Friday, October 24, 2014

Half of us

“No economy can prosper when half its population is at home cooking for the other half”. It may not be ‘half’ these days, but we cannot shy away from admitting that it must still be at least half of all Indian women. What exactly is women-‘empowerment’? What is this ‘power’ that needs to be made available to women? And what do women need this power for? It is strange how people who actually care about these things get pepped up with emotions a la righteousness every time they hear the words ‘empowerment’ and ‘women’ in the same sentence. Not that I don’t; I care too. Maybe a bit too much to take the words at face-value. 

“Women-empowerment” in itself essentially leads us to believe that in the current state of things women do not have an agreeable amount of ‘power’ in their capacity. The “em” in empowerment means someone has to provide the means or the power itself, to women. “Women” is an all inclusive term of the female population. Contextually, it could also mean ‘most’ women or ‘many’ women or even ‘some’ women; leaving out a fair amount of inert members of the fairer gender. In India, I believe I can safely presume that the context covers ‘most’ women. So who ‘empowers’ ‘most’ women? Are women, with an agreeable amount of power in their capacity, going to empower  the ones less fortunate? If this is the case, then the context of ‘most’ women being powerless means only a ‘few’ women are powerful enough to aid the former. Notably, if the power deprived  women were going to help themselves/each-other, then the term wouldn’t be “Women-empowerment” but “Women self-empowerment”. So, naturally, this can be ruled out. For ‘few’ to help ‘many’, the few must hold a lot of authority/dynamism. Again, considering the country under discussion, this is clearly not the case. Thus, the only other entity/group that can actually make “Women-empowerment” happen at the moment is men. Lucidly, the words so ironically represent what Indian women go through every single day rendering them burdened and voiceless. They have their dreams, ambitions and aspirations to rise above their predicament and make an independent life for themselves; only to realise later in life that however much they tried, they inevitably end up having to bow down to a male father/brother/husband/father-in-law/boss to make essential things go on in their lives. Knowing this may help us deduce the meaning the word ‘power’ holds. Very much like the meagreness of the Mangalyaan’s (Mars-Orbiter) budget; all it should take to make Indian women feel empowered is merely the ability to independently meet everyday necessities. Not “equality” with men! They might just want condescending men out of the equation. 


 Though it is tough to admit this as a man; we Indian men are still propagators of a patriarchal society in this 21st century. We secretly cherish the power, however stupidly measly it is, we hold that women don’t. We like it when women come to us asking for help. It is an opportunity for us to play the ‘knight in shining armour’ and show them how ‘benevolent’ we are. It is remarkable that this is all it takes to get us power-drunk. Maybe its because of our heavy domestication; pretty much like how we would probably get high on just one hit of neat alcohol. We have grown up watching our mothers spending their mornings in the kitchen spinning like tops to make a good breakfast while our fathers sat in the living room reading the newspaper in a laid-back chair. We know the hierarchy of our family like the back of our hand. We have seen how every movie-heroine/hero’s sister, through  choices of her own, ends up in a precarious circumstance; how she cowers with fear when the villain glares at her; and how the hero always comes to the aid of the damsel in distress, a zillion times. Our fables teach us how women, supposedly, are prone to making bad calls and thus shouldn’t be allowed to call the shots at all. Even proverbs like “Pen budhdhi pin budhdhi” (Translated-jist : A women’s mind is a step behind that of a man’s) openly dismiss women as bad decision makers who are incapable of fending for themselves. Modern Indian men might claim that they are beyond all this; but truth is, it does not wash away so easily. A genderist superiority complex still lurks in the shadows within our minds. Even when we think of Women-empowerment, we picture ourselves giving a hand to a woman in a ditch and pulling her up. The whole point is actually NOT doing that. The point is to leave no ditch unfilled so to avoid them falling into it in the first place. And I believe it our duty as fellow citizens to do so.



But wait, there's a twist! It is not just us men who have been priding our sexist culture, women too grew up witnessing the same things from an impressionable age. Arguably, even the average modern 21st century Indian woman has a latent genderist inferiority complex lurking in her mind. And that simple aspect takes her through looping guilt-trips every single time she takes a decision contrary to the customary. Other women in her circle probably only make things worse. Even to this day, metropolitan mothers chide their daughters for not wearing ‘proper’ clothes. While contemporary friends get generous with their “OMG”’s and “Seriously?”’s on simple things. I can only imagine how it must be like for a woman to have to endure so much friction everyday on every single choice  she makes.  And ever too often, ‘friction’ is an understatement. It must like walking with your feet deep in molten tar; every step taken needs the strength to take a hundred. No wonder the term “Women-empowerment” has caught on among the masses. Maybe many modern women genuinely need a helping hand or strong moral support. They need the power of conviction, regardless of its source; not to meet their bare necessities, but to put power-drunk men and irreversibly messed-up women in their place. Not to mention, getting rid of that splinter of doubt and skepticism in their own minds. 

Thursday, September 18, 2014

Prereq: IMAX imagination

“Why are you holding those eggs up in your hand?” I asked my friend while we were riding my scooter back from the store.“I am holding six lives in my hand, much like a revolver. Need to be careful“, he smiled. I was pleasantly surprised. Some tiny spark of an epiphany had shown up after a long time. 

Imagine what holding a loaded gun in your palm would feel like. Most 9mm handguns that are full size would hold between 15 to 17 rounds. All it takes to take a life is one. 17 lives; right there on your palm. Chill down the spine. Latch on your attention to that fleeting feeling and as it dissipates, you might end up in a strange place. A place where you can juxtapose a physical object with the meanings and emotions your brain attaches to it. It is magical to stay there and gaze at the awesomeness that the brain is. How can so many threads of ethical, emotional, logical and moral values be connected to the image of a tool built to do just one simple thing (spit out an iron pellet at incredible speed)? Maybe, in an alternate universe, we could be using it to make extra holes in our belts, for all you know. 

Let’s juggle things a bit and try something different. Place each of your palms on each temple of a person who is comfortable with you doing so (!). What is between your hands now is essentially another you. A complete universe of thoughts, emotions, memories, ideas, knowledge, intelligence etc.; right there between your palms. When you let your brain lose on that thought you’ll probably get a bigger chill down your nerves than you would have expected. These nut-shell human experiences, as I would like to call them, make things that we know into things that we deeply understand. And when you understand something, it is not just a file in your knowledge bank but a spontaneous contributor in your default, everyday thought process. 


If it was up to me to make a new religion, I would make a list of small such rituals that would keep people in touch with the important things of life. Wait, is that why we bend and touch our elders’ feet as a custom here in India?….. (pondering intensifies)

Tuesday, September 2, 2014

That's it.. I'm calling BS!

The RJ continued, "'Where is the party?' madhiri 'Where is the Vinayaga chathurthi?' nu kondadeerupeenga nu nenaikaren.." ( Translated-jist:"I guess you must have made a party out of Vinayaka Chathurthi - a festival for a specific God in India"). Not much of an epiphany, but this was the tipping point and I just had to vent out all the accumulated frustration on the fake-fun everyone is supposed to be having out here in Chennai.I see remarkably edited Youtube videos telling me Chennai is 'Happy'. I hear radio-jockeys yapping away as if this is the most happening city there is. Facebook postings of music-videos in the name of Madras. Newspaper adverts ballyhooing the 'celebration' of what's "#Chancey-illa" (Trans-jist: Nowhere else but here) about Chennai. Well, here's a fact my select-few, overly-excited fellow city dwellers; some of us read beyond the first page of the newspaper.  And by saying "I've had the most fun ever in Chennai!", I quote no-one, myself included.

Chennai is home to the most bovine of all of humankind. No matter how many daylight injustices happen; no matter how many rights are violated; how un-livable conditions get; how much verbal abuse is dished out, day in and day out life just goes on. We are a society that has lost the sense of the word 'fun'. I recall a conversation I had with a friend and her boyfriend once back in Jersey. They had signed up for a dance class and were asking me to join them. He said, "You can learn how to dance at weddings, it'll be fun!". By reflex I let slip the fact that we don't dance at our weddings around here in South India. The both of them refused to believe me and concluded that I was bluffing to avoid going with them. We Chennai-ites know too well what would happen if we were to dance at an authentic Madrasi wedding. For one, you'd be branded a lunatic and shunned by every respectable member of your family for eternity. A proper wedding down here is a quick marriage ceremony followed by gift-giving and ending in a sumptuous feast. Period."But tamil movies have people dancing around all the time", you may argue. Let me put it this way, we generally associate dancing to movie-heroes and, more recently, reality-TV game shows; but not to anything in the 'real world'. To be a little dramatic, I haven't even once seen the most celebrated 'Saavu koothu' (Trans-jist: A dance supposedly performed by drunkards in front of a corpse while on its way to the crematorium) all these years of my life in Chennai.

Getting back to 'happy-fun-exciting' things, let's not kid ourselves people. Just a silent walk through the heart of the city at rush-hour can give you a whiff of the true picture. You will not spot so far as a tiny smirk on those busy faces. Chennai is hard-working. It's back is bent. Burden is writ large across its wrinkled forehead. A burden that it carries steadily ahead in the face of irresponsible administration not too unheard-of in India. Our average fun-thirsty youth neither has venues (except the movies) nor the social approval to go out and experience something in the equivalent sense of the word 'party'.


P.S: To all those folks doling out 'fun-fun' BS on a daily basis, PLEASE keep it real.



Sunday, July 13, 2014

Yeah, I said it.

If life were predictable, is it worth living?
If we could see what will happen tomorrow today, where is the need of a tomorrow?
If life were a bed of roses, where is the need of grit and character?
If we could get whatever we want, where is the fun in wanting?
If we could decide what other people think and do, what is the point in their existence?

If there were no boredom, would we find so much enjoyment in fun?
If there were no such feeling as loneliness, would there ever be love?
If everybody in the world were intelligent, would our hearts ever be pure?
If our choices were based on only knowledge and experience (present and past) alone, would we be any different from what computers make?
Isn't there something more to all of it?
Something which makes it all worth it?
Something that makes us really human?

Uncertainty....
Unpredictability...
Uncontrollability...
Unreliability...

It keeps us on our toes... makes us more conscious... and thus more alive.
It brings the thrill in waiting to live the next second..
It instills the curiosity to know more than we do...
It gives the urge to achieve what we want through all odds...
It makes us appreciate fun, company and love...
It so often makes our hearts beat faster in anxiety..

The world is in chaos... finding wishful, orderly patterns (fairy tales) in it is neither worth it nor fun.


Saturday, June 14, 2014

Adventures of an #Ex-NRI: The #RTO (DMV equivalent)

It's 11:30am on a summer day in #EverSoHotChennai. I write this on my trusty smartphone as I sit in line for a learner's licence test at the Meenambakkam Regional Transport Office. The bad part is that I received no advantage by booking an appointment online. I was promptly asked to go to the end of a really long line of applicants. I'm pretty sure most in this line did not book an appointment beforehand. I had looked around for another 'appointment only' line; by habit, and ofcourse, in vain. The good part is that I am sitting, and not standing. Great improvement, if you ask me. This corridor in which we are seated as a group of like-minded individuals hoping for nothing more than a quicker queue movement, has no windows. Architecturally so due to it's position between office spaces on either side which lay claim to all the windows on this floor. Oh, forgot about the windows on the stairway. Unusually large stairway with unusually large windows suggesting a really old style of construction; a trademark of government buildings here in #GoodOldTamilNadu. I'm going to go ahead and guess that this corridor was never meant for holding queues of sweating people in a humid climate. Again there is a good part; it had rained pretty heavily two days back bringing the temperature down a bit with it. God bless the rains for reducing the strain on my perspiration capacity. I have been sweating the bejesus out of me for the past few weeks due to steady highs of 102 degrees every day. Can't wear my around-the-ear headphones for more than 2 minutes. Have to take baths so often you'd think I was a sea creature. Clothes get soaked so soon that it feels like invisible rain is pouring on me 24x7.
I look at my shirt. Sweaty wet in the middle. Atleast it took a while. This corridor has no windows; no ventilation. Two fans rotate unwillingly to disprove that this is a POW holding area. There is even a jail-like gate at the entrance of the corridor, toward the stairway. There are two doorways near this gate, one says 'Regional Transport Officer' atop but actually houses counters to pay fees and to meet the RTO's PA. I had gone here to ask for information about my LLR and was directed to see the motor vehicle inspector. This meant I was supposed to go the other doorway which had the label 'Motor Vehicle Inspectors'. Didn't spend more than a fraction of a second to wonder why I would have to meet a vehicle inspector to get a learners license. Zero bouts of curiosity later I reached the other doorway. An elderly bespectacled man stands there guiding people in. Pure tamil is his thing. He seems to carry it off really well; I could tell by the foreignness of his language. "You have to pay the fee first", he said," in there", he pointed back to the first doorway. No frustration, no regret; I proceeded to the fees counter. Two counters, one long queue and another short one. Opted for the logical. Unsure whether I had enough cash on me. "Shouldn't be more than 1000 rupees", I told myself. Asked the elderly gentleman behind me. He seemed well-mannered and gave me a straight "I don't know" complete with a constipated expression. After what seemed to be enough time to earn a few hundred rupees by manual labour, I reached the counter. A small square window presented itself. Any form would not fit through there unless folded vertically. The few milliseconds I took to make this structural change to my application was sufficient for the elderly "gentleman" behind me to thrust his official looking form into the window. The fees collector gladly took his form and muttered something followed by an instruction to go do something else before paying the fee. An inner malicious smirk bloomed and I quickly sent my application through. A quick glance at my form and he entered some stuff into his computer. A nearby printer spurted out a receipt. "90 rupees"; happily handed him the money and got my bill. Back to Mr.#TamilDePure; he checked my application and asks me to go to the end of that enormous line which started at the doorway and ended at the very end of the corridor. The queue, by itself, seemed like a living being; a formidable demon with multiple heads waiting to devour me and my precious time. Again without frustration I readied myself for a long wait. 6 tube-lights passed over my head which provided not-so-bad lighting and I reached the very end, which was another jail-type gate. there were two rows of benches followed by chairs on either side, one side for each gender. the benches blocked a door off which was understandably locked. The weathered board above it also read 'Regional Transport Officer'. Beyond the closed gate, I could see in the faint light, stacks and stacks of forms of different colours, predominantly white, pink and yellow. There was another doorway near this gate but I know not where it leads.

Act 2 : This part is a recollection

Stood for a while, sat on chairs for some more and then reached the benches; all this while in the same queue where I had started writing. After the wait I was allowed entry into the 'Motor Vehicles Officers' room. Lots of windows, 6 pc monitors along the wall on my right as I entered with a small booth near the door. An officer was sitting at a table on my left who went through my application, looked at my passport for verification and ushered me to the booth. It was apparently a photo booth with a web cam for a camera. A cfl bulb was hanging from a wire to provide strobe and a sheet of navy blue cloth made the background. Picture taken and form submitted, I went to the seating area that covered most of the rest of the room. The seats were largely empty and so I chose one under a healthy looking fan and began what was a mini in-head prep talk for the oncoming computer based test that I was to take to get my LLR as indicated by the RTO website. The room was bright with afternoon light and had a very lazy feel to it. A wash basin at one corner, piles of forms between the desktop PCs, a wide table for the officer and one large LCD TV opposite the seating area. The TV was playing one video, over and over again. It was an infomercial about how not to ride your motorcycle. I caught myself watching it for over 3 times in a row. Before I could restart typing, someone perched on the seat beside mine and this made continuing my written monologue an awkward proposition. You see, it was a typical RTO office where licenses were also given out to people who the officers there didn't even set eyes upon. Agents were all over the place all the time bringing bundles of applications of people who had paid enough to get through all the legalities like test-taking etc. This, obviously, was illegal and thus if someone where to see me continuously operating a smartphone in these premises, a few doubts might have popped-up in his/her mind that could have proved unfavourable to me. Sometimes analysing my own thought process leaves me thinking whether I was being super-intelligent or just plain dumb.
Thirty minutes later, two of the three attendants had retired for lunch and the officer left the room.  I was left clueless of what to do next as there so may in the queue back then and yet none around me now. I caught an attendant's eye and he asked me what I wanted. I said I had submitted my application for an LLR.
"Did you get your picture taken?"
"Yes sir. I am waiting for the test." I heard the attendant behind him chuckle.
"then come back at 6." I understood that there was no test to be taken.
What a waste of 30 minutes! "You should have asked him earlier and not been so timid." I chided myself as I left to meet my Dad whom I had kept waiting outside unnecessarily.

'Order in chaos' was the unofficial moto of every government offices here in India before I had left. I must say that not much has changed. A deep understanding is necessary to know why change takes so long to happen in my home city. Is it the negligent government or is it the docile people? Or maybe I'm just overreacting.