Monday 27 November 2023

Bring back Kali’s rage

Few weeks ago I came across an article about goddess Kali and how her iconography has been changing over the years. I found the read interesting; it was based on the observations of an anthropologist

Eleven days ago, which was the first day of Diwali, it was also Kali Puja for those who celebrate in eastern India. In Guwahati, I was very excited to dress up in my Mami's mekhela saador (my ritual upon arriving in Guwahati is to raid her wardrobe, and plan to wear all the new ones she had purchased; I'd only ever bring along the few basic blouses and a petticoat). With the cousins, the ritual of photographing each other was followed by the making of reels, and only then, the walk to the nearby Kali puja pandal.

But upon arriving there, I was shocked and disappointed to see the idol of Kali.
The lower half of her body was covered with a red and gold cloth, which is not at all common in this part of the world, but typical as a chunni in north India.
Around her were white and silver decorations of paper and glitter, which is usually visible with Durga.
Kali's three hands were empty; there were no weapons. Her fourth hand carried the head of a demon.
Her body was also covered with that mesh of white and silver.
Her face was blue. Someone there said that the Kali here is not Dakshinakali, whose face and body are black.
But the eyebrow on that blue face was decorated with white dots; the chandan art dots that adorn a Bengali Hindu bride.
Her red tongue was out, but devoid of the rage that's associated with Kali, that makes her a formidable force among humans. 

Kali in Bhangagarh in Guwahati

I remembered what I had read in that article, about the emergence of Kali: “Durga becomes Kali at the request of the gods, who have failed in their attempt to defeat the demon Rakthabija. Rakthabija has a unique boon: every drop of his blood that touches the Earth gives rise to a clone of himself. Kali, in her ferocity, ensures that not even a single drop of blood touches the ground. She drinks his blood with her tongue out, holding a bowl to catch any blood dripping from Raktabija’s severed head. But this part of the story is losing its prominence. Most of my students were only aware of the other part of the myth – of Shiva pacifying her.”

I wondered if what I seen at the Kali Puja in Bhangagarh in central Guwahati was my lone experience. So I sent out a small invitation—where else other than on social media—asking people to send me photos they may have taken of the idol on that same day, wherever they may be located, in Assam or West Bengal.

The photos trickled in. The similarity to the description of the article I had read and what I had observed, were uncanny: Kali was, as one friend commented, “femasculated.” The Kali that stands tall in her rage and stripped off all the illusions and lies of the world, was now standing stripped of her rage.

All of these photos of Kali Puja from 12 Nov 2023 were sent to me by different people. And they are all from Jorhat in Assam
(L-R): Teliya Patti, Malowali, Digambar Chowk, Gar-Ali

As I stood before Kali that night, with flowers in my palm during the onjoli offering, I remembered the words of Dr Jennifer Mullan, where she put rage on a pedestal. She wrote: “Rage is information. Rage is wisdom that hasn't been translated. Rage is a messenger. Rage is our boundary enforcer and protector. Rage can be healing when nurtured and understood. It is a spiritual, psychological, physical and political practice that invites us to sacred inquiry.”

I stood before Kali, talking to her, telling her that her rage cannot be diminished by the niceties and coyness that are projected onto her, in an increasingly let's-be-careful society. Her rage is what we feared and then celebrated, in her form of nakedness. Of her being willful, the un-tamed, the perfect in all of this. And this cannot be covered with glitter. What are we running away from confronting in doing so?

I stood before Kali watching my rage rise up while dressed in my fineries, while taking a vow, looking into her prettied eyes, that rage is necessary to see clearly the hypocrisies and brutalities of the world and the masculine dominance embodied in all institutions, from families and marriages, to universities and governments. And greeting this rage alone is the only way to heal our beings, our communities, our forests and rivers and occupied lands. May we stop glossifying Kali as a way to avoid seeing that what has to be seen and confronted. That requires the bareness of our chest and womb and souls and conscience.

Monday 31 July 2023

"Settling Down"

"Where are you these days?" the 50-something man asks me. He, like me, grew up in the same building where my mother continues to live. His mother, owing to her age, lives with him and his family, in the US. He moved there eons ago; his older daughter who is now entering college, was born there.

So yes, he is settled there.

And I? I have been living in Ireland since nearly 18 months. Before that, I was in Japan for two and half years (of which seven months were spent in India, washing hands, and being horrified by the ways in which the poor were forced to face the COVID-19 pandemic).

When I respond with my current location, pat comes the reply: "What are your plans? Settling down there?"

I ask if there is any specific definition of "settling down". I know exactly what it means, but I no more give into answers that do not feel true. 

I get a responsewith an emoji of coursethat for a gypsy, there is no single place where they feel rooted.

And that is the response that made me lose my rootedness (but only for a moment, of course).

How do we define "feeling rooted"? Why is it assumed that because I am living in different placesalbeit, with all the challenges that it brings, from finding a new safe circle of people to finding someone to go the doctor with to making sense of the hidden rules of a cultureI am not rooted or settled?

The person writes to me that yes indeed, being measured against traditional standards is unfair. And yet, he did ask it! And went on to say that misunderstandings are easy when standards of measure are unknown.

But it is the 21st century. Womenand menought to be asked better questions than those about "settling down". 

I am called a deflector. I mince no words in saying that I find this question annoying and lame. 

Yes, I wrote those exact words, adding that if older people ask such archaic questions, it's somewhat understandable.

I have stopped speaking to 2 other female friends who are just about as old as I, who would, over long-distance only-birthday phone calls, ask: "So, what are your plans to settle down?"

These are women who have, in their own definitions, "settled down" themselves: big wedding, a husband, a child, a house, a mortgage, a job, a housemaid, a car. At the very least, this list.

I would respond to them with mutterings of, "Oh when I meet the right person!"

To other people who have zero impact on my lifeand me on theirsand when I see them haggling with their kids, I would respond, "Well, I don't have one husband because that way I can have more than one boyfriend."

All of of those responses were a lie. They were the real deflections.

But my truth, as it happened over this brief chat conversation, was viewed as deflection. At least my current truth, of not wanting to feed into those questions.

Perhaps it is true that I don't feel settled at times. Heck, even those with the best of security gadgets and a life woven together rooted together with love and fear, tend to feel unsettled, more than I do. 

But this conversation was not a misunderstanding. We can ask people better questions, whether on the phone or on a chat conversation, or when we meet them at some wedding after half a million years [Hmmm, maybe I should make a list of better questions to ask people when you meet them after a long time? One of my personal favourite is, "How have you grown as a person in the past year?"]

Why do we need to project our ideas of being settled onto others?

Right, why do I need to project my ideas of being settled into someone's somewhat innocent question? Because it is laced with assumptions of what a life "should" look like.

So what is my definition of settling down?

Kamladevi Khatana: Tesgaon, Rajasthan. 

Farmer. Wife. Mother. Grandmother.

Asked me why I am walking. And I would respond. 

Asked melike almost every single human I encountered on the Out of Eden Walk"Are you married?"

"No."

"Good. Don't marry. Else you will be stuck with husband and kids and susu-tatti."

She, like many other older women, said versions of this. And surprised me with their candour: the older they were, the sharper their words of clarity. 

Is this what "settling down" means? Then I don't want that.

I know, I know: this is not the only marriage movie. Times are changing. Marriages are getting somewhat equitable, if not equal.

And yet, that question still comes: When are you settling down?

Men are asked शादी किया है ? (Have you committed the act of marrying?)

Women are asked शादी हुआ है ? (Has marriage happened?)

We assume that for both, it simply translates to "Are you married?"

For men, marriage is an action of their own. For women, marriage is something that happens to them.

And so, "settling down" comes with those heavy ideas of what happens to a woman versus what she chooses.

So here is my answer: is this land of rainy summer and erratic buses and happy drunks and terrible PhD stipends and dirty toilets and a Sinéad O'Connor and revolutionary songs, I am settled. I am rooted. I am happy. Not everyday, but mostly. Because: I am living my dream, mostly. 

And I have been settled in this way since my 20s, even though I was made to feel that this is not sustainable (yes, living on couches is not sustainable; investing in a brilliant duvet from Nitori in Japan is one of the few items towards that consumerist ideal of "being settled".)

And if living one's dream is not the definition of being settled, I don't know what could be. 

Because, it seems like, with being settled within their definitions, everyone is also living their dream? I really hope they are! (Except for the super-rich who fill the holes in their souls with more stuff).

Anyway. Ask better questions. 

 

Wednesday 14 May 2014

India's Obsession With Skinny Airhostesses

Two years ago, I boarded an international flight for the first time in my life. It was a British Airways aircraft, and I was flying to Boston, USA, with a layover at London, UK. The aircraft was huge indeed. Since the first flight was from Bombay to London, there were Indian as well as non-Indian (all White) crew members. The Indian women were slim and near-skinny, but what struck me most was the rest of the White cabin crew. They were not slim. And they were good at their jobs.

The next flight, from London to Boston, had an all-White crew. This time too, there were several men and women in the crew who could be best described -- in the words of today's moralistic media -- as "fat". I was nearly shocked to see them. The fact that they wore smart uniforms and were swift in their job of taking care of both kind and cranky passengers, was not enough to get my mind off their fatness.

Through my eight months in the US, I took several flights on many different airlines, and witnessed the same thing: the cabin crew's body size or age did not matter. Their were amazing in their job, and the air-hostesses on South West Airlines had a special knack of joking on the aircraft, about wearing those safety belts and the mad landing in truly windy Chicago. One air-hostess seemed old enough to be my mother, yet was very strict on baggage placement rules. She was doing her job. One male cabin crew member was huge -- he had Hrithik Roshan-style biceps and a pretty good big bum, yet not for a moment did he get stuck in the aisle or slow down in his pace to meet the demands of passengers on a long flight. The envelope given to every passenger on a British Airways flight, to make a donation to some NGO, has the photograph of an air-hostess with a child. The air-hostess has a beautiful smile, and is, well, fat. And I am guessing they picked the photogenic of the air-hostesses for this photograph.

http://static.guim.co.uk/sys-images/Guardian/Pix/pictures/2010/5/13/1273747484623/British-Airways-cabin-cre-006.jpg
British Airways cabin crew (Photograph source: The Guardian/Getty Images)

Looking at them, I could not for a moment forget the cabin crew members of airlines in India, and the increasing insistence on their image. Why, so many fairness creams ads have depicted a successfully-fair girl to have secured a job as an air-hostess. Many years ago, when, in the desperation to find any way to see the world, I was checking the ads to hire air-hostesses, I knew I would never make the cut because only those with a minimum height and weight and waist length could apply. There was no room for intelligence there; it seemed like a different version of being on a catwalk. The ads for recruitment - and even the current crop of air-hostesses in India - are made to look as only eye-candy during your time amid clouds. And perhaps this is why taking up a job as an air-hostess is looked down upon among upper-middle-class Indians: because of the way it has been portrayed.

And why do I write this now? Because of the recent news whereby the DGCA (Directorate General of Civil Aviation, of the Government of India) has issued strict requirements on body weight, vision and hearing for cabin crew members in India. While I understand that requirements of vision and hearing are crucial, and the overall health of any employee is crucial, I doubt that health is the main concern here. Even if it is, I suspect airlines would now push their already-skinny air-hostesses to go on some crazier diet, just so that they can keep their job.

Cabin crew of Kingfisher Airlines (Photograph source: arunrajagopal.com) 

I am saddened by this news, because it is an attack on a profession, and a confirmation that only looks matter. It is a reiteration of the fact that Indians value fair skin and a skinny body over professionalism and true health. I have heard enough "jokes" from Indian men, who say how flying by Indian Airlines is a such a sad experience, because of the "aunties" as air-hostesses (because the air-hostesses on the Indian Airlines aircraft wore sarees and indeed, they were not pretty-young-things, unlike in the private airlines).

Back in India, and having taken a few flights, I am shocked how passengers continue to speak on the mobile phone even when the aircraft is on the runway, and how, more importantly, cabin crew members often choose to ignore such careless passengers. While many might deny the co-relation between talking on the mobile phone and air crashes due to issues with electronic signals, I would want to be assured on the flight that nobody is jeopardising my safety. On at least three instances while flying in the US did I notice cabin crew members raising their eyebrows and voices, like a principal, admonishing a passenger to "turn off that goddamn phone now". Not so in the flights in India. I wish the DGCA - instead of attacking the bodies of the cabin crews - gave more teeth and power to the cabin crew to ensure greater safety on flights, by protecting those efficient workers who get careless passengers to behave on the flight.

I am guilty for having once imagined being an air-hostess to be the next thing to do for those girls who did not make it to the finals in beauty queen contests. I am glad my perspective has changed, towards seeing that being a cabin crew member is work, big time important work. Let's keep their body shape and size out of their work.

 
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Wednesday 7 May 2014

Period. Exposed. Bloody Red.

Why is it so difficult for educated women to wrap their soiled sanitary napkins?

Make no mistake here. I amaze myself – and disgust others -- at my own ability to talk about poop, pee, fart and puke with complete nonchalance. I was raised to understand that these are essential body functions, and many childhood evenings were spent with my father and brother discussing the fart sounds of different people we knew; the mother would bury herself behind a book, pretending she had no relation to us. Only a couple of ex-boyfriends have not winced when I would attempt a minute-long monologue about either of the four taboo topics before them (I would shut my mouth at the right moment, because I knew they were always wearing running shoes).

But hygiene – or the lack of it – makes me wince. And no, this is not about the laments of the lack of toilets in India. This is also not about women still wearing pieces of cloth instead of the ones that are advertised promising a ‘happy period’. This is about educated women who know it well that soiled sanitary napkins need to be wrapped before disposed. You might feel this is a non-issue. An unintentional sighting of the dustbin in toilets of the institutions with squeaky clean facades would reveal something else.

I work in the office of a large newspaper, and this particular floor of the building houses three different publications. The Siberia-type-cold office where I work is flanked between offices of glossy magazines where extremely beautiful women and men work. Women in beautiful clothes, just the right amount of make-up, swanky heels, and artfully-acquired fake accents. Women who wouldn’t smile at each other when they adjust their chiffons and silks in the cramped bathroom space. Educated women, with absolute access to drinking water, and water in their faucets, and more.

Yet, the other day, and yet another day, I went into the toilet, only to see a blob of bright red tissue staring at me from the uncovered paper bin. There was no attempt at covering it with a pile of tissue paper (which flows like the Nile in such offices).

When I lived in New York in a women’s residence that can house 373 women, I assumed that I was living with mature women. We were about 30 women living on each storey. Every morning around 8am was a rush hour in the achingly slow elevators, and we jostled for space amid the fragrance of expensive perfumes and the sights of the best brands off the racks from Times Square. Photographers, fashion designers, bankers, researchers, students, journalists, analysts – the brightest of the brains in the most beautiful female bodies covered in the latest fashion trends, were on their way to work.

We had two sets of bathrooms with individual showers and toilets to share, and the housekeeping did an impeccable job of keeping the place clean. Yet, every now and then, a soiled sanitary napkin, with its crumbling sides and red-to-brown middle and netted top cover lay exposed in the bins near the showers. Was it so tough for such smart women to wrap their own sanitary napkins? I once lamented before the front desk that this was unbelievable. The lady there sighed with a smile, “Darling, why is this unbelievable? We hear this all the time!”

These might be the same women who would “Yuck!” aloud when the stench of ammonia from public toilets reaches their nostrils. They would refuse to use such public toilets, and I know of many women who would hold up their bladder until they reached a clean toilet. But women not wrapping their soiled sanitary napkins is a stupidly global phenomenon.

Few years ago, I had done a story about an organisation in Pune that works with waste pickers. With some smart origami moves, they had created a paper packet, with a sticker on it that announced its purpose – for the disposal of soiled sanitary napkins. The idea of the packet was to restore some dignity in the hands of the waste pickers, so that they do not have to confront a soiled sanitary napkin – or a diaper – with their bare hands, when women refuse to wrap them. The idea has its flaws, but they surely can be fixed. When I had told my mother about this idea, her surprised eyes soon turned moist, and then she said, “They are doing such a work of punya.” (= a spiritually noble deed).

But if there is such a huge market of being hygienic – right from anti-dandruff shampoos to metallic foot scrubbers – can’t women learn to behave with something as personal as their own sanitary napkins?

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