Being Bad

I was reading “Bad Feminist” by Roxane Gay the other day. In her book, she mentions how she came up with the term “Bad Feminist” and what it means. And what she said made a lot of sense to me. She says, “I embrace the term bad feminist because I am human. I am messy. I’m not trying to be an example. I am not trying to be perfect. I am not trying to say I have all the answers. I am just trying.. “ And that resonated with me a lot.

When I was a kid, I was raised to be a good girl. This was way before the word feminism was a part of my lexicon. Study well. Respect your elders. Don’t raise your voice. Cross your legs when you sit. Be kind. Smile. And when I was young, it didn’t occur to me to question any of it. But even then some things were obvious. I often heard statements like, “That’s not for girls.” or “Boys can do that, not girls.” and in some part of my budding psyche, I had the nagging feeling that something was not right.

I was raised a good girl because my mom was raised to be one. The term or concept of feminism wasn’t on her horizon either. Back then and honestly even now, the word feminist has only negative connotations attached to it. Like Gay says, ” I was called a feminist and what I heard was, “You are an angry, sex-hating, man-hating victim lady person.”” But I knew there was something unfair about the rules that governed a girl’s life.

The disruption in my good girl upbringing was thanks to my father. He still has a ways to go before being called a feminist because his feminism, while I was growing up, seemed selective. He was always very encouraging of my sister and me. He always encouraged us to dream big dreams, never told us we were limited by our gender, taught us to never believe anyone who told us otherwise, gave us the freedom to speak our minds and form our own opinions. But these freedoms still came with restrictions. He still controlled a large part of our lives and as we grew older the restrictions grew as well. You could say he was trying to protect us from an increasingly unsafe society when he controlled the way we dressed, or our use of makeup or our responses to harassment, but it was again not very “feminist” of him. On some level, I understand his concerns now that I am a parent myself, but back then it was stifling.

But his influence was huge in molding my character. I first came across the word feminist when I was around nine years old. I wasn’t exactly sure what it meant. All I knew (from my flawed understanding of the concept) was that feminists were bold. didn’t wear much makeup, believed they were as good as men and hated all men. See how flawed my understanding was? But I was all of 9 and since I had always been brought up to believe I was as good as the next guy, and since I was not very fond of the opposite sex at that point of time, I was all set to jump on board the feminist train.

It was also around this time I started noticing something else. Whenever I spoke my mind or stood up for myself, or expressed an opinion on something or tried to do something that was considered the forte of the male species, I was criticized or ridiculed. I was told I was being tough, that I wasn’t being “nice” and that I wasn’t behaving like a girl. Like Rebecca West said, ” I only know that people call me a feminist whenever I express sentiments that differentiate me from a doormat.” It was hard trying to make myself understood and trying to make others understand what I was saying. As I grew up, my frustrations only mounted. I never managed to make many friends because of my beliefs and attitudes. And back then, I was too angry and too upset as well to have a reasonable dialogue with people. I also didn’t want to get into trouble because I was still being told at home that I had to be a good student and respect my teachers etc.

When I started college, I tried hard to tone down my feminist leanings. My parents still controlled a large aspect of my life including what I wore and how I behaved in public. So I tried to dumb myself down and not express my opinions. I tried to become nice and likable and sweet. I said things like “I believe in gender equality but I wouldn’t say I’m a feminist.” Cue- eye roll. A lot of it also had to do with the fact that the word feminist was and still is used as an insult in the part of the globe I come from. Even now, women are being vilified and harassed for speaking their minds or demanding their rights. But that was also the time I started reading up more about feminism and its principles. As my understanding of the concept grew, so did my conviction that I was a feminist and that there was nothing wrong in referring to myself as one. I finally came to the realization that it wasn’t an insult, and if it was, that was a fault in the understanding of the person using it and not me.

From then on, to this day, I have proudly referred to myself as a feminist. And any time someone expresses opinions that reek of ignorance of the concept, I’ve always tried to educate them. I’ve learned to be my own person and stand up for myself and speak my mind. I’ve learned not to be nice, or compromise for the sake of social acceptance. I educated my husband who in spite of being raised by a very strong woman, was ignorant of the tenets of feminism. And now, I’m in the process of educating my son who I am determined to raise a feminist. I’m not saying I’m perfect. I still encounter situations where I see and hear people making wrong assumptions about the concept and I don’t respond. I still hear women disavow feminism and although I get angry, I keep silent. It is tiring- this battle to be understood and make others understand. Some days I keep it and other days I’m too weary to do battle.

Feminism also has its flaws. There are multiple schools of thought and multiple definitions. There is black feminism, intersectional feminism, ecofeminism, womanism- the list is endless. My thought is simple and coincides with what Gay herself believes. “I believe in equal opportunities for women and men. I believe in women having reproductive freedom and affordable and unfettered access to the health care they need. I believe women should get paid as much as men for doing the same work.” So when someone tries to tell me they don’t believe in feminism, I ask them this- “Do you think men and women deserve equal opportunities in every sphere of life?” And if the answer is yes, I tell them they’re a feminist.

And on the occasion of this Women’s Day, let us all, men and women, make an effort to better understand and embrace feminism. Remember what Kathy Bail said, “Feminists are just women who don’t want to be treated like shit.” And no one wants to be treated like shit, do they?

Going Grey

There are certain pivotal moments in all our lives. We are cognizant of some, we welcome some, some we are unaware of and some hit us like a bolt out of the blue. I had one of those moments at the beginning of this year- the bolt out of the blue kind. The day started innocuously enough. I rolled out of bed, trudged into the bathroom and as I started to brush, I caught sight of my mane of hair. I have short hair and I never tie it up when I sleep. Ergo, I wake up looking like Medusa. I tried to get my hair into some order with my free hand and then I saw it- a lone grey hair. I almost swallowed the toothpaste.

Being a woman and not completely immune to social conditioning try as I may, the sight of that lone grey hair put me in a state of panic. After all, that’s the one thing we are expected to dread and battle once we hit our 30s. First grey hair, then wrinkles. You get my drift.  “I’m too young to be going grey”, was my first thought. I’m 33 and apparently, that’s the age at which the average woman starts getting grey hair. So I’m a pretty average woman I guess. But I panicked. I felt geriatric. I could almost envision the walking stick and hearing aid and nursing room walls. I wanted to wake the better half up and scream at him about how the world was ending. But I thought better of it since he’d already gone grey a couple of years ago and had sailed through it without a second thought.  I wanted to book an appointment at my salon and start colouring my hair. I wanted to pull the offending hair out.

Then I decided to take a deep breath and stop panicking and think about what I was doing. Let alone the fact that I was letting something so superficial control my life, I was also acting like it would in some way alter the person that I am. My dad has always had scant hair and whatever little hair he had, had started turning grey in his 30s. My mom greyed only in her 40s (some awesome genes there). My grandmother greyed in her 30s as well, and she carried her greys gracefully. I spoke to my girlfriends. Some of them had gone grey in their late 20s and had been camouflaging it with colour since then. Some had started to grey and were contemplating colour. I slowly started to feel better. My vanity was appeased. And I wasn’t the only member of the “fifty shades of grey hair” club. Phew!

Then, I started to really think about it. Why is going grey such a bad thing? I mean when a man goes grey, he gets called “silver fox” and what not. Look at George Clooney. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that man with a head of black hair. I bet he’s never faced pressure to colour it. I bet he never lost a movie offer because of it. I bet no one called him sloppy for having grey hair. Why is it that only women have that kind of pressure to do something about grey hair? Why is it that only we are faced with whispers of “she’s letting herself go”? Can’t we be silver foxes as well? Or do foxes have only the one gender?

And then I decided to own my grey hair. It was the lone hair initially. Now, I have a few. They are mostly hidden under my regular black hair and aren’t all that noticeable. But every so often one will escape its confines and someone will point it out to me. And I shrug it off like its no big deal. I still have days when I look in the mirror and I feel conscious about the greys. I have days when I contemplate colouring them. But for the most part, I’ve learnt to let it be and not let it affect me. No offence to anyone who colours their hair and enjoys it. I just don’t think it’s me. And I know for a fact that the time and energy needed for its upkeep is not my thing at all.

So now, I’m waiting for all the rest of the greys to pop out. I might change my mind about colour. I might never do it. I don’t know. The only thing I know is that when they come, I’ll be ready for them. And the greys didn’t change me or my life in any manner. And I feel confident I’ll be able to deal with the wrinkles better. Oh, wait a minute, is that a wrinkle I spot on my forehead? The horror! The travesty! I’ll be right back…

Raising a boy

Parenting is hard. It is demanding, exhausting and mostly thankless. And as primary caregivers, it is often harder on mothers than fathers. You are responsible for your child’s well being- physical, emotional, mental and in most cases spiritual as well. You are constantly worrying about what your child eats, what he drinks, what he reads, what media he is exposed to, what sport he plays- the list is endless. But then, parenting has always been difficult. “It takes a village”, they say and they’re right. Only in today’s global society, you are the village.

When I was pregnant, I had this quiet conviction that I was going to have a boy. Once D was born, I was at a complete loss on how to raise him. I only had experience around little girls and I was completely flabbergasted on how to go about bringing up a boy. The initial months were easy- you just had to feed him and make sure he wasn’t too warm or too cold. As he grew, so did my disquiet. As a woman, I felt, I was more comfortable connecting with a girl than a boy. After all, all I had to do was teach her from my own personal experiences and those of my friends. I just had to teach her to keep struggling and fighting against the injustices meted out to her, in the same way I had been doing since I was old enough to understand being a girl put me at a disadvantage. I just had to teach her to not conform to society’s expectations from a girl, to fight against patriarchy, to tell her that being a girl did not make her any less of a human being. With a boy, I wasn’t sure where to start.

That was the time the MeToo movement started taking center stage and as I went about reading and doing research and wondering how to start parenting my boy, it hit me. Boys have never had to face any of the disadvantages that girls did. They were never told they weren’t good enough. Ergo, the challenges they faced were different. And they were complementary to the ones girls faced. I realized then that raising a boy wasn’t all that different from raising a girl. It is just that the issues they had to face were different.

The first order of business was trying to raise my son to be as gender neutral as possible. Which meant not conforming to the “blue-pink” madness when he was little to choosing his toys, the books he read and the messages he was exposed to. I’ve always let D pick out his own toys. I’ve never made a conscious effort to direct him to more “masculine” toys like trucks and cars. Granted he loves them but he also loves to cook and play house and I’ve never stopped him from doing those. I’ve never asked my son to “toughen up” and not cry. I’ve taught him in turn that everyone cries and it is yet another way to express emotion. The one time he told me that only girls wear pink, I told him no- colors are a personal choice and it’s not just for girls. He’s dressed up in skirts and tiaras and in superhero costumes. He’s sensitive and frequently needs to be held and cuddled and kissed and I’ve told him that’s a healthy way of expressing affection. He helps out with household chores- cooking, cleaning, folding the laundry, taking out the trash- all traditionally considered to be the forte of girls. I also make sure he sees his dad doing the same things so he understands that household chores aren’t divided based on gender. I’m doing this to make him self-sufficient and also to instill in him this belief that gender doesn’t define what one does or becomes. Hopefully, when he’s older and is bombarded with the kind of sexist messaging and imagery that is so prevalent in today’s world, he will remember these lessons he learned as a child and be strong enough to stand up against them.

This is a world of angry men and angry women. Women’s anger is righteous and stems from centuries of being oppressed, controlled and relegated to the sidelines in all walks of life. Men’s anger stems from a lack of control. It tries to silence the voices of others including women. For ages, men have been taught that they are in control of everything- from their destinies to politics, economics, society, and women. Why else would we still have men making decisions on women’s bodies? Every single mistake they ever made was justified with the nonsensical argument of “Boys will be boys”. They’ve had the world handed to them on a platter and have constantly been told that they could be anyone and have anything they wanted. The whole world was full of successful “men” for them to look up to.

But today, women’s voices are louder than before and it has led to a fundamental shift in the definition of what being a man entails. Today, being a man has come to mean being an ally to women. At least, that’s the way I prefer to think of it. And this means, instead of sticking to the age-old ways of raising boys, we need to raise them more like we raised our girls- to be sensitive, to be compassionate, to be helpful, and most of all to fight against the established world and social order that treats girls differently from boys.

Mind you, I want my son to be tough. I want him to be tough in the sense that he’ll stand up for what is right. I want him to be tough when he stands up against racism, bullying, patriarchy. I want him to be tough in the face of pressure from peers and from a society that will try to fit him into the stereotype of being a man. I want him to be tough when it comes to standing up for his beliefs and convictions. I want him to be tough enough to go against centuries of beliefs that make him the favored sex. I want him to be tough enough to fight eons of deeply entrenched patriarchal systems. I want him to be tough enough to shrug off the venom that will unfailingly be directed at him by a lot of his own gender when he chooses to be an ally for women. But beyond all this, I want my son also to have that innate toughness to choose the kind of person he wants to become- the courage to be his own person not shackled by anyone’s expectations including mine. That’s the toughness that I will welcome and strive to foster in my son.

I am constantly trying to raise my son to not be defined by his gender. And I know there are millions of mother’s like me around the globe trying to raise their son’s to be allies to their daughter and to girls around the globe. Hopefully, these little boys won’t be corrupted by the toxic world environment we see and read about every day and when their time comes, will be, along with the girls,  harbingers of the kind of change the world so desperately needs.

PS: After reading this some of you might feel that a lot of what I’ve written has been generalized. Like the fact that all men have it easy or that all women are angry about their lot in life. Well, there are men who have had tough lives and women who are perfectly happy in patriarchal societies but for the most part, what I’ve mentioned here it true. My writing might also seem very straightforward but as we all know, there are no blacks and whites to anything in life. I’ve just tried to articulate to the best of my ability what I feel and what I’m trying to do. 

Amma

Today is my Amma’s birthday and as I was going through all that I have written here, I realised that she rarely features here. That doesn’t mean she’s not a part of my life. In fact, the first thing I do every morning, is pick up the phone and talk to her. I’ve wished her a happy birthday on this space before, but this time around I want this to be more than just a birthday message. 

My Amma would define me and the brat as typical “Daddy’s Girls”, and it wouldn’t be false. We adore our father to no end, but she’d have no idea of the impact she’s had on our lives. I especially realise it now, after having had D and become a mother myself. While growing up, Amma was the one constant presence in our lives. Achan was always busy with work and things, which left Amma to be primary caregiver to me and the brat. Back when we were kids, we always assumed Achan had the more important role. After all, he went to work and made the money. Amma was simply home all the time. As we grew older, and things like a career and work and all started making their appearance on our horizon, our main aim was to not “end up” like Amma. We didn’t want to “waste” our lives being housewives. And when we made such proclamations, Amma always supported us and said we should definitely have a career and be able to stand on our own two feet. 

I went and got myself an MBA degree and I believed my life was set. I’d have the career I had always wanted and I’d never have to introduce myself as a “housewife”. But then, life always has different plans doesn’t it? I got married to S and ended up in a foreign country where finding a job even with an MBA proved pretty much impossible. For the first time in my life, I didn’t have an aim to work towards. I was a housewife. The one tag I dreaded was the one I was stuck with. And then I realised just how much work being a housewife entailed. I had an endless list of things to do. Making food itself was proving to be a challenge for me. 

Then I became a working woman and it wasn’t easy then either. In spite of S being an equal partner, I was still finding it difficult to manage a lot of things. The turning point for me, came when I became a mother. The nine months of carrying D around in my tummy and bringing him into the world itself made me look at Amma in a completely new light. She wasn’t “just” a tag anymore. I realised how much she’d been through to be mother to me and the brat. Trust me, just the morning sickness any mother goes though should be enough to make their kids their indentured servants for the rest of their lives. And as D grew, and I became a “stay at home mom”, I realised how misunderstood I had been all along about Amma. Being a mom was no easy job. And doing it without any help was even harder. 

Now I know how much Amma had silently influenced me and the brat. She’s done her share of drama to keep me and the brat straight and she still excels at it but her influence has been more slow and subtle. We understand her more as we grow older. She’s taught us not to believe in tags stuck on us and not to be limited by it. She taught us to dream big and that we could have it all- work, home and our interests. She taught us to be kind to everyone, even when they didn’t deserve the kindness. She taught us when and how to take a stand, and when to let things go. She taught us not to compromise on our wants. She also taught us that there was nothing wrong in taking care of others, or putting their needs first when the situation demanded it. She taught us that not everything we do needed to be visible to everyone around us. As long as we knew what we were, that was enough. She taught us to be childish and take joy in simple things. She taught us to be unapologetic about the way we are. She taught us that there was nothing wrong in being a “housewife” or a “stay at home mom”, and these tags were all what we made of them. She taught us nothing in this world was completely black or white. She taught me what it means to be a companion, wife and mother. And to this day, she continues to be our friend, confidante, sounding board and what not. 

And as she turns another year older, I wish I get to see her sail through life with the same joie de vivre that I can only hope to emulate. Happy birthday dearest Amma. Love you more than words can say. Thanks for always being around for me and the brat and thanks for keeping the whole lot of us sane. 🙂

(Image Courtesy: Google Images)

F is for..

And I am back with F people. Its a trifle early but who cares, right? I had some time on my hands and was in the mood to write, and, in any case, I had skipped a couple of weekends so let’s consider this me making up for lost time. Without further ado, here goes.

F is for Family- which I treasure. Although Tolstoy said “All happy families are alike”, I beg to differ. Every family has its own definition of happiness. The same goes for mine too. We are a crazy, maniacal, dysfunctional bunch. Sometimes, to people on the outside, we might seem like lunatics, the way we yell and scream at each other. You might even take bets on who will end up murdering whom. Yeah, we are that bad. But I assure you, we are as thick as thieves and although we are all allowed to yell at each other and scream and what not, the minute an outsider steps into it, the tide turns. And if you are wondering what kind of deranged family I come from, don’t worry, we are not all that bad. We also laugh and smile and cry and have sensible discussions and what not.

F is for Friends- ahh.. how do I begin? They say friends are the family that you choose for yourself and it couldn’t be more true. People who read this space frequently might know most of my friends. I have written about them time and again here. I have a motley bunch of people who I keep very close to my heart. They are the ones who know me inside out, who have been with me through thick and thin, who have seen me at my best and my worst, who have held my hand through some absolutely trying times, and who still don’t hesitate to kick my ass if required. Some of them have been in my life since I was in school, some as recently as a few months back. Some I knew from the get go, I would always be friends with. Some were a revelation. I consider myself lucky to have come across these people. If you are reading this, you know who you are.

F is for Feminist- which I am. I am a feminist. Period. And I’m not worried about admitting it. Wiki says “Feminism is a collection of movements and ideologies aimed at defining, establishing, and defending equal political, economic, cultural and social rights for women.” Is that such a bad thing? Does wanting this make me a bitch? Then so be it. I refuse to believe that having a different set of reproductive equipment makes one gender superior over the other. Women have the very same rights as men in everything and I believe it is every human being’s right to fight for the same.

F is for Fashion- OK. I do not claim to be an expert on this subject. I do not follow fashion trends blindly and neither will you find me dressed in the latest collection from some obnoxiously expensive designer. Not at all. But I do believe in dressing well. I do believe in certain classic tenets of fashion- like a perfect pair of jeans or a LBD or a classic silk saree. These are things that can never go wrong on anybody.

(Image Courtesy:becomeempowered.wordpress.com)

F is for Fashionista- How can I forget the Fashionista when I mention Fashion? Teehee. She is one of my closest friends, a wonderful human being, amazing daughter, wife and mother, kickass friend and someone who has stood by me through a lot. We have had our misunderstandings and falling outs but we have been lucky enough to have gotten through all that to where we are now. She makes my days that much more happier and brighter and I wouldn’t know what I would do without her.

F is for Faith- which is a tricky thing to explain. The faith I am going to talk about here has nothing to do with God or religion. I am talking about faith in myself and in people. I do not consider myself a very strong person. I am always beset with doubts and fear. I think a million times before I take a call on anything and everything. I have had misplaced faith in people. I have also had people who have kept my faith. But more than that, I have time and again found it difficult to have faith in myself. For most things, I wonder if I am strong enough or capable enough. Very rarely though, I get this deep seated feeling of calm in my heart and I hear this tiny voice whisper, “believe.. have faith,, you can”.  You get my point, don’t you? See, I told you it was difficult to explain.

F is for Freedom- and I don’t mean freedom from things. I mean the freedom to do things when I want and how I want.The freedom to exercise my rights, freedom to be myself, freedom to dress the way I want, freedom to eat ice cream at midnight, freedom to do what I want with my body.. I could go on but am sure you understand now. But like someone once said, “Your freedom ends where my nose begins”, I believe my freedom to do things should not encroach on someone else’s.

(Image Courtesy:television2day.wordpress.com)

F is for F.R.I.E.N.D.S.- Of course I was going to write about this. If you know me even the teeniest bit, and have been reading this space for any amount of time, you will know how crazy I am about this series. I watched it for the first time only in 2009 (yeah I was an ignoramus till then), but I was hooked right from the very first episode. I mean who among us will not feel a connection with those six people? I can claim to know a Joey, a Chandler, a Rachel, a Ross and a Phoebe in real life. I myself am a little crazy Monica. And beyond being able to relate to the character and the situations they found themselves in, I loved the brand of humor that the series perpetuated. Without being overly sleazy or offensive, they still managed to make a commentary on possibly every single facet of human life. I don’t think any other series since, has even come close to achieving that.

Oh and before I forget, F is for Facebook, without which I would find it extremely difficult to keep in touch with people and bug you guys with my writing. 😀

So long then!! Ciao! 🙂

Supermoms!!

There are times in your life when you think you know everything that is to be known about something and then suddenly, one day, the bubble bursts and the world comes crashing down on your head. And as you lie under the rubble of your imaginary world and try to extricate yourself you keep wondering why no one clued you in on how things actually were. It happened to me in the last couple of weeks which is precisely why you guys did not see me on this space. Wondering what the hell I am rambling on about? Let me fill you in.

From the time L’il D was born, I have been with my parents. D is eight months old now and in all this time, I have never had to take care of him all by myself. True, there have been shopping expeditions and marriages and certain occasions where I have had to handle D for a few hours here and there, but other than that, I have always had my Mom and Dad to fall back on. But a couple of weeks back, I had to head to Singapore with S for some paperwork and we had to take D along.

I was nervous and apprehensive when S told me the news. As the day of our departure neared, I started getting more and more terrified. But my Mom bolstered my courage saying she had handled me all on her own when I was a kid, and handled me and the sister when she was born, and she had done all this on her own with nobody’s help, and this was in addition to cooking and cleaning and packing Dad off to office and supervising my homework and all. Now us new gen kids have this thought that since we live in faster, crazier times when compared to our parents, we are better equipped to multi task. After all we have been doing it for ages. Plus I am an MBA grad to boot and managers are born to multitask, right?

(Image Courtesy:welcomelittle.com)

Thus prepared, I boarded the plane for Singapore. D started howling the minute the plane picked up speed on the runway and nothing seemed to calm him down. I kept trying to shush him while also trying to not show my mortification. I kept thinking that I had become one of those parents that other passengers go home and tell their families about. “You have no idea. There was this annoying kid on the plane that refused to stop crying and his mother was so inept she couldn’t even get him to keep quiet. These new gen moms I tell you, absolutely clueless”. While these horrifying images were playing in my mind like the trailer of a bad science fiction movie, D thankfully stopped crying and decided to sleep. Score one for clueless mom. I leaned back in my seat with a serene smile plastered on my face. D was also an absolute angel on landing that by the time me and S had gotten to our apartment I was drunk on my success and telling my Mom this was all a piece of cake.

Come evening on our first day in Singapore, D started getting cranky. Now evenings are when D is mostly cranky so I didn’t worry much. I was sure once he had had his evening walk, his bath and his dinner he would be the golden boy once again. But boy, were the Fates against me and how! D screamed the minute we got into the lift to take him down. He screamed when we tried to take him to the park for his stroll, he screamed through his bath, quieted down for a little while as I fed him his dinner but started screaming right after. No amount of comforting on my part would get him to calm down. S was staring at me helplessly. I was on the verge of tears and was thinking of how soon I could get back to my parents. I felt like an absolutely awful mother who couldn’t even get her crying baby to calm down. D cried for an hour almost and then exhausted he fell asleep. I thanked all my Gods and wiped my eyes. Relieved and exhausted, with visions of food and sleep dancing around in my brain, I put lil D on the bed. The instant that happened he woke up howling again. My little one refused to sleep on the bed. And for the two weeks I was in Singapore, I sat day after day, night after night with D in my arms, eyes bleary and bloodshot, my legs going to sleep, drinking copious amounts of coffee to stay sane.

And in those two weeks, all I did was take care of D. S made all of D’s food, put the clothes through the washer and dryer and folded them, cooked when he could, ordered in most of the time, made me vatfuls of coffee and went to work.

(Image Courtesy: blog.tiffinohio.com)

It was during those two weeks that I realized how absolutely ridiculous the term “stay at home mom” was. The person who coined that term should be given a masterclass as to what being a full time mom entails. I have a few amazing friends- absolutely lovely women- who have chosen to take time off their careers to spend time with their kids. After my two weeks with D, I have new respect for them and this huge decision they have taken. Even the most hectic, crazy day at work is cakewalk compared to a day with D. I swear!

And these women I know, are absolute superheroes. One of them cooks, cleans, takes care of baby, travels, updates her cooking blog when she can and takes time to keep in touch with her friends regularly. Another one does all this, takes courses on coursera and blogs every week. Yet another one is also a frequent blogger, an amazing mom and has time to ping me on whatsapp or meet me for lunch once in a while. The list could go on and on. You guys are marvellous. I don’t know how you do it!

Then there are people like me and a few other friends who have the luxury of being able to work, of not having to cook or clean or take care of our babies full time. All thanks to an amazing support system of parents and grandparents and all kinds of help. And although at times I felt like an awful mother for not being able to manage my baby or do everything on my own, I have made peace with the way I am. Maybe I am not cut out to do everything by myself. I am who I am. I love my kid and if I had to stay at home full time for him, I would do that in a heartbeat but I like the way things are now and I want it to be this way for as long as possible. But the next time someone tells me “Oh! She’s just a stay at home mom”, they will be in for the dressing down of their life!! Thats a promise!

Baby News People and a Comeback I hope.. :P

It has been almost six months since I last posted something on this space. SIx months is half a year. And in this half a year, my life has changed irrevocably. The last time I was here, I was an entirely different person. I was free. I had tons of time on my hands and relatively little to write about. I was going through a transformation- possibly the biggest one of my life and it was killing me to keep quiet about it on this space. Yes my darling peeps, I was pregnant. I honestly wanted to shout from the rooftops and call up each and everyone I knew and tell them that I was gonna be a mommy. Hell I wanted to even tell random strangers on the street..Er, I know one look at me and they would figure it out for themselves but still.. 😛 I had a healthy, happy baby boy (who will henceforth be known as li’l D, short for Little Devil on this space) in September and since then my life has been topsy turvy. I feel like Alice down the rabbit hole to be honest. There’s too much happening and I am still trying to cope with everything. Maybe in another twenty years or so I will get there.

Since its been too long and since I am very short on time, I am going to revert to my favourite way of writing- in bullet points. So these are some random things I wanted to tell you guys.

– I hate being away from this space. I hate the fact that I hardly get two minutes to myself in a day and even then I am in no frame of mind to write anything. But I love the way my life is right now. I love the uncertainity, the clutter, the dirty diapers, the gurgles, the smiles and sometimes even the wailing. 🙂 But do I wish I had time to write or read or do the stuff I want to do, like maybe go get a haircut? At the risk of sounding like a bad mother I should say that I do. Sometimes I wish I could be Supermom and do everything and not have a hair out of place while I am at it. I know, wishful thinking right?

– I hated the fact that I couldn’t tell the world about my pregnancy but certain things merit a tight lip and this was one of those things. They say the first three months are the mandatory period but I decided to go the whole hog and wait till until the little rockstar was out and about to make my announcement. True, I am around five months late but being a mom is no cakewalk. Plus I had a myriad of other reasons not all of which I am comfortable divulging on this space. So, moving on..

OK, now onto some stuff about being pregnant. No, no.. Don’t logout. I am not going to tell you about how wonderful it is and how absolutely positively awesome the whole experience was and all. I am going to be brutally honest.

– At the risk of pissing off most of the women on the globe who think being pregnant is the best thing that could happen to you I have to say I didn’t like being pregnant all the time. True, I liked the tiny flutters and the kicks and the movement and listening to his teeny heartbeat and all. But trust me when I say for the most part, it wasnt pretty. Not being able to eat things you want to eat, suddenly hating even the smell of things you used to love so much, waking up in the morning and running to the loo. Oh God! The morning sickness!! For five whole months my best friend was the toilet bowl. It was like the world’s longest hangover. And trust me when I tell you whoever coined the term morning sickness should be beat to death very slowly with a teeny hammer. it is extremely misleading. There’s nothing that’s confined to just “morning” about this sickness- its all the time!! Oh and that pregnant glow people keep talking about? Its just sweat from all the hurling one does almost every two or three hours. Its true!!

– I hated the hormones that made me weep at the drop of a hat. Or made me fly into a rage at silly things. Or made me laugh till my stomach hurt. Or made me go all gooey inside at the sight of baby clothes and such. Considering the fact that I am one of the last people in the universe who has gooey reactions to stuff, you can understand what I am talking about.  I was so moody I could drive a monk up the wall!! Thank God S is one of the most patient men on the planet.

– I hated the swollen feet and my limited wardrobe choices. I hated walking around in flip flops everywhere I went. I hated not being able to see my feet. I missed painting my nails. I hated the tent like tunic tops I had to wear. Towards the end I was so big, the only things I could wear at home and be comfortable were nightgowns or S’s shorts and t- shirts!!

– I hated living in the bathroom for the major part of my days and nights. Oh am not talking about morning sickness. Once that was done, my baby deicded that my bladder was a squeeze toy. And since the lil’ devil was a night owl, I spent almost all my nights in the loo. 😦

– I hated the fact that S was far away in Singapore, and I was handling being pregnant by my lonesome in India. There were tons of things to be done and I had to handle everything on my own.

– And most of all, I hated the unsolicited advice I got from people- family and otherwise. My doc was this rockstar- totally chilled out about everything. Even when my lil one gave me a few scares, my doc was as solid as a rock. He never said no to anything, never freaked me out and even when I was in the OT he was as relaxed as ever. But others around me just kept on and on about how their pregnancies were,and what they did, and how I had to do things, and acted like they knew better than the doctor. It was beyond annoying. And now that I have had the baby, things are even worse. Its like till you have a baby, people keep asking you about when you plan on having one. Once you are pregnant, people keep telling you about everything you should and shouldn’t be doing- whether you ask them, or not. And once you have had the baby, its like some unspoken signal to the world in general to give you any advice they seem apt on how to bring up your baby. Most of the time I try to grin and bear it while mentally counting to ten, and resisiting the urge to sock the advisor. But believe me, its just beyond hard. Not to sound boastful, but I am a relatively intelligent, educated woman. If I can get pregnant, carry a child, and give birth without half the world telling me how to go about doing it, I think I can handle bringing up a baby also on my own. Granted, everyone is allowed to have an opinion on my child rearing abilities but, unless I am asking you for advice, kindly refrain from saying anything. I understand you are eager to share your wisdom with lesser mortals like me, but I swear if one more person tells me I am holding my baby wrong, or what I am feeding my baby is not the best thing for him, I am going to channel Muhammad Ali.

(Image Courtesy: Google Images)

OK, rant aside, I didn’t hate everything about being pregnant.

– I loved the fact that I had my family around, minus S, but even then it was great to be pampered and taken care of. The brat was like a surrogate husband- making sure all my cravings were satisfied and talking to the tummy and making sure I listened to good music and read good books and watched good movies and series and stuff. (although she wanted the baby to be like Sheldon, which was a teensy bit scary.. heh..)

– I loved the little movements. I can’t call them little. My lil’ devil was practically playing football inside my tummy but it was fun to feel the twists and turns and jabs and what not.

– I loved listeing to his tiny heartbeat. The first time I hear it at the doctor’s I was in awe. I simply could not digest the fact that I was growing a tiny human being inside of me. It was scary and exciting and exhilarating and a whole gamut of other emotions all hitting me at the same time. And no, I did not cry. I was just grinning like a fool. 😀

– I loved the fact that my pregnancy suddenly made me more sensitive to the world around me. Not the mood swings or the nesting instinct or anything, but just the fact that I started thinking more about the kind of world my baby was coming into, and what I could do to make this a better place for him. I went through a phase where I was depressed at the carnage and the negativity that is the norm in today’s world. I so desperately wanted to change the world- for the world, and the people in it to be perfect for my lil one, until S made me realize that we llive in a flawed world and a dystopian society and I couldn’t change it overnight. I can’t change the world but I can definitely teach my son to be a better human being. Of course, I have changed a few of my habits too. These days I am a fanatic when it comes to conservation of resources and not using too much plastic and stuff. Call me kooky, but its just the way it is. My baby has made me a better person and I love that.

And now that I am a mom, my days are chock full of things to do- and none of it is for myself. Its all about lil D now. 🙂 I work around his routine. Not that I get any time for myself. I do try to squeeze in stuff for myself once in a while- like reading, or talking to S or a friend, or going out for shopping or even sleeping in. Thank God my Mom and Dad are around or I would have gone crazy!

And before you readers start thinking that this space is now going to be a mommy blog, stop right there. Yes, my lil one is going to feature on this space like the brat and S and the rest of my family but he won’t be the subject matter of every post. There are things I choose to share here about him and things I won’t. So relax, I don’t plan on being one of those mothers who can’t talk about anything other than their babies. This was just to catch you guys up on what has been happening to me in the half year that I was absent from this space. So hello to all you guys who are still reading this blog and sorry for being awol. I am back now and I promise I will be as regular as I can be. And thanks a ton for sticking around and not giving up on me. 😀 I love you guys!!

A Letter to the Girl Child..

Today is National Girl Child Day and the first thing I read in the paper today morning was this. How very fitting!! After all the protests and impassioned speeches and heart- rending articles written about the issue, this is what it all boils down to. 10 years!!! Oh yeah! That’ll stop them. I cannot fathom why a great nation like ours that boasts about a tradition of revering women, a nation where you have as many goddesses as gods chooses to treat the issue of the safety of women so lightly. I was beyond frustrated when I read the report today morning that I thought I wouldn’t write anything here. But then I thought, I have to say something for my own kind. So here goes.

Dear Girl Child,

Today is your day, or so the powers that be have decreed. Why do we have a National Girl Child Day?, you wonder. There is no National Boy Child Day. At least I couldn’t find one. You see, our country, irrespective of being a place where women are worshipped and revered ( as you might have heard), is not a safe place, especially for our kind. Its a miracle you were even born. Most people in this country don’t prefer a girl. After all a girl is too much of a burden- your education, getting you married off- its all going to take a lot of money. And its not like even if you get a job your earnings are going to go to your parents. Its your husband’s family that has a right over it. Also, people think that girls tend to rebel more in their teenage and are more liable to bring “shame” on the family by their actions. So most often you don’t see a world outside of your mother’s womb. But if due to some reason that’s not possible and you are born, they’ll still try to get rid of you. Statistics say around 3 million girls are lost to infanticide in this great nation every year. Am sure the actual number is much higher.

Lets say you survive this too. Growing up isn’t easy. You face discrimination everywhere. You may or may not be sent to school. If your parents decide educating your brother is better for them then you’ll be stuck at home doing the household chores. Lets say you survive that too. Even after you get a job you will never be promoted or paid as well as your male colleagues. And if you thought childhood was a happy place, think again. Not in this country. You have to afraid of everyone. The bus driver who drives you to and from school everyday. The uncle next door who’s always giving you chocolates and asking you to come in and watch TV with him. The guy walking in your direction along the deserted road. You will be taught to dress “properly”, to “cover up”, not to show skin, to wear your duppatta properly, to hold your books/ file in front of you, to ignore catcalls and comments and lewd invitations, to ignore lustful stares and groping hands. Good girls should never react.

And if you do have the guts to react, trust me everyone will blame you. Their favourite phrase is “you asked for it”. Irrespective of your age, you will always get blamed for whatever happens to you. You got groped on your way home from school? Why you should have been more careful! Someone passed lewd comments about you? Well, you would have provoked him in some fashion. And even if something horrible happens to you like rape, the first question out of people’s mouths will be “What was she wearing? And why was she out so late at night?”. It could have happened at 7 pm but still. You might have been wearing the most conservative of clothes but still, you will be blamed. After all women should never be as good as men. You should always be a few steps below him. You shouldn’t enjoy the same independence, the same freedom he enjoys. As night falls, you should retreat to your homes. The night is for just the men.

Oh this is a democracy you say? There are rules. Yes there are. But none to protect us my dear. Even if the most heinous atrocity is committed against you, the max someone is going to suffer is 10 years in prison. The law makers in our great nation say “life imprisonment” but in a nation where circumventing the law is so easy it happens on a regular basis you can be pretty damn sure that’s never going to happen. So even if someone violates you and kills you the maximum justice you are going to get is seeing the perpetrators going to prison for maybe 10 whole years! You see there are tons of “human rights” groups in the nation that think that taking a life is a crime. Your life does not come under the purview of their belief system I guess.

Shocked? I can imagine darling. I am just stating facts here. You were born into a country where there are double standards. Our nation hasn’t progressed much from the days of the Manusmriti. For the most part, we are still chattel to be passed on from father to husband to son. Our roles are just those of a daughter, a wife and a mother. Any identity we may have outside of it is not important. We might have had women politicians and actors and singers and industrialists, but we will still be judged by the clothes we wear, the way we behave, the roundness of our rotis. You and me, we live in a nation that doesn’t love its women my darling, and on this day all I can wish for you is that you have the courage to be yourself- a person not a doormat, your own person, with the freedom to be what you want to be, go where you want to go and be an individual with your own thoughts and opinions. I wish you have the courage to stick with your beliefs no matter what. I wish you have the spirit of a warrior. And I hope in a few decades something changes in the world.

Love,

Pooh

PS: It being National Girl Child Day today, the newspapers had some well- meaning companies/ institutions publishing messages to save the girl child. One of them, for an educational institution no less, read  something like – no girl, no mother, no life. Is that all what women are needed for? For the propagation of the species? It was a new low point in my day.

Why???

I have been meaning to write about the Delhi rape case for a while now. Millions of lines have been dedicated to her both on and off the blogosphere. I was outraged the first time I read about it. I am outraged at every single one of such crimes against women. But then, I chose to remain silent this time around. You ask me why. Because I have lost trust in my country and the way its judicial system works. For that matter, I have lost trust in my country- period. In the people, the law makers, the politicians, the men and even a certain percentage of the women. 

The country seems more galvanized than usual this time around- probably because of how heinous the crime was and also because the poor girl passed away after fighting to stay alive for so long. I admire her spirit, her will to live in spite of having gone through something so horrific I am scared to even think of it. But again, I have no hopes of her getting any kind of justice. We read about crimes against women with frightening regularity in the media. There are protests and “shocking reports” done by media houses, panel discussion, the token few “netas and guardians of Indian culture” who come out and try their level best to lay the blame on the woman, there are the the political parties who express their shock and sympathy at what happened, the ones in power who make hollow promises to look into the “matter and make sure justice is served”, the usual blame games ensue and in the midst of all this ruckus the real issue gets buried.

We ask for more policemen on the streets, a speedier justice system. What is the point of having more policemen on the streets if they blame women for being out on the streets after dark. What is the point if they try to pin the blame on the way you are dressed, the time you were out, the part of the city you were at? What is the point when they question your morals, your upbringing?

What is the point of having a speedier justice system when the one we have has no provision for capital punishment for even the most heinous of crimes. What is the point when even after being convicted most of the perpetrators fall through the cracks in a few years? 

My blood boils, I am angry that something like this happens in my country. But then, I have grown to expect this from the great nation I was born into. I know I am not safe on the streets. I know people will judge me by the dress I wear, the friends I have, the number of “male” friends I have. I know people will judge me by the traditions I follow or don’t follow. If I wear a tight top or a short skirt, I am a slut. If I have too many male friends, I am a slut. If I am bold enough to express my opinion, I am a slut. If I wear a dress and go out to party with my friends, I am slut. If I was out at night, I am a slut. If I am teased on the street, that is because I asked for it. 

I am a hundred percent sure a majority of the people in my country think of this brave woman the same way. What was she doing out so late at night? Why was she with a guy? Why did her parent’s let her go out? She must have been wearing provocative clothes. In a way, it is good she’s passed on from this world- a world where the victim is even more victimized after the crime, a world where what she was wearing has more import than the suffering she had to go through.

I am tired of writing about these things. I am tired of talking about such things to my friends. I am tired of protesting. I am tired of signing petitions. Why should I do all this when I am so damn sure nothing will ever come out of it? My country is a country that does not love its women. It has chosen to disown us, to look upon things that happen to us with a certain kind of passivity that is shocking. It has chosen to let its daughters die on the streets, it has chosen not to help them in any way. Please do not address our great nation as “Bharat Mata” anymore. It is laughable really.

To “Damini” or “Amanat” or whoever it is that you are. I hope you are in a much better place now. I hope you have found peace. And I apologize to you on behalf of my country. I apologize for the fact that you might never get the justice that is your due and I beg your forgiveness for the callous way in which you will forgotten in a short while. There will be new victims filling the media and very soon you will become another date like 26/11. I am sorry. Please forgive us all…. 

Let Me Make the Choice…

I haven’t blogged in a while. It being Diwal,i and the sister being in the mood to trawl shopping mall after shopping mall, a couple of days were spent in the hunt for the perfect dress and perfect shoes for various occassions. Then came Diwali, which is what I wanted to write about today but then, something in the news caught my eye and the festive mood disappeared instantly. The death of Savita Halappanavar, in a hospital in Ireland because she was refused an abortion on religious grounds was disturbing on a lot of levels. There have been arguments supporting and opposing the decision of the doctors. It is illegal as per Irish law to abort and that was the reason the doctors used to deny Savita what could possibly have been her only chance of survival.  They said as long as the foetus had a heartbeat, they could not sanction an abortion and all this while, she was already in the middle of a very painful miscarriage.

 

Maybe she would have survived had the doctors listened to her pleas, maybe not. Maybe the doctors knew better. They are professionals after all. I do not care. What disturbs me the most, is the fact that these people who support the so called “pro- life” laws are forgetting the fact that in their quest to save one life, they just as easliy took another. I do not understand why someone should be denied something just because the land they are in happens to believe in a certain religion and that religion dictates that abortion is sin. If your religion dictates that abortion is sin and you will only adhere to what your religion says then go ahead, do not abort. Take the chance. But why try to impose your belief on someone else? Especially someone who happens to live by a completely different set of religious beliefs. What country can base its laws on a scripture? And that too a scripture that is applicable to only a certain percentage of the population?

 

I am not a philosopher or a theologian. I cannot comment on the finer nuances of what has been decreed by the scriptures. As far as I am concerned, its not about being pro- life or anti- life or anything. Its all about being pro- choice. Human beings the world over have the freedom of choice. Be it in any sphere of life, they have the option of deciding what they want to do. Why then, was the same courtesy denied to Savita? Or for that matter, why is it denied to millions of women the world over. I am pretty sure there are women the world over who are denied the freedom to abort. I am also sure there are women who are forced to abort against their will. I cannot even begin to think of the number of mothers forced to kill unborn girl children in our very own country every year.

 

For me, as a woman, its all about being given the choice to do what I want to with my body. It is my body after all, my uterus and I should have the freedom to decide if I want to keep my baby or not. There are people who condemn abortion. They have their reasons in doing so. There are people who consider children a blessing and think people who do not want them have something fundamentally wrong with them. They are free to believe what they want to. I personally know women who are womderful mothers and women who do not want children of their own. They have made their choice.  I find nothing wrong with that. Being a woman, and being the person who is primarily responsible for a child, I find it only fair that the woman gets to have a say in the matter. It is her choice and that is what is of paramount importance.

 

I cannot predict what the outcome of this incident will be. There are protests in Ireland as well as in India against the callousness of the hospital and the doctors. There are protests demanding legislation abolishing an archaic law that gives precedence to scripture over human life. All I know is that if I were ever in a position that Savita was in, I would like for the choice to be mine. Not something decided for me by religion or by law. Let the choice to live or die trying be mine. Its just the right to choose that she asked for, and its exactly only that much that women over the world are asking for..