Relax! It's a Human Right

From the long list of Human Rights there's one which always caught my attention. It's the right to rest from work and relax. Article 24 of the Universal Declaration probably says it a bit more formally, but the meaning does not change. As humans beings we have the right to leisure. 

Two other rights in the declaration make it clear that human rights are enjoyed by humans irrespective of their gender, race, caste, nationality, and all the other meaningless social classifications. It also says that these rights cannot be taken away from us. 

Keeping all this mind, it's safe to say that stress is actually a violation of Human Rights. Not taking a break and working like the world is coming to an end is an international level offence. 

Now that you know this, put-up the list of Human Rights in your work area for everyone to see. If you are feeling particularly inspired, highlight the right to rest and relax. That way more people will know their Human Rights and their right to take a break.  

For whoever is making you work without rest does not probably realise the implications of their act. An International Declaration has given you the right. The United Nations is protecting this right. Yet we toil endlessly. 

When we actually exercise this right, we come-up with multiple excuses to justify it. Some of us work even when we are on vacation. We either feel guilty about taking a break or worse made to feel guilty about taking a break. 

Well, we shouldn't because it's a basic human right listed in a Declaration ratified by the world. Next time someone tries to guilt-trip you into cancelling your leave, tell them that they are violating an international right. If they don't get it, show them the Universal Declaration of Human Rights pinned-up on your desk. 

Durga's Tale with a Twist

I was probably 4-5 years old when my father first narrated the story of the battle between Durga and Mahishasura. My father is a gifted and dramatic storyteller. He had to repeat this story every year and sometimes everyday during Navratri. He confesses to have fudged up the sequence to make it more interesting for me. The story I heard as a five year old, is the story I believe in till date. 

A demon named Mahishasura was causing havoc on Earth. Humans lived in constant terror of his atrocities. Each day they prayed for someone to come and save them from his destructive streak.

Unlike these days, Gods used respond to such calls of help. So they heard and saw all the trouble on Earth and decided that something had to be done soon. The big three of Indian mythology; Brahma, Vishnu and Mahesh met and sanctioned immediate action. Neither of them could handle this on their own so they called Mahesh or Shiva's consort Parvati to create a version of herself to fight this mighty demon.

So Durga was created. She had in her the power of all the Gods. Ten hands with ten weapons is how she's depicted in most images. But she had two hands with the power of ten and the ability to yield every weapon (it's my version). All set for combat, she calls for her lion and sets out to fight this monster.

She lands at Mahishasur's home and asks for him. His servant answers the door and asks her to wait. He tells his master demon that a beautiful woman, astride a lion is here to see him. "She wants you to stop these atrocities."

The demon laughs and says, "Oh really? Ask her what will she do if I don't?"

The servant runs back to Durga with this question. She says, "Then I will fight him and kill him." When Mahisasur hears this, he laughs even louder. He says, "Let's fight then."

He is so sure about winning that he does not even take his armour. He walks out in his chaddis (again, my version) to fight the all mighty Durga. Thus begins a single combat between Durga and Mahishasur. 

The demon is in for a shock when every move of his is returned by her and each time it's a deathly blow. He has lost his weapons and has no armour. To save his life he hides inside a buffalo.

Eager to finish this task Durga starts looking for the demon who is now disguised as a buffalo. That's when her lion catches the buffalo by its neck and rips open its stomach. Mahishasura makes a last attempt to attack Durga, but she finishes him by thrusting her spear into his heart.

People were happy and celebrated their liberation at the hand of this powerful goddess for nine days. Mahishasura must have been a good demon for his death is being celebrated till today. People dance, sing, shop, eat and a close to bankrupt State spends crores to celebrate this nine-day war.  

There are different interpretations of this celebration. For some Navratri is a celebration of Durga's homecoming after she defeats Mahishasur. There are others who celebrate to remind themselves that good always wins over evil. Some celebrate all of it and some don't really need a reason to celebrate anything. None of these are reasons for my celebration.

The tale I heard as a child was slightly twisted, unintentionally. The moral I derived from it wasn't the usual either. I knew Mahishasur was in for trouble when he laughed at the peace proposal offered by a beautiful woman. He made it worse by going out to fight her unarmed. She was dead serious, as he found out later.

That man lost his head for thinking he could get away easily with a woman. He assumed that being a man and a demon made him superior. That's the defeat I celebrate.

After all these years, there a humans who still swear by Mahishsura's assumption. They celebrate his death without realising that their beliefs are not too different from the demon's.  For even while worshipping the great diety, Durga, they continue with their demeaning ways with women.

Experts in mythological story telling will find a zillion mistakes with my story. I've heard the so called accurate version too, but I stand by my version of the story. 

This is the version I'll pass on to my children. I suggest you do the same. Tell your children how a man's assumption of superiority to a woman cost him his head.

Happy Navratri!

Take a break, smell the coffee and head to Coorg

City dwellers have this strange obsession of finding a new place to spend their holiday. Our day-to-day life is so full of hollow, seemingly busy activities that we panic when there’s nothing to do. Yet we know that at times not doing anything is what we need to do. 

If you’ve figured this out, then you should be packing your bags for your first trip to somewhere in Coorg or the Kodagu district in Karnataka. As a bit of online research will tell you, Coorg is the land of coffee, pepper, honey and unending green cover. It’s called the Scotland of India. I’ve not seen Scotland, so I’m not sure about the aptness of this comparison. If it holds true, then Scotland must be a very beautiful place. 

You could go to Madikeri and look at the usual tourist sites and shop from the specialities of the district. If you are a fan of non-touristy destinations like me, then head towards Virajpet and then go deeper into the unexplored areas of Kodagu. 

Getting to Virajpet is easy. Local buses, including air conditioned Volvos run from Bangalore and Mysore. I took a local non-ac bus the first time I visited Virajpet. It took long, around 10 hours, but the sights from my un tinted, open window made-up for it. 

From the window seat of my rickety bus, I first saw Coorg and eventually started feeling it. You can’t recover from that kind of beauty. It’s the kind of beauty that made Wordsworth worship nature. You can’t be sure if it is for real. You’ve seen it in paintings and postcards somewhere.

The flat, brown landscape starts giving way to treacherous slopes guarded by coffee and pepper as you get closer to Kodagu district. The heat of the dusty cities gives way to fresh, coffee-smelling air. If you are lucky a few raindrops might drop-by as well. Then come the beautiful cottages, a welcome break from the never ending skyscrapers of the city. 

Once you conquer the awe of seeing Coorg, you start feeling it. All that quaint beauty tugs at you, pulls you in and heals you. It eases the weary mind, the tired body and the broken soul. It takes over, soothes you and nourishes you till you become a part of it. 

The warmth and hospitality of the people in Coorg will make you want to stay forever. Meat lovers won’t be disappointed as tradition Kodava cuisine favours the carnivores. Pig or pandi being the most popular delicacy. Vegetarians don’t despair. There’s the raw mango curry and a local variety of French beans to satiate your hunger. Of course there’s enough coffee and honey for everyone.

As you spend more time in this beautiful land, you realize that doing nothing is the greatest occupation. You can’t really come back from Coorg, some part of your mind will always wander off to the cloud covered hill-tops and the numerous coffee estates. As work consumes you, you’ll smell the coffee and take yourself back to the land that heals.

Ideal,Real and Dialectics

For Hegel dialectics is the conflict between the ideal and real. This conflict, he says,  leads to change.

Conflict between ideal and real. Yes that is what it is. Ideal: riches and comfort. Real: bonded labour and stress. Change: in progress

Ideal and real. It takes ages to understand the difference between them. Most of the time we are so convinced that the ideal is real that reality lands a sucker punch right into your gut. Then you change. 

I’m a woman and I get to choose

“Wars are fought over a woman’s body.”  That’s something our culture study professor explained to us sometime back. She was talking about gender issues, riots and war. The first casualty of man’s triumph in any combat is a woman’s body, she explained.

Last few months have brought to fore some disgusting realities of existence as a woman in my country. Protests, slogans, heated debates, lousy comments; all about what a woman can do and what she should not do. How it’s her fault that she gets groped, raped, molested. That a lot of these comments come from men, does not mean that some women are not agreeing with them.

Among the various casualties of these events, is the one that concerns the understanding of the ideology of feminism. The most common notion being that women who hate men are feminists, and men can never be feminists. Also that feminists are lesbians.

I’m a feminist. and I like to call myself an evolving feminist. I have a list of men I adore (father, brother, nephews, friends, and an extremely large list of celebrities). I confess, that I went through a phase where I hated men. I still do at times, but the only the ones who ill-treat or disrespect a woman. I’m still discovering feminism and it upsets me when men and women want to make it very clear that they are not ‘ feminists’ because of the misconceptions about this ideology.

My first lecture on feminism in undergrad is something I still remember very well. Our lecturer had informed us in advance about the classes on feminism. Excitement is an understatement for what I felt that week. I had been calling myself a feminist for quite some time. At that point it just meant disliking men.

But things were about to change and they did. My professor started the lecture by saying, “ Feminism is not about hating men.” Then she went on to explain the concept of gender and sex, society and biology, and finally patriarchy and stereotypes. This was followed by the waves and the different schools of feminism.

Over the years I’ve seen different kinds of people throw different brands of feminism at me. I’ve agreed, disagreed and dwelled over them. With all of these, every time I try to check my evolution with this philosophy I find that there is a strong constant.

Feminism to me stands for the right to have a choice. That empowerment comes from the fact that I have choice. The word choice here is so vast.

For centuries society has set certain norms for a woman. Dressing, behaviour, culture, future, expectations. Everything has a boundary. In my country being covered head-to-toe is the way a woman should dress. She should be submissive, meek, polite, tender and not opinionated. Her culture is that of bearing pain, suffering and silently. Her future is attached to marrying a man and providing at least one male heir. She is expected to listen and obey, put her family, her children and her husband before herself.

What feminism says is that a woman has a right  to choose. Decisions are not made for you, but you get to make them.

So when I bring in my feminist demands here, I say a woman can dress in anyway she wants to. Bare her shoulder, her back, reveal or not reveal anything. It’s her body and it’s her comfort. She has the choice of doing what she wants with it. She wants to be covered head-to-toe, great! She doesn’t want to be covered at all. It’s her decision.  

Behaviour and culture are the biggest stereotypes. I’ve personally had a lot of trouble with these two. I’ve been told on several occasions that I behave un-woman-like. Some have said it out of jest, some out of concern.

Keeping your hair short, or dressing in pants or jumping fences does not make you un-woman like. It’s your personality and you live it. Someday you’ll let your hair grow and decide you want to wear a dress instead of pants. And you could still jump fences.

The bit about suffering in silence is worrying as a lot of woman consider this to be a matter of pride. It all starts when you are a 13, experiencing excruciating cramps, bleeding for three days and you are not to ‘tell anyone’.

So we lie to our brothers and friends who are boys and our fathers (who know, but they act like they don’t). Let’s just say it, because that’s the only natural difference between men and women. There’s nothing to be ashamed about, it’s actually kind of cool. So take pride in it. If you have menstrual cramps say it, and the fact that you are continuing with regular life inspite of all that pain makes you a hero.

With this we teach ourselves not to suffer in silence. A man or woman strikes you, say it out aloud. They have no business of violating your space. You have the choice to say no to him or her. You can’t be claimed as mute property, because you have a choice.

Future. It’s such an important decision. Most women are told that it’s marriage and then children. Again she has a choice. She can study as much as she wants to. Fall in love and fall out of love as many times as her heart permits. She can work, earn and have an independent existence. She can marry whenever she wishes to, whoever she wishes to. Have children, stay at home our pursue a career. She has a choice.

There are no limits to her expectations. She does not have to confine herself to what’s considered right. She can go beyond all those boundaries and define her life or choose to stay within them.

This is what defines feminism and I see no shame in calling myself a feminist. Having the right to choose is a basic. That right should be respected. I’m not a victory claim, or a mute object serving the purpose of reproduction. I’m a human being with a choice and I refuse to let other humans fight wars over my body.

Dancing, For This and a Billion More Risings

“Good girls don’t dance in the middle of a road,” a wise elderly relative told me as I was pulled away from the tiny circle in which my cousins and I were dancing.

It was my brother’s wedding procession, called baraat. Bands, that specialise in music for this kind of a procession, were playing one peppy Bollywood favourite after another. I was the only girl dancing with the boys. My sister and other female cousins were conscious and a little concerned about their sarees. As for me, I had made my mother put extra pins in my saree so that I could dance freely.

The freedom was short lived. I had to fall in line with my sisters, bear disapproving looks from the elders and watch the boys have all the fun.

(Image via http://www.womenlobby.org)

My wise elderly relative would have had a shock of his life if he had been here yesterday (February 14, 2013). Right in the center of Bangalore city, where dancing is banned,  women were dancing, celebrating, rejoicing. They were rising, with a billion others all over the world, for a fearless future. There’s no way anyone was going  to pull me out this time.

Some of us there knew each other, some of us will never know each other. But we danced together. Thrusting, pouting, winking, encouraging, coordinating with each other, liberating each other.

There were men too. Some were rising and some were just curious bystanders. My friend came up with the brilliant idea of distributing pamphlets to the curious bystanders. We hope atleast some of them read why so many men and women were dancing, painting and singing, in this grand carnival against gender violence.

It was an inspiring moment. Irrespective of gender, people were out in the streets against rape, domestic violence, sexual harassment, gender insensitivity, female infanticide and other such social evils.

The fearlessness was contagious. So was the feeling of liberation and empowerment. Each one of us were so different, yet we were there because we’ve all been ill-treated, disrespected or violated because some people think that’s the treatment a woman asks for every time she defies the boundaries imposed on her.

Why was I there?

When activism is your job, words like rising and people and movement start becoming redundant. Yet they are your dream. To see billions of people rising for one cause, starting a movement? Oh yes!

Not participating in one of  these weighs heavily on your conscious. If you have been calling yourself a feminist even before you understood what it meant, then not attending is not an option.

I enjoy certain privileges today because women fought for equality in the late 18 century. My pay is the same as my male colleagues. No one can stop me from casting a vote, or expressing an opinion on the basis of my gender. I live an independent life on my terms and take most of my decisions on my own.

Yet, society does not miss an opportunity to oppress me. I’ve lost count of the number of times I have been touched or seen inappropriately. I have faced abuse. I’ve been judged for not following rules a woman should follow. And this is the story of so many women all over the world.

I don’t have children yet, but I have two adorable nieces and I want to give them the privilege of being fearless. I don’t want them to feel the need to carry a pepper spray or a weapon with them. They should not restrict their dreams because of a gender stereotype. They should have more choices than I have, more freedom than I have. That’s why I was rising.

I was rising for my mother and grandmother, for my nieces, my sister, for cousins and friends, women and girls I know and I don’t know. I was rising so that men and social systems that ill-treat women know that they are in minority. I was rising so that, next time a young girl wants to dance her heart out in the middle of a road, she can do so without being told it’s inappropriate.  

I will continue to rise till stigma that haunts women across the globe is wiped out. I will rise till the choice, opinion and rights of every woman has the strength of a billion. And I know, each time I rise I will have a billion rising with me.

Closet Cleaning: What’s Out and What’s In

I’ve finally accomplished something. It’s a task I despised as a teenager, but I’ve overcome the trauma and done it. I’ve cleaned my closet.

It was a giant heap, a mess. Lots of clothes everywhere, unarranged, unorganised, a nightmare for anyone with OCD. I forced shut the closet, even locked it, so that the heap does not tumble out. But then I had to unlock it because I had to extract something out of it, to enhance my appearance in the world outside my house.

On one such occasion, the heap of clothes started tumbling out. One after the other; old clothes, new clothes, forgotten clothes lay on the floor of my bedroom. I did try controlling the avalanche but I was pushed back and made to witness this disaster.

Thus started the arduous task of folding, arranging and cleaning my closet.

I found the t-shirt which I thought made me look good. Purple, enhanced the right bits, covered the not-so right-ones, in short a safe bet for a sexy day. But somehow the magic had faded. It didn’t do the same thing. Last time I wore it I looked exactly as fat as I am in real and that’s not nice. No point keeping it in the best bet stack, so I chucked it out.

A blue tank top, with a hole, followed the purple t-shirt, and that one was followed by a shirt with a massive tea stain. They should have gone long ago, and they are now. All of them live together in the discard stack.

Then there was this red top. I remember shopping for it. Love at first sight, I wasn’t sure if it would look good on me, but I had to buy it. Watching someone else wear it would have killed me. So I bought it. I did wear it a couple of times, but it never seemed to match anything. It was too red and honestly, now it looked fairly ordinary. Confession: a bad buy. I kept it in the standby stack and if I don’t wear it successfully soon, it will join the fellows in the discard stack.

Discarding led to re-discoveries. A long-lost and one-time favourite balloon top, a halter which I’d picked up after promising myself that I’d lose weight to fit into it, a cotton dress I’d picked up in Goa, a pair of shorts from Goa again and the list can go on forever.

I lost every plausible excuse to shop again. Regretted shopping for all those clothes that were lying in the discarded heap. In a small corner of my small brain my mother’s voice reprimanded me for not arranging my wardrobe regularly.

I put all that regret aside and looked at what was left of the heap of clothes. The lost lot, and my favourite lot. Home clothes a.k.a prized possessions.

Striped boxers held together by stretched elastic, the out-shape t-shirt from college, which used to be dark green but is now some unidentified shade of green, the black one with crazy lines and a tattered hostel laundry tag, a pair of shorts I’d stolen from my brother, very big and very comfortable. I can go on and on and on.

These clothes get a special shelf in the cupboard. They personify comfort. Slipping into the pair of now-ill-fitting jeans from college days cures the gloomiest of days.

They have memories. They are as good as skin. No matter how fast my sizes change, these always fit. They are reassurance. In fact some of them have changed sizes according to me.

I’ve hidden them from my mother, lied about their existence so that she does not throw them away. I’m a bit too attached to my special old clothes. They are my constants in this ever changing, fast moving life.  When I wear them, the whole universe gets together and says, “Everything will be okay.”

So that’s it, my closet is neat and full of clothes that retain the quality for which they had been picked. They make me look good and feel happy.