of themselves nowadays. How dare she give me that look? Everyone knows that she is a slut. I saw her come home late last night – that too in a miniskirt. She deserves a bottle of acid on that pretty face – that’ll teach her who is the boss."

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18 year old Raju is dancing in the movie hall. On screen, the heroine is gyrating and moving her hips enticingly in the latest item song. It is a peppy number with suggestive lyrics that has become a chart busting hit almost as soon as it was released. Raju and his friends can not stop clapping and jumping around to the beats. “She is so hot!” Raju thinks as the heroine gives him a sly wink and bites her lip, seductively.

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20 year old Raju is cruising in his auto looking for a fare. It is quite late. Just as he is wondering if he should give up and head home, he sees her. She is standing in front of that big, shiny building and looking up and down the road. She notices him and waves her hand to signal him to stop. She gets in. “K.R. Nagar,” she says and settles back into her seat. Raju turns the meter on and starts driving.

Thoughts are racing in Raju's mind. “What is she doing here so late? Surely, upto no good. Otherwise why would she be wearing such figure hugging clothes? I’m sure she is one of those snooty bitches who needs to be taught a good lesson.”

He looks around carefully. There is hardly anyone to be seen. He steals a glance at her in the rear-view mirror. She has plugged in her ear phones and is listening to some music with her eyes closed. A side road is coming up ahead. Raju turnes into it.

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In December 2012 the entire nation was shocked to hear about the brutal gang rape in Delhi. We all shuddered to think about the plight of the young woman and we all wondered how men could be so cruel. Want to know how? You have your answer above. While this is a much simplified version, it is by ignoring such warning signs that we, the society as a whole, create such monsters.

Raju’s mother must have told him that his father was a hooligan. She should not have justified his actions, thereby validating that it is okay if men use their physical strength to intimidate women. Instead of standing up for him and accepting that this is how men behave, she should have taught Raju that hitting a woman is wrong. She failed to see that the domestic violence that Raju grew up with as a child was a warning sign that told him that hurting a woman is acceptable.

Raju’s sister should have gone to school with him and studied just like him. Denying her an education and confining her to the hearth just because she is a girl, is a warning sign that implies to Raju that a women’s place is in the kitchen and that she should be limited to the house.

When Raju found himself feeling sorry for the helpless puppy and sympathising with it, he ended up being made fun of by his peers. In our world today, boys are not allowed to express their true emotions because it is considered too “feminine” to be sensitive. The message that is ingrained in us is that men are supposed to be steely and strong – if not, they are not man enough. Such gender stereotypes are a warning sign to us – it places unnecessary pressure on boys to conform to the restrictive idea of masculinity and equates masculinity with power. But we continue to ignore them.

There can be no Indian woman who hasn’t experienced street sexual harassment – or “eve-teasing” as it is lightly referred to. Yet, hardly anyone does anything to stop it from happening. Public spaces belong to us too and we have equal rights to be wherever we choose to be, with whomever we want to be with, wearing whatever we want to wear. But sadly, this is far from reality. A woman on the street is an easy target – to catcall, to bump into, to brush against, to grope, to pinch, to whistle, to ogle at, to threaten… and the list goes on. This deep-rooted social evil is again a warning sign – of how deep the rot runs. What do men gain from it? Power. The power to intimidate a woman, the power to keep her in her place.

Movies – the most popular form of entertainment for our masses. Movies are a huge industry in India and this industry regularly churns out “fun” in the form of racy numbers with obscene lyrics which serve no other purpose than commercial, cosmetic ones. Most of the songs - and often the entire movie itself - are focused on objectifying women, reducing them to a sum total of their body parts. These movies give out such loud warning signs as they shape the public psyche; the guy who hounds the girl incessantly will eventually make her fall for him, if a girl says no – oh she doesn’t mean it! Keep trying and she’ll say yes! But we don’t see these signs. We continue thronging to cinema halls and applaud the mindless trash that is churned out religiously, we make our daughters dance to risqué songs and show off to our friends, we take pride in our sons mouthing lewd songs and dream of them winning in reality shows.

The moral of this story is that it is high time we noticed these warning signs in our society. Remember, a man doesn’t turn into a monster overnight. It takes years and years of social conditioning – subtle messages that permeate his consciousness – until right and wrong becomes too muddled up and the day comes when he thinks being a monster is alright. Being a monster is fun. Being a monster is the right thing to do because it makes him feel like a "man" - not even realizing that there is a difference between being a man and a monster.

Spot the warning signs. Do not ignore them. Do your bit to prevent such monsters being created so that India – and indeed the world – will never have to bear witness to another Nirbhaya.

Room

Room by Emma Donoghue is a unique and intriguing tale that unfolds through the eyes of a 5 year old boy.

How long will it take for you to go crazy if you are locked up in a small room? Emma Donoghue’s Room is the impressive story of a little boy, Jack, who lives in a small room with his mother. The story is narrated by Jack and it is both sweet in its innocence as well as incredibly sad.  

The resilience and enterprise of the mother, called simply as ‘Ma’ is nothing short of amazing. Perhaps one’s survival instincts come to the fore only when one’s ability and strength are tested to their limits. I was thoroughly impressed by the author’s imagination. Anyone who has spent some time with kids will tell you how easily and quickly children get bored and how they seem to have boundless energy. To confine a child and his entire world to a single room, then, and to spin a gripping yarn based on it is by no means a simple task. I mean, just think about it for a minute: what on earth will you do day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year with a small child locked up with you in a tiny room with only a few bare necessities?

Room speaks to the reader on so many different levels and challenges our perceptions and perspectives. The contrast between a woman who grew up in the outside world and is now confined to the four walls of a room and a child who grows up only within the four walls of the room and is not even aware that a larger, outside world exists is sharp. For instance, while Ma wants the doors of rooms to be left open – because she can’t bear to see a locked door after years of forced confinement – Jack wants the doors closed – because that is what he is used to since birth, that is what he knows, that is what is familiar to him and offers him comfort and safety. This simple example so easily highlights the fact that we are afterall creatures of conditioning, who will however, eventually adapt to changing conditions if we have no other choice.

It also subtly drives home the fact that different people are entitled to have different opinions about the same entity – be it an experience or an object or even, a way of life. It simply means that each of us and thereby our thinking has been shaped by our own experiences and the conditions that we were exposed to; that our brains come to a conclusion about anything based on our side of the story – because that it is what it knows and that is our reality. It might seem strange to someone else, but that is because their reality is different from ours.

Room is set in contemporary times and the language is modern. There are many heart-in-the-mouth moments when you wonder if the book is going to end in triumph or tragedy and it kept me turning the pages.

It was while reading this book that the news about the Cleveland abductor who held 3 women hostage for many years in his home surfaced. The coincidence was somewhat disturbing to be honest. Here I was reading a work of fiction on one hand and the next thing I know, reality imitates it! (Actually the book is inspired by real-life events.)

Room was shortlisted for the Man Booker Prize in 2010 and is one of the most memorable books that I have savoured of late. Definitely a must read!

   

Don't Ignore Those Warning Signs

This is my first entry to Indiblogger's "The Moral Of The Story Is...." contest in association with Colgate. Check out My Healthy Speak Blog.

It was past midnight. All the everyday noises of domesticity had died down some time back. First the pressure cooker whistles that announced that supper was ready had fallen silent, then the clanging of pots and pans as housewives washed up the dirty vessels of the night had quietened, the soap opera on the neighbours’ TV had finally shut up; then the voices of men, women and children discussing the mundane details of their day had ceased as people gradually surrendered themselves to the night. I could hear a street dog howling in the distance and the lone tak, tak of the night watchman’s stick as he went on his rounds, as the 10 year old me sat chewing on her pencil – like I had been doing for the past hour.

“If Mala had 25 apples and Raghu gave her 10 more….” The words were starting to swim before my eyes. Arrghh! Why did maths have to so difficult!? Tomorrow was my maths exam and I had hardly finished studying half the syllabus. I still had to work my way through algebra and geometry and graphs and what not! My dad was looking at me, waiting for me to figure out the solution, but after a 10 hour work day, I could tell that his patience was wearing thin.

I was not a bad student but this was a common scenario at home before each of my maths exams. First, my mom would try to teach me. After I had used up all the reserves of her strength, my brother would chip in. After I had irritated him too, my dad would try his best. And after a sleepless night, I would walk into the exam hall dreading every minute of it. Once I had finished the exam I would feel elated – Done. No more maths till school reopens. Yay! And then of course, when the results are announced I would wait with my heart in my throat and eye the top scorers with envy.

My best friend Aruna, who was also my neighbour, was a maths wizard. Maths exams were a piece of cake for her. While I would be breaking my head, she would have finished prepping and would be happily lounging around in front of the idiot box – and the next day she would be all bright eyed and bushy tailed, while I looked like something the cat dragged in.

Maths was the only subject which I tried so hard – and yet didn’t do too well. The funny part is my dad, my mom AND my bro are bankers! But no matter how much hard work I put in I could never get my head around maths.

My feelings were exactly the opposite for my English exams. I always looked forward to getting my hands on my English books during my vacations and I would read all the books before school started. I waited eagerly for the English period and was thrilled when the exams came around. I loved writing long essays and was ecstatic when my papers came in with “Very Good!” or ”Great Job!” scrawled on it with red ink. When my English teacher praised me in front of the entire class, I had a wide grin plastered on my face the whole day.

I guess those were the earliest warning signs; but as it so often happens in life, I failed to notice them.

Warning bells are ringing!

Eventually it was time for me to choose my stream of study in the 11^th standard. Well, what was there to think about? Everyone knew that the Maths & Science group was the best. There was huge competition for it and Engineers and Doctors obviously had the brightest future. Did I pause to think if this is what I was interested in? Yes I did. And a little warning bell went off in a corner of my mind – Are you sure? It asked. But I pushed it out. Afterall, if all the bright minds were taking up maths and science then it must be the right thing to do, no?

And so life went by. Only, it got much worse. I could hardly pay any attention in class. Maths and Physics and Chemistry did not excite me – they simply bored me out of my mind. I found myself day dreaming with the page of formulas staring at me. I went for tuitions and my mind wandered away. Science group students face so much pressure that the weekly Sports period and - horror of horrors!- English period was almost always taken over by either the Maths or Science teachers. But I had to get high marks. My friends were all doing well and my brother too. They were constant comparisons and statements like “Look at him! Why can’t you study like him?” So I tried, somewhat half-heartedly.

But here and there were a few rays of sunshine. My poems got published frequently in our school’s magazine. Every time it happened, I pinched myself to make sure that I wasn’t dreaming.

Anyway, even if you aren’t Sir C.V Raman, hard work pays off to an extent and I managed to get a decent score in my exams. I appeared for various professional courses entrance exams too – but all with a niggling thought in my mind. Do I really want to become an engineer or a doctor? Is that what I really want to do? What about everything that you hear about following your heart? What about chasing your dreams?

BA English Literature beckoned me. I secured admission in a leading Arts college. I was among the top performers in the class and a bunch of us were chosen to attend a specialized course in English. I was thrilled. When many of the other girls bunked classes and sat around the cafeteria chit-chatting I was happy to be in class – listening to my lecturers talk about the classics. I savoured every moment of it.

But nobody could understand it. This is India. When thousands of people are vying for an Engineering seat why would anyone throw it away for an English Lit one? Whoever heard of such nonsense? Only dumb people who couldn’t get admission into any other branch took up Literature. It was an absolute waste of time. It won’t take you anywhere in life.

Or so my critics said. My instincts warned me “No, they are wrong! Stick to your decision!” But I ignored it – yet again – and spent four mind-numbing years, earning my degree in B.Tech IT. The first year I was also elected as the English Representative of my class but I was so relieved when the last day of college rolled by.

No more Java, no more C++, no more Data Structures & Algorithms, no more Digital System Design, no more Digital Signal Processing, no more maths, no more numbers, no more calculations…. But wait! I had a job in an IT company. Great! Air-conditioned offices, a big fat pay cheque at the end of the month, overseas travel and the pride that comes with introducing myself as a “software engineer.”

But you know that inner voice that sometimes just refuses to leave you alone no matter how much you threaten to punch it? Well that voice kept popping up now and again – warning me. “This is not what you are meant to be doing,” it kept insisting as I tried to design a flowchart. “What are you doing here? Why are you still here?”, it kept questioning as I took the late night cab home. “Why are you chasing a mirage when your destiny lies somewhere else?” it repeated when I was stifling a yawn sitting in a client meeting.

And just as that tiny little cavity which you neglected to get filled gets bigger and bigger until the entire tooth is eroded forcing you to fix that long pending appointment with the dentist, one day the voice grew too loud to ignore. I resigned.

The moral of the story is...

Have you ever had a bad tooth that was troubling you for a long time? And finally when the dentist fixes it, you tentatively test it out. You run your tongue over it gingerly and take a careful bite. Voila! No pain! Everything is perfect! A wave of relief washes over you. You sit back and enjoy the ice cream.

So, what is the moral of this looonnggg story? If you know what you want in life and if you know that you can be good at it - then don't ignore those warning signs. Believe in yourself and go for it. I traded in my settlement money and did a Journalism course. Today I work with a women’s magazine and I love it! I might not make as much money as in my previous job but this work motivates me and gives me complete job satisfaction. And it urges me to dream new dreams – maybe write a blog post and enter a contest like this one… maybe write a book, someday? Who knows, if only I had not ignored my warning signs maybe I would have written one already!

Poor Little Rich Slum

Poor Little Rich Slum by Rashmi Bansal and Deepak Gandhi offers us a peak into one of the world’s most famous slums – Dharavi. 

I’ve never been to Mumbai (so many years since it has been renamed and I still prefer calling it Bombay). It is the only metro in India that I haven’t visited yet but I have heard so much about it that it is high up on my wish list. I hope to explore it sometime in the future. However, I am quite sure that I probably wouldn’t be dropping into Dharavi. 

I really doubt if any Indian – except politicians, researchers, the religious, social workers or those who live & work in slums and those who avail of their services – would voluntarily step into a slum, unless forced to and especially not on a vacation. Somehow, Westerners seem to be enamoured by India’s slums. Call it an after effect of Slumdog Millionaire (a nice movie although why it won an Oscar is puzzling!) the spotlight seems to be suddenly shining on an entity which we Indians usually tend to ignore. Most of us are so used to seeing slums in our cities that we are pretty much oblivious to them. 

Mumbai’s famous slum has been covered a lot in recent times – but almost always by foreigners. Hence it is interesting to note that Poor Little Rich Slum has been created by Indians with a focus on the spirit on entrepreneurship in Dharavi. Also, I think that the book is written specifically for an Indian audience too - because there are a lot of quotes in Hindi for which no translation has been provided. The book has a coffee-table-book quality to it – although it is quite slim. It is made up of short, easy-to-read chapters, each talking about the bigger picture of Dharavi through the smaller stories of its inhabitants. 

The book is peppered with photographs – most quite fascinating while some, well, how do you capture filth and dirt beautifully? But the stories themselves and the enterprising people we meet during the course of the book are nothing short of inspiring. There are days when we, the privileged, seem to crib about the silliest of things in our lives; moaning that it is too hot to get any work done or that our neighbours were too noisy to let us sleep in peace. Therefore it is amazing to realize how much can be achieved with practically next to nothing – except courage, determination and perseverance. 

It is clear that the soul of Dharavi is its people. There is Jameel Shah - whose shoes are patronized by Bollywood biggies, Hanifabi and Salma – crusaders who are help women battle domestic violence, Panju Swamy – whose idli stall is Dharavi’s connection to South India, Faheem and Tauseef – the bright, young founders of Be The Local Tours & Travels and so many more resourceful people who have risen above the poverty, the uncertainty and the chaos that surround their lives; people who have not let their hopes and dreams to be overwhelmed by their circumstances. 

Perhaps because the negative aspects of Dharavi have already been well documented in mainstream media, this time the authors have tried to portray a different side of Dharavi by showcasing its positive points instead. Poor Little Rich Slum shows us that Dharavi is a lot of things to a lot of people; a place to call home, a workplace to earn a livelihood, a school of life, a novelty for tourists, a curiosity for outsiders and most importantly, a place that offers numerous opportunities for survival - but one which also pushes you to test your inner limits.

Anger: Vice… or Virtue?

I’ve always been someone who loses her temper easily. Everyone who is close to me know that I can fly off the handle quickly – you can say that my short temper is one of my flaws. I do think that I’ve somewhat learnt to control it – although I agree that I have a long way to go still. Now, I accept that blowing your fuse at the drop of a hat is definitely not a good idea, yes blind fury can be dangerous. However I also believe that the sentiment of anger has received far too much flak. It has even earned a spot among the 7 deadly sins. True, too much of anger is bad – but does anger by itself deserve to be tagged as an inexcusable vice? Is there not such a thing as "responsible anger"?

There are times in life when one needs to get angry. Take for instance the recent public outrage on women’s safety in India. It was only because the people of India were angry at the injustice meted out to one unfortunate young woman in December, that today women’s safety is being discussed at the international level and both the people and the government are atleast beginning to sit up and take notice.

Or let’s talk about the recent news about IPL spot-fixing. Were you not angry that a few louts cheated an entire nation? Your anger is justified. Or when you hear about child sexual abuse? When you see an alcoholic husband abusing his wife? Or when you find out that your partner has been cheating on you? When a rogue hand in a crowded bus sneaks up and pinches you? Should one not get angry? Well, I think you should. You have every right to be angry. You deserve to be angry. 

Some people may ask – what is the point of getting angry? What is it going to achieve? Indeed it is anger that prompts us into action. Whether that action is positive or negative is upto you. When someone passes a sexist comment on you and you don’t get angry, it simply means that you are too conditioned to accept sexism. You need to get angry. But if you get angry and then declare to the world that all men are perverts, that is not only stupid but it is also useless. Instead if you channel that anger and talk about it to spread awareness about sexual harassment, that positive action validates your anger. 

If you are stuck in an abusive relationship and allow yourself to be exploited instead of getting angry that you are being ill-treated, it can mean that you don’t love or value yourself enough. When you choose to leave a cheating partner, there will be nights when you feel all alone and miserable; when the urge to call him/her is eating you alive. But then, deep down, that tiny spark of anger must burn – reminding you of all the times that the jerk has let you down and hurt you and broke your trust. And that anger will give you the strength to help you let go of any self-pity or remorse and move on with your life. 

Or even getting angry with yourself. If you've set a goal and find yourself slacking simply due to laziness, get angry with yourself. Scold yourself . You don't have to put yourself down but you could give yourself a pep talk - by being angry at your laziness - and push yourself to achieve your goal.

In fact, I think more people should get angry. Angry enough to stop paying bribes and to report corruption. Angry enough to vote for responsible leaders and throw out the useless ones who have been looting the country forever. Angry enough to stand up and raise your voice against inequality. Angry enough to question wrong-doing.

People say that we can achieve true happiness when we are not affected by external stigma – but when you read about an 8 year old girl who was raped by a 60 year old man – your blood should boil; you should be outraged; your conscience must be troubled. Even the Gods get angry - Jesus got angry when he saw that the sacred temple of God had turned into a dirty marketplace, Kali is known for her fierce temper and Shiva’s temper is feared by one and all. And if the Gods themselves can lose their tempers, surely we mortals are allowed to get angry?

Hung Up On Accents

It’s funny how a language, any language, can be spoken in so many different ways. Take for instance, my mother tongue Thamizh. It has so many variations ranging from the robust Chennai slang to the melodious Coimbatore one, the sing-song Thirunelveli Thamizh and the rustic Madurai one. The same goes with Hindi, with various parts of India contributing to it with their own slang and accents. Likewise with English. My most favourite accent in the world is the British one but it so interesting to observe all the other accents and my! How many of them! Scottish, Irish, Cockney, Australian, Yankee, the Southern drawl etc, etc. While I cannot imitate any accent I am fascinated by the way an inflection here and a clip there adds so much layer to a language.

But one thing that definitely does not catch my fancy is the fake accent that many Indians seems to adopt after only a few years of living abroad. I can understand if someone with Indian origins but was born and brought up abroad or has grown up abroad speaks like an American (or British). Sure, I love listening to Hugh Grant or James Bond. But if you start rolling your r’s literally as soon as your foot touches foreign soil, I’m sorry buddy, but you ain’t fooling no one!

I fail to fathom the thinking behind putting up a fake accent. Can’t these people hear themselves speak? I mean, the accent is so fake that anybody can see through it. I cringe visibly whenever I hear it and just feel like screaming, "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!". Most people who suddenly seem to be speaking “American” cannot do it consistently. So half of their words sound American while the rest sounds quite desi and the amalgamation of this frankly sounds rather embarrassing. What is so wrong in speaking with an Indian accent anyway? As long as you pronounce words as they are supposed to be pronounced – as in Zero instead of Jero as I’ve heard some people say - and you are able to communicate smoothly, is it really so bad to speak the Indian way?

In fact, I’m not too sure with what accent I speak English but if I do have one that would probably be a Thamizh accent – which is natural as I come from Tamil Nadu. When I met with some clients in the US a few days after I moved there for work, an American lady told me that I speak English very well. As long as people are able to understand you easily isn’t that enough? Do people who speak with these fake accents think that it is beneath them to speak normally? Do they feel that they are somehow superior if they can speak in the American way? If so, well here’s news for you – you don’t. You simply sound ridiculous. So, I beg you, for the love of God, cut it out. My ears are aching. Enough is enough.