When The Muse Strikes

Last week we were invited for dinner to a distant relative's home. So, armed with a bouquet for the lady of the house, the four of us arrived at the posh M.R.C.Nagar residence of said distant relative. Since I cannot keep saying 'distant relative' all the time, let us name the poor man. Let us call him....Raja.

Raja stood at the gate to welcome us. We exchanged greetings and warm smiles before proceeding inside the house. Being a shy and retiring sort (you're laughing?), I hung back and entered the house last. Only to have my senses (mostly that of sight) assaulted by blinding light. Once my eyes had adjusted to the light, I realised that it was not any supernatural phenomenon. It was the living room. It looked like something out of a crazy Arabian Nights movie.Let me explain.

The largish boudoir...er, living room, had two double sofas and a small divan type with two single seats. All these items of furniture were made of black leather. Sexy you say? There's more! Upon them were thrown, rugs in black and gold. The double sofas had shell shaped cushions, again in-you guessed it-golden colour. Strangely, the cushions did not nestle in the corners of the sofas, but sat perched precariously on the sofa backs, threatening to topple over, but defying gravity by some miracle. The divan, on the other hand, was adorned with heart shaped cushions which were embroidered with red sequins. To achieve a 'cute' effect I suppose. The whole seating arrangement was pulled together by a massive glass center table set over a tiger skin carpet. I have no idea if it was real.

One corner of the room was done up in a jungle theme. It had this large tree trunk with 3 branches. Upon the branches sat a variety of stuffed toys, including a stuffed tiger. Over the "tree" hung a chandelier, only the second in the room. The first and more prominent one hung over the massive glass center table mentioned previously.

Another corner attempted an Oriental theme. There was a huge golden (need you ask!) laughing Buddha. Above it was a marble shelf of sorts, upon which were arranged several more laughing Buddhas in various sizes. All golden of course. Oh! But I stand corrected. There was one which was not golden - not entirely anyway. An Indonesian Buddha made of green glass and wearing golden ornaments. All other spaces which were not covered in gold, leather or sequins had mirrors. You were faced with an image of your bedazzled self every which way you turned.

Polite conversation, in this setting, was a challenge. The room and its adornments were really the only options available, in terms of conversation pieces. So sitting under a large fur lined Japanese fan that hung on the wall, we tried our best. "Where did you buy this trinket" and "It must be a full time job to take care of this house" and the most insincere one " How lovely. You have an artists eye"

My sister-in-law and I were eventually overpowered into silence by this vista. My husband was bewildered by it and kept looking around in slack-jawed wonder. Only my brother-in-law seemed in control - but then he had Dutch courage to fortify him. We also forgot the real reason why we had come. To get fodder for the family gossip mill-on forbidden tales of love, money and live-in relationships.

Disclaimer: All persons, places and shiny objects in this narrative are fictitious. Resemblance to any living person, place or shiny object is for me to know and you to guess!!

Ever since I've started blogging, I've developed an interest in reading what other bloggers write. Particularly on subjects which are of interest to me. So I wander from link to link, eagerly perusing what others have to offer. If the post moves me, I even leave a comment.

So yesterday, I chanced upon a blog written by a Mumbai based gentleman. He seems to be quite a prolific writer, poet, and what-have-you, having 7300 blog views to his credit. He's interactive and responds to each and every comment that readers leave behind. His responses are positive and respectful. Needless to say the blog is very popular.

A post by this blogger titled 'Indian Male Libido Going Haywire?' caught my eye. The blogger refers to an article in the Times of India about the rape of minor girls from affluent families. He then goes on to wonder why these crimes occur. Is it because the Indian male is frustrated?.

The post seemed harmless enough. Even socially relevant. Rape is after all a very serious crime that affects the lives of women. But the comments were another issue altogether. One comment in particular concerned me. I paste an extract here: "...girls are equally accountable by being so sexually arousal..they are found arrayed with so meagre outfits..that u can;t help shunting ur eyes from her...". (Pardon the poor english!)

I just had to retort to this. Here is what I said and also the response it elicited:

Deepa:

Hi John. You have raised a very important issue about violence against women. However, I am a little concerned about the last comment that Prasun made - that girls are equally accountable by dressing sexily. It is like saying that one should blame a woman for not taking sufficient precautions to prevent her rape. Ours is a democracy. Society and the State have a RESPONSIBILITY to ensure safety of women especially from violent crimes. Safety and protection are a RIGHT of women. Besides, as most feminists will tell you, rape is not about sexual arousal at all. If it was, how does one account for children being raped? Old women past 60 being raped? Young boys getting raped? Rape is about wielding power over the powerless.

Blogger John said...

Deepa,

Thanks for your comment, I respect your view that rape is about power, but disagree with that contention.

Rape may be about power, that I don't know, but rape is also about arousal. I read somewhere that a man can get aroused once every eight minutes. Unlike in the middle ages (with more women working and all) he lives in a society where women have right to work and earn a living he is surrounded by women everywhere he goes. Imagine a man being aroused every 8 minutes in the office and on the street by a sexy figure, a revealing dress, a show of undergarment (all of which openly happens in today's society), etc. and a man would become something of a sex fiend if he doesn't have a wife or cannot restrain himself.

In cities like Bombay around half the population consists of men living alone. That's all the more reason for women to exercise caution while dress, and not following the trend of wearing sexy clothes advertised to sell products. Because if a man is aroused he will exercise his libido over an innocent minor or someone who is not in a position to fight back.

I guess this fact of men's sexuality has not been understood (rather has been misunderstood) by women's libbers. Hope to put this aspect in the right perspective.

J

I am really at a loss how to deal with this mindset! This is from a man who, going by his writing, seems to be highly educated, erudite and well informed. He probably represents the mainstream thinking on this issue. That it is not the responsibility of the state to provide a protective environment for women. A man will do nothing to 'control his libido' but a woman must give up her freedom of choice and wear conservative clothing to prevent getting raped.

This opinion is just a polite and polished version of what girls at a Mangalore pub were subjected to at the hands of the Shri Ram Sene not long ago.

Oh! How will women ever throw off the shackles that enslave them if men do not partner with them in the endeavor?

I was so distressed by this exchange, that I just had to write a post about it. I would really like to know what my readers think about this. Or better still, please visit the blog: http://johnpmathew.blogspot.com/, read and leave a comment for the author.

It happened on the 7th of May 1998. Two days before my convocation ceremony. I was going to take the afternoon train to Mumbai to attend it. It being a defining moment in my so far uneventful life, I wanted to look spiffy. An ambition seriously impeded by the absence of some crucial toiletry items. So I set off immediately to rectify the error. Er...I went shopping that is.

Shopping required that I cross two main roads - Sarojini Devi and Sardar Patel. Both arterial roads in Hyderabad (my home town)and by definition very busy and chaotic. Add to it the quaint Hyderabadi penchant of never obeying traffic rules...and you have, to be cliched - a recipe for disaster.

The lady was obliging and I negotiated Sarojini Devi Road successfully. Emboldened by my success, I ambled along, under the cool shade of my flower-patterned umbrella, day dreaming about the degree that would soon be mine. But, Sardar Patel, Iron Man that he is, proved more difficult to conquer.

I stepped onto the road and like a good pedestrian, looked first right, then left - or was it first left then right? Whatever be the case, I looked to see that all was clear. Then I moved forward in an attempt to cross the road. I say attempt since I did not, in fact, manage to cross the road. This was mainly because I was ambushed by an elephant.

When I recovered my breath, I saw that it was not an elephant, but a scooter. I also noted that I lay sprawled on the road in an undignified manner and my flower patterned umbrella was blowing down the road. The terrified face of a young man loomed above me. I realised that I had been knocked down by a speed demon, driving on the wrong side of the road in order to get into a bye-lane.

Enraged,I yelled : "Are you crazy?! Cant you see where you are going?" With hindsight I realise, that these were rhetorical questions. It was plain that the answer to the first was yes, and the second was no. I scrambled onto my feet, wincing as a burning pain registered on my right knee. It was bleeding. I saw red (pardon the pun).

Confronting the trembling young man, I resumed my tirade: "What's wrong with you? Which idiot gave you a driving license? Look what you've done! Where is my umbrella!" I spotted it flying past and commanded the boy to fetch it for me. He did so without demur. "What is your name? And don't try to lie to me!" And so it went on.

Finally, when I ran out of steam, the young man stuttered his apologies. I was not in a mood to accept them, beleaguered as I was, by visions of myself hopping across the college lawns, to collect my degree certificate from the chief guest. Naturally, one cannot hope to look spiffy on one foot. Coming out of my tortured visions, I noted that the young man was still carrying on with his apologies. "....anything you say. Anything at all. I'm really sorry".

I did think of asking him to drive me to the shops and back. Perhaps it would not be quite the thing to be chauffeured by the person who brought you close to death's door. "Well, then you better drop me home".

What happened at the convocation you ask? I managed pretty well I must say. A combination of painkillers and sympathy from friends and family. I gave 'swan like glide' a whole new meaning!!

I do not think The White Tiger deserved a Booker prize. I do not think it deserved anything at all. I'm sick and tired of authors making a commodity out of India's poverty and earning millions from it. But lets talk about the book first.

It is a mediocre story, set on a theme that is as boring as it is over done. Poverty, corruption and the great rich-poor divide. So passe! Don't get me wrong. There are many books and short stories written on Indian poverty - many of them in regional langauges - brilliantly conceived and subtly executed to to convey the message. Adiga's story is just too in-your-face. And as described by another blogger' crudely moralising'.


What is wrong with this book is that Adiga went over the top. He painted everything black or white - more black than white if you ask me. He even went so far as to name it Light and Darkness, a sledgehammer approach to imagery which leaves the reader cold. The story moves on, in ever darkening morbid circles, outlining everything that is wrong with India - urban, rural - nothing is spared. No one has any redeeming features. And so the protagonist moves through the story, lying, deceiving and finally murdering his way to success, all the while calling himself an entrepreneur.

Adiga seems to be under the mistaken impression that, by writing a superlative version of all that ails India, he is raising awareness about it. In an interview he says: "...nearly a thousand Indians, most of them poor, die every day from tuberculosis....I've tried hard to make sure that anything in the novel has a correlation in Indian reality." Depicting reality is one thing. Many others have done so and far more successfully than Adiga. But trashing your country, every which way you turn, is unforgivable. It makes me want to kick his Australian immigrant ass.

Incidentally, Mr. Adiga, if you wanted to correlate to Indian reality, what did you do with the 50,000 pounds of prize money?

So how did he win that Man Booker prize? Here is my theory - I think the English were rather pleased with his depiction of India. It kind of assuaged their hurt at being relieved of the 'white man's burden'. And they decided to do their good deed for the day by rewarding Adiga. Run along then! How else can you explain why Adiga triumphed over Amitav Ghosh?

I'll end now, on a positive note (unlike Adiga). The book has one redeeming feature. Its a quick read.

Last week I participated in ceremonies to honour the memory of a beloved family member. The ceremonies went off well to the satisfaction of friends and family. This blog post is inspired by a few incidents that took place during these ceremonies. Rituals and traditions are generally considered a normal part of the Tam-Brahm life style. But, to those who believe in an alternate way of life - one that upholds equality, equity and inclusiveness, it is a bitter pill to swallow.

For starters, one needs to understand and respect hierarchy. Lets start with women. In the best of Brahminical traditions, the older women hold all the knowledge (and therefore power) about the intricacies of rituals. You see, though men PERFORM the rituals, women ARRANGE it. And in order to arrange it, one needs to be well versed in the requirements of the ritual - what flowers and fruits are required, on which side should they be placed, which direction should one be facing and so on. Here it should be noted that dowagers are the most aggressive in wielding their power, since their true source of power has departed the world. More on that later.

Next there is the idea of 'purity and pollution' or 'madi' as is known in Tamil. I have come to the conclusion that the Tam-Brahm obsession with madi is the single most significant reason for water scarcity in recent times. Clothes must be washed in readiness for rituals the following day. The washed clothes must not be touched by anyone, else they become 'polluted' and must be washed again. You cannot perform rituals unless you are 'madi'.

Now let's talk about the whole concept of 'Sumangali'. Literally, it means ' a married woman'. Hindus are obsessed with the sumangali. A woman's sole purpose in life is to become or remain a sumangali. Being a sumangali completes a woman's identity. She is always expected to wear the symbols of sumangali-hood on her person: vermilion, thali (mangalsutra) and toe rings. A sumangali is thus, self actualised in her lifetime, and a candidate for sainthood should she pre decease her husband (which is highly recommended)!

During last week's ceremonies, I committed the ultimate sumangali faux pas, of pottering around sans thali/mangalsutra. I was pounced upon by an older female relative and severely reprimanded for my oversight. I oscillated between yelling 'Its my neck and my thali! I decide if I should wear it or not!' and strangling her. Alas, coward that I am, I contented myself with a mumbled reply and swift exit from the room. I spent the rest of the day avoiding her.

Cut to serving up meals. Meals have a pecking order. Old timers will tell you that it is the men who should eat first, though children can also join in the first service. Food is served on banana leaves laid out by women. This is followed by an elaborate ten course meal with the women (usually older) fiendishly pressing more and more food on the hapless eaters. After this, the men retire for a brief respite leaving the women to clean up after them.

Finally, the women sit down to eat. This eating also has certain objectives. The minor one is to fulfill nutritional requirements. The main one is to ensure against left overs. This is because cooked food (especially ritual feasts) may not be refrigerated nor eaten for another meal as per the tenets of madi. Regardless of whether your belly is full, food may be piled onto your plate if it is in danger of being left over. Any protests that your belly should not be treated as a garbage bin are ruthlessly brushed aside.

To say that I was stressed out is putting it mildly. I have always held the view that women bear the burden of tradition while men are its beneficiaries. To be pulled into the quagmire of rituals and tradition as an active participant was unpalatable. The unequal and gendered division of labour for a cause that holds little meaning to me, went against my core beliefs. But, being my marital home, there was little I could do, except fulminate to my husband.

The silver lining in this circus was my husband. He did me proud. Among all the men present, he was the only one who ventured into 'women's turf'. Though he was shooed away many times, he did attempt to help. He served the women when they sat down to eat. Though he was teased for wanting to 'take care of his wife', he soldiered on, giving as good as he got- shoveling huge quantities of food onto the leaves of the senior women, insisting that it should be eaten since food cannot be left over! Once I even came upon him on all fours, cheerfully scrubbing the floor after the previous batch of people had eaten. Now tell me - isn't that a prince among men?!

Perhaps all is not lost yet. Perhaps things will change. Despair is not an option for those in the business of social transformation. Another world is possible. Let us hope that it happens in our lifetime!

Kudos to the Chennai Traffic Police! They're really trail blazers in putting mobile technology to innovative use. I learned this on my drive back home this evening - at the traffic signal past the T. Nagar bus stand - (yes....the area does seem to be the stage on which the drama of my blog unfolds!) to be precise.

So there he was, a rotund traffic cop, standing right at the center of the traffic junction. He cut an interesting figure, reminding me of Mr. Goon of Enid Blyton fame. A chubby dravidian version of Mr. Goon amidst honking buses, cars and swearing drivers (my irate self included). And behold! Mr. Goon was busy speaking into a mobile phone as he ably directed the traffic around his ample self.

Well! Talk about multi tasking. Perhaps he was filing his daily report over voicemail or issuing instructions to his subordinates at the control room. Or maybe he was directing traffic at another junction through his mobile. The possibilities were mind boggling. The digital age made another world possible.

What a role model. I'm sure drivers of vehicles that passed him, took a leaf out of his book and multi tasked with their mobiles as well. I am filled with admiration! And for those of you who say its illegal to talk on mobiles as you drive (and / or direct traffic?), I say this: Stop splitting hairs and think of how you can embrace the myriad possibilities of the digital age.