‘Servants Can’t Rape’

Or so the sentiment appears to me.

My FB buddy Siddharthya posted this tweet from Madhu Purnima Kishwar, who is the director of the Indic Studies Project, housed in the Centre for the Study of Developing Societies, Delhi. In other words, she’s an academic, and a self-proclaimed feminist. This is the tweet:

I feel safer among men of conservative values and villages who establish “didi” “mausi” relationship than among Leftists, westernized males and others who preach equality.

Of course, Kishwar may have been quoted out of context, and indeed this may not have been meant as a denigration of ‘Leftism’, westernisation, or gender equity or urban, ‘modern’ men at all. Neither was it meant as public entertainment, which is sadly what it is (for a given section of the public). We are probably reading it wrong.

But it is an interesting statement nonetheless. Because, y’see, if we agree for the sake of shutting dissenters down that Kishwar did indeed mean what she appears to mean in this tweet, then she is far more in need of a re-acquaintance with ‘leftism’ and ideas of equity than victims of gendered violence are in need of her wisdom. The reason she feels ‘safer’ amongst village-folk who establish didi/mausi [sister/aunt] relationships with her, after all, is because she is an urban upper-middle class ‘connected’ academic, possessed of far greater social capital than them. She bears all the markers of prestige that upwardly-mobile Indians (or Indians who wish they were upwardly mobile) wish for themselves and their children: a degree-enabled education, fluency in English, possession of a ‘government job’ [read: security, pension, allowances, perks, possible path to power], a city address in the nation’s capital. Consequently, provided she doesn’t ruffle feathers too much, she’s less of a generic woman for these men (and women) she mentions, and more of a figure of consolidated power, and a conduit to all those elements of prestige. Why should they then treat her with violence and scare her off?

Of course, had there been no rural-urban divide between them, no socioeconomic gradient, I doubt she’d have felt this cuddled and secure. She would then have been at par with them, and her ‘modernity’ would then no longer have been a distant aspiration for her rural neighbours, but a possible index of her outsider status.

It is this same illusion of safety, born of the belief in the ‘simplicity’ and ‘loyalty’ of the little people that leads people-like-us, for example, to have resident domestic help that they bother to find out very little about. After all,  poor ‘village people’ may be conservative and loud and ‘unsophisticated’, but they’re also sweet and meek and obedient — and hardworking, and not ambitious and lippy and money-grubbing like these urban bustee chaps. When we go to the villages, they just come running out to greet us, ask after our families, do so much of our work for us! When we leave, we give them hundred rupees each, and they’re SO happy with it! Really, to experience pure humanity, you must go to our villages!

Of course, this imagined innocence and confidence doesn’t stop the occasional domestic help from slitting throats, and making off with the cash and kind she or he is surrounded by and made to serve each day, but never allowed to access. A point, I think, that supporters of ‘ye olde Indian culture was cosier than global modernity’ would do well to consider.

The Art of Hatred

My mother informed me over tea this morning that Amartya Sen, speaking at IIT Bombay, has said that for improved performance as a nation, India needs to change the very core of its attitude towards women. A change, he says, that Bangladesh has already achieved, according to its human dev. indicators (and despite the ‘OMG Islamic state!’ stereotype).

The trouble is, when we speak of changing ‘attitudes towards women’, we speak, most of us, about ‘those boys’ — who tease, humiliate and molest women on our streets — or ‘those men’ — who decree that mobile phones, a hairline slit in the niquab or the consumption of ‘foreign’ food like chow mein — causes women to be raped. We demand death and dismemberment for these men and boys, sign online petitions, join and ‘like’ Facebook pages, and go home happy, glowing with the righteous satisfaction of being part of an angry democratic assertion of justice. Power of the people, man! Hang those rapists!

Real hatred for women, however, goes far deeper than that. It’s not even apparent as hatred, because frankly, most men would be deeply uncomfortable actively ‘hating’ the gender of their mothers, lovers, wives, daughters, sisters and friends. They would think it repulsive, unnatural, and alien (and more power to them). The same men, however — and many, many women — would casually indulge in communications and activities every single day that, while apparently ‘normal’, are rooted utterly in misogyny, classism, ethnocentricism or queer-phobia. Yet precisely because they’ve been made ‘normal’ — by the powers of majoritarian normativity — it’s very easy to think of the people objecting to suchlike as whiny, entitled, hysterical, and with no sense of humour.

Yesterday, for example, quite an upstanding young man — a bit of a Facebook wit — posted a joke about friendship. “Friendship is nothing but sharing”, he said, “so can I have your girlfriend?” Now, of course, my humourlessness is well-documented, so I was predictably less than amused at this quip. It’s too bad, I told him, that these girlfriend-types aren’t inanimate little dolls you can trade and barter at will. But I’ll tell you a way around this irksome sitch. Why don’t you slaughter these chicks en mass, have them stuffed, and then, voila! You no longer have to worry about their stewpid consent or *opinions* about being treated as pwetty thingies that their boyfriends can toss about amongst themselves.

The man was shocked. Goodness, are you mad, he said. That’s what you got from my joke???

But of course. When one ribs a male friend by asking if he’d ‘let’ one sleep with his hot wife or girlfriend, one doesn’t really notice that the entire joke is based on the premise that wives or girlfriends are pussy a man owns, and can give, lend or let out at will like all his other dead property. I mean, there’s no need to go that deep, right? It’s just a joke. Come on!

But one might wonder why women seldom make such jokes about their female friend’s male (or female) partners — or if they do, why they’d be SO much less than funny. Such women would sound wannabe and stupid at best, and disgustingly crass at worst. And yet from a heterosexual male, it’s just a funny line.

Sterner folk than I might also wish to point out at this juncture that the treatment of people as properties of other people is technically called slavery, and has been made illegal with extreme prejudice in all parts of the civilised world. I doubt, however, that much attention would be paid to such people. The real trouble with our world is not that we are evil, vicious and maddened by constant bloodlust. It’s that we don’t think, consider, reconsider, and analyse our own realities enough.

Nearly every religion there is asks people to look deep within and evaluate themselves at length. Add looking without and evaluating *that*, and there might be some salvation for religions yet.

US 2012: Progress, Elections and India

I only just noticed it today, but one of my friends posted this on Facebook right after the election was declared in Obama’s favour this last week. It has too rosy a view of the Democrats and their politics, but even without that, what he says about India is all too viscerally true.

So Obama won. The Democrats won, for the second time in a row. And the ones who lost are the ones who held on to archaic, outdated traditions and ideas. It’s might not be true that all Republicans are conservatives but they are the people who still think Russia is a threat, abortion is wrong, homosexuals are an aberration, women are half people, science is hogwash…

One of the more conservative countries pledged their support to a liberal, progressive government today and what have we done lately? We of ‘secular’ India, India, whose history is a chaos of forward thinking, inclusive leaders like Ashok, Akbar, Raja Ram Mohan Roy… who are our leaders now? Chowmein rape panchyats, child marriage Chautala, everything is a conspiracy Mamata, Marathi fetish Thackerey, Saffron seduction RSS… well played India!

 

Journeywoman: Gender and Commuting in Urban India

Off peak-hour this morning, it took me a solid two hours to reach Theatre Road from Dunlop. Google maps — which has a laughably naive Western attitude to city-commuting, bless it — says it should’ve take seventeen minutes. Seventeen! In seventeen minutes, we hadn’t even cleared Bonhoogli, which is 1 KM and a twenty-minute walk from Dunlop.

There was a time when the fistfighty Easter Railways seemed a remote and déclassé way of commuting, fit only for the scrappy working classes who shrieked, shrilled, scratched and swore their way between stations, venting pent-up rage at life, the universe, and everything. The People Like Us travelling in it were conservative suburban folk, who eyed our skirts and snickered every time we spoke to each other in English. So, not really People Like Us. The boy-clusters took us especially personally, and avenged the gross injustice of our obvious cultural difference by placing themselves in our vicinity, and making loud obnoxious taunts about our snobbery and presumed airheaded bitchery.

The sardine-packed Cal Metro was better than that. Even the clearly low-class types were in tune with city-living. So while well-dressed uncles and gutka-spewing bhaiyyas pawed us equally, and tried to peek down our necklines through the gauzy haze of our dupattas, they held their tongues about the scandal of our sleeveless blouses and scalloped backs.

But metros didn’t go everywhere. They certainly didn’t come anywhere near my house. A great chunk of my waking hours, therefore, were spent bouncing on the hard, torn seats of Route 230 and 234, as they chugged sluggishly through the knee-deep traffic of Calcutta’s smoky, pollution-thick streets. Either that, or standing sandwiched between layeres of sweaty men and women, breathing stale air. (The former of that sweaty lot often brought along tented anatomy, eager to make friends).

In hollow hope of reprieve, I frequently added minutes to my already excruciating four-hour commute by going back to terminal bus-stops. Boarding from terminal stops, even at peak hours, significantly raises one’s chances of getting a seat. And seats significantly lower one’s chances of (a) entertaining the manly desires of our fellowmen, and (b) muscle damage, since one has to hold desperately on to people and things as the buses lurch, swerve, race each other, and break abruptly at red lights with loud squeals of tyres.

And thus were autorickshaws my favourite mode of transport.

Back then, autos were rickety and belched thick black smoke, and could only be kicked to life by vigorously pumping the started handle. This handle being under the driver’s seat, the person next to the driver had to be something of a Jack in the Box, jumping off at the end of every red light so the driver could bend sideways and ‘estart’ the beast again. For a Young Person, this was rather fun. But what I loved most about autos was that my school, and all the places I was shoved off for private tuition to, were unreachable by them. Autos were my taste of freedom.

Sometimes, I’d ride them on lazy weekend afternoons, trundling northwards and leaving the city defiantly behind. I’d go a certain distance, maybe drink a coconut water, have phuchka, and then come back home. For a mid-teen by herself, it was quite an adventure. But the best auto rides were late on weekday evenings, when I was a little grimy zombie with aching limbs, from lugging a heavy bookbag all over the baked city for thirteen straight hours.

Stale and dead from the school/tuition nexus of evil, I would get off the jam-packed claustrophobic at the last big junction before my stop (this place was the confluence of several auto routes). At that point, I had probably been in that particular hot tin cage for an hour. I would get off it, step away from the traffic, and take a gulp of fresh, open air (even if it was laced with petrol fumes). Then I would wipe my face, neck and arms with an inadequate hanky, moist and blackened from my day in the sweltering city. Then, very slowly, as if I had all the time in the world and hadn’t been frantically rushing since 6AM, I would crick my neck and gently rotate my shoulders, trying to breathe life back into the exhausted shell. And then, feeling human again, I would crawl into the next auto in line, corner the corner seat, and be whisked straight past the laggardly, overflowing buses, with sullen, defeated people in their belly.

True, the filthy, cool night air bathing my face would leave it dark and greasy, giving me pimples, clogged nostrils and lank hair.

But after every strong burst breaking on my face, I would inexplicably be reminded of the soothing baritone from the then-current Raymond’s ad: “Feels like heaven, doesn’t it?”

Predicting Peace: Rape Activism in India

Recently, a high-school girl was followed out of a bar in Guwahati — one of the largest cities in eastern India and and the chief metropolitan centre of Assam — and stripped, beaten up, and molested by a mob of about twenty men for forty-odd minutes. A journalist recorded the incident on video, and later said it was “basically gang-rape”.

Cheerful, what?

This video was then uploaded on YouTube in three parts, called, chronologically, ‘girl in city 1′, ‘girl in city 2′ and ‘girl in city 3′. Suddenly, after days no absolutely no action from public safety institutions, there were reporters, media crew, condemnations, demands for inquiries, blog posts, op-eds, Facebook-shares, rights activism, populist posturing by politicians, and an actual arrest. Hallelujah!

But wait! There was also an opposing lobby slowly gathering momentum, which demanded to know what a school girl and a legal minor was doing in a bar, and just what made the mob pick her specifically, when so many other women walk around Guwahati unmolested. Knock on your brain, people! Tap tap tap! What is the media covering up here? Why aren’t there any clear pictures of the girl? What was she wearing?

And with that, the wagon would be back on the safe and familiar track of ‘she asked for it!’. Oooh, the relief. Everybody could then whip out their tired arguments and beat each other up with them, while their brains holidayed in the hills. Like it happened with the Park Street rape case earlier this year, and Pinki Pramanik and her flatmate/girlfriend’s putative rape a few weeks back. ‘Cause women, pooh. They’re expendable. Enough of them to go around if a few can’t take a little roughousing. Ickle delicate darlings. Probably best out of the home and gene pool. No need to clog the justice system with their problems.

If you don’t believe me, just sit back and watch this drama unfold. I have a sneaking suspicion I will be proved terrifyingly accurate.

A Land Full of Lolitas: Pre-teen Sexual Harassment in India

The Blank Noise Project — ironically acronymed BNP — is hosting a contributors’ weekend called Recall this 14th and 15th. The folks running the show want to know about your first experience of sexual harassment that you can remember, even if you were a relatively uninvolved witness. So if you have a story you want to, as they say these days, ‘share’, then please head over to ‘Recall’.

My participation has been commissioned by Sue, who instructed me to choose my “earliest and funniest”. (My reputation as a clown an unparalled humorist preceds me). I tried, but while I have enough amusing tales of wandering fingers and attempted aggressive seduction, ‘earliest’ couldn’t be married to ‘funniest’ in this instance, and picking alphabetically, I decided to go with the former.

My earliest memory of sexual harassment in a public space is on a footpath outside my school, but also in a bus. It was between seven thirty and forty in the morning, the streets were packed with cars, parents, attendants, chartered schoolbuses, and chattering students.  ’97 was rolling slowly into the middle months.

A man, shabbily dressed, especially when compared to the smartly turned out girls in crisp uniforms, was dragging his feet approaching the school gates. He wasn’t accompanying a student. My eyes picked him out because he was a plodding island of brown in a bubbling brook of green and white, but they didn’t linger. A classmate and I were at the door of a very crowded, very slow public bus headed towards the stop a few metres down, and my chief concern was resisting shoves from eager slow-speed bus-jumpers.

Suddenly, one of the girls the man was difting past gasped. Then, she giggled uncertainly.

It was this odd combination that caught our attention. We were barely fifteen feet away from the footpath and naturally nosy, so we leaned out and focused on the stretch. And we realised, with a jolt, that the shabby man was lifting his floppy shirt as he approached suitable girls — the ones in white pinafores, between four and seven years of age — and quickly dropping it back as he crossed them. From the girls’ reactions, although we’d never encountered this before, I instinctively knew his fly was unzipped. And then, as our bus trundled past him and stopped at the bus-stand, we got a live demo. Not only was his fly unzipped, it was neatly folded along the zipper line, and tucked away in his thighs for a better view.

It was at this point that I nearly fell out of the bus, because, taking advantage of our distraction and of the almost unbelievably tightly-packed school crowd surging towards the gate, a man had pressed himself, raging erection et al, against my back, and with his free hand he was stroking my right waist, where my thick skirt ended, and my thin blouse began.

I don’t think my classmate noticed. She was confused and furious about the junior school girls’ little morning surprise, and practically ran towards the Man 1. I followed on her heels. On reaching him, however, we realised we didn’t quite know what to say. We hadn’t words to really articulate what happened, and why that was awful, apart from the fact that *everybody* knew you kept your skirts and trousers zipped in public and always decorously drew emphasis away from the crotch region (and the chest region, we were just beginning to realise). The man, I now realise, must have quite enjoyed two fulimating girls glaring at him, then slowly melting into their own embarrassment and confusion, and finally calling him the worst name they knew (“Stupid idiot!”) before scuttling into the safety of the school gates.

And the man on the bus, well, I didn’t even get his face. He could have been any of the many men who scrambled down at my stop — fathers with daughters, office-folks, commuters taking the bus from A to B. Or, he could have been one of the many who stayed in the bus, as it trundled off. But I suspect this wasn’t my first encounter with sexual assault/harassment, merely the first I remember. Because I took the discomfort, disgust and annoyance quite in my stride, and went about my day. The normalisation of violation, of course, is a part of a culture of abuse.

But I was twelve. Later, when I could see twelve in perspective of thirteen, fifteen and twenty, and not merely in the context of eight, nine, and ten, it rankled. Not so much the violation, although that was filthy enough, but the air of icky inevitability about it. Twelve was a little too early — although, to be fair, so is sixty — to learn that for the rest of one’s life, one will be fair game.

Girls to Girls, Boys to Boys

I’ve just come across a link to Feministe‘s post on gender-segregated classrooms. Eesha, the author, has just discovered that the practice of separating the genders at the elementary level is on the rise, and is understandably concerned at the trend. Quite apart from forcibly dividing all children into two genders when most cultures traditionally recognise at least three, this system forces children to identify themselves — and more importantly, each other — as gendered entities, rather than as people, peers, or in fact, as friends. Most commentators agree with Eesha that sculpting masculinties and femininities onto elementary school children is a worryingly regressive practice, as is the attempt to consolidate gender as a binary.

I don’t disagree. Indeed, I find the decision to segregate young children on the basis of post-pubescent gendered behaviour irrational, arbitrary, and the sign of an unhealthy social obsession with other people’s genitals. And I am not entirely sure the ‘men’ and ‘women’ in kindergarten need separate spaces to accommodate their different learning styles. This might be true to a certain extent — I have exactly zero expertise in this field and couldn’t possibly comment. However, if the different way girls and boys are socialised makes it difficult for them to study together, then changing the way — not encouraging it with segregated classrooms — seems to be solution. But the emphasis here seems to be on familiarising children with a teen/adult problem, probably so they can adapt better to its inequalities when they grow up. Solutions are messy, controversial and hard, after all. Indoctrination is easy.

What does one do, though, when four twelve-year olds stand up in front of educators, policy makers and a feminist Nobel Laureate economist, and demand they be assured of girls’ only schools in the immediate future, or they would have to consider dropping out? Absolutely every single urban feminist I’ve spoken to have, at this point in the narrative, declared the poor girls brainwashed patriarchal subjects, complicit in the politics of their own subjugation, because as poor little village girls, they are weak and disempowered, and know no better. These men and women are a large part of why I’m so contemptuous of modern feminism.

These twelve-year olds from the villages of Bengal are not ‘disempowered’ little puppets, peering blindly at the shiny modern world through the clouds of their rural stupidity. These girls are the daughters of agricultural labourers and owners of tiny, struggling local businesses, who cannot afford to live in or commute to places which have good, safe roads and an array of schools to choose from. So they attend the closest public schools, most of which are located a few kilometres away from their poor/low-caste neighbourhoods, and closer to the village centres, where the high-caste or affluent people live. Mostly, they have to walk to school along the ridges of paddy fields, or along lonely mud tracks, which become little muddy insect-infested streams during the monsoons. Nearly all these girls — especially once they move towards the end of middle-school and no longer look like asexual children — are harassed on their way  to and from school, which they try to combat by moving in groups. However, street harassment — except in individual cases — is nothing compared  to the harassment from their male classmates.

“I was asked to repeat a few things they say to us, so you understand”, said one girl, “but I won’t because I think you understand anyway”. And we do. It’s not merely sexual taunts that these pre-teens face. It’s also gendered slur — constant mockery and ridicule because they’re girls and they’re in school, and how everyone knows girls are too stewpid to understand any of the serious stuff that is being taught. They’re just taking up space, because the government sees fit to coddle female fools with things they can never master. “It didn’t use to be this vicious,” a teacher told me. “It just gets worse the better girls keep doing at the elementary, secondary and high-school level. There’s so much anger and frustration amongst the boys — even little boys — that female students do better at almost all levels. Those too young to understand why their older brothers and cousins are furious with their female classmates, copy the pattern anyway”.

There is also a strong element of class. Tapashi, who is now in her final year of college, described how her parents had been insulted and abused for not taking their impractical and thoughtless daughter in hand. Tapashi’s waywardness was in insisting on an education past the legally mandatory 5 years of elementary ed (as it was then). Not everyone who opposed her plans was angered by her class-inappropriate aspirations. Some thought her remarkably selfish, making her parents pay for books and examination fees when they couldn’t even feed the family regularly. Others were angry that she stood in the way of her brother’s education — supporting a high-school education for both children was impossible for her parents — because, as they said, “At least a boy will do something with his education. What will you do with yours?”

“It’s not that they thought girls shouldn’t study,” she explained, “their own daughters are finishing school — some of them are working. It’s because I am a lower-caste woman. We are only supposed to work in the fields and brick-kilns, right? Or in cottage industries. How dare I want to be a school teacher? That was their problem”.

And finally, there are the teachers and administrators. Most state primary and secondary schools are still built with a male student body in mind, although an all-male student body has ceased to be the case for a century. The administration’s opinion is that ‘these are all children’, which is an admirably egalitarian point of view, except that they’re not physiologically the same kind of children. Some feminists demand we reject even the differences in our biological engineering in our quest for equality, but this is difficult for some final-year elementary school girls, and most middle school girls, who begin their menstrual cycle suddenly — sometimes for the first time — while at school. And these schools don’t have a separate girls’ loo for the girls to go into and change, or wash up a little. When funds for building a girls’ bathroom were sanctioned recently, terrible planning built these loos far away from a water source, so a girl would have to signal her need to use that particular apartment by walking to the well or hand-pump, and drawing water for her needs. One might call them coy or claim they have an unhealthy relationship with their bodies for shying away from broadcasting every instance of defecation or menstrual onset, but such amateur diagnoses does nothing to solve the culturally-embedded embarassment associated with such acts.

And then there is the usual problem of lack of female teachers in the interiors and hinterlands — many women refuse transfers to these areas because they feel unsafe, thus populating schools with male teachers who call upon boys in class more often than they do girls, and openly ignore girls in maths or science lessons.

So when these girls demand an all-girls’ school, they’re not trying to alienate or segregate themselves into an invisible disempowered minority. They’re demanding a safe space where they won’t be harassed or discomfited or ignored, and worse, publicly shamed and reprimanded or even assaulted when they fight back. They are, in fact, demanding the tools of empowerment. And they’re unapologetic and forceful in their demands. When told that the School Council thinks segregating classrooms would affect future generations of female students negatively, one of them retorted, “Ask them to think about us first! We are already here!”

And so they are. It’s a difficult proposition to be faced by determined young girls who want to use the tool of segregation to their own advantage, because the state and society has failed spectacularly to provide them with it. And it takes a lot of nerve to then tell them how they’re playthings of patriarchy for wanting something that essentialises them, because the way they see it, they have been so utterly essentialised and reduced to their gender already, that only a homogenised gendered space can allow them to be full human beings. And they intend to get this space and stay in it, till they’ve armed themselves with enough education to face the world, and stare its harassments down.

And then they want to step out.

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