Culture
Questions of identity…
The elections have just concluded. Much discussion has transpired on the various things politicians said to get votes and seats, from free laptops, to Activas at half price. But, for some reason, one election promise hasn’t been discussed in the mainstream as much as I would like: that of giving primacy to Tamilians in Tamil Nadu. This election slogan of “Tamil Nadu is for Tamilians” is neither new, nor entirely unexpected. What is, however, disheartening is the number of educated and seemingly sensible people who seem to think this attitude is acceptable.
I do not quite understand how someone can be so determinedly nationalist in an increasingly interconnected and interdependent world. I do not understand how nationalism and exclusionism is not a negative quantity in a world where most products we routinely consume are produced outside of the geography that we occupy. How can someone who boasts an Apple iPhone, a Fossil watch and a Ford car think that only people who “originally” belong to a state/region have the right to live there? How can anyone, in the same breath speak with great pride of Satya Nadella and Indra Nooyi, while simultaneously wishing to deport all non-Tamils from Tamil Nadu? What does nationalism or regional pride even mean in today’s world?
Questions of identity are extremely complex and difficult to resolve. This questions is one of special personal importance to me, as I have spent the better part of my life trying to give myself a single identity. And failed. Am I Kannadiga, when my knowledge of the language is limited to the dialect I speak at home, and that of the state limited to my few visits to Bangalore? Or am I a Tamilian, when my mother tongue is a language other than Tamil? Who exactly am I and what is my relationship with this place I call home?
When someone asks me where I am from, the first answer I give is, “Chennai”. Because, it is true. I am from Chennai and this is home. I certainly do not speak Tamil as a first language or mother tongue. I belong to a tiny community of Kannada-speaking people who migrated into this state several centuries ago. I am married to a member of an even tinier community of Marathi-speaking people who also migrated several centuries ago. If someone asked us to go back where we belong, where do we go? To Karnataka, whose language and people are so alien to me that I return from each short trip to Bangalore with the joy of pup returning home? Or to Maharashtra, which I have barely visited except for a few times for official reasons? For me, home is Chennai. Even if I were to go a few generations back to trace my origins, they would go no further than Coimbatore and Theni. Then, who am I?
If mastery of a language is the criteria for qualifying as a “Tamilian”, then would millions of my co-inhabitants of Tamil Nadu qualify? How many native speakers of Tamil actually know the language they call their mother tongue? How about this generation of urban youth, which is more comfortable in English than in their mother tongue?
These are questions that are extremely hard to resolve, or even attempt a resolution at. Yet, we do not hesitate to call someone an “outsider” just because we feel entitled. Can we try, at least, to build a more equitable world? A world that, in Tagore’s immortal words, has not been broken up into fragments by narrow domestic walls? Try?
The problem with body image
I realised this very late in life. Love your own body and you’ll be a happier person. Growing up in a normal, middle class family in Chennai, I always had body image issues. I hated the way I looked. Too dark, too fat, too clumsy and too much of a slob. This was what I was always told by friends and family. Cousins made it worse by telling me that fair is beautiful, which I was admittedly not.
At 14, I discovered the secret world of crushes and boys. And what did I find? That I could never peacefully have a crush on someone without being relentlessly teased. Sometimes the teasing was baseless. About a crush that was actually non existent. Since then, I’ve always been circumspect. Losing two close male friends to such juvenile teasing did not help. Especially not when one of them told me upfront that he did not want to be my friend because being teased with a fat slob troubled him. Maybe this is why I don’t quite keep in touch with school friends any more. They are reminders of an unpleasant time in my life I’d much rather forget.
But, coming back to body image. I always thought I was too dark and too fat to be beautiful. The obsession with being fair goes a long way back. I was advised not to venture out in the sun, to use sunscreen and haldi and all sorts of assorted creams and lot . The rebel that I was, I still did exactly as I pleased.
Then came the obsession with weight loss. I starved myself, skipped breakfast, ate fruit. But no matter what I did, I could never slim down to the size I wanted to be. I was conscious of my weight and tried to cover up the layers in clothes that are better called pillowcases.
As I hit my late teens there was an additional problem. Blemishes and body hair. There was nothing I could do about it. So I did what I knew best. Cover up rather than flaunt. This reluctance to dress my age continued right through college and university.
And then something changed. I went to France for my masters. Suddenly, I discovered a world of possibilities. I discovered that women were proud of their bodies and flaunted them. I discovered that for a woman to be beautiful, she must first love herself. I saw women who were twice my size carry off short skirts and dresses with an elegance that I could only hope to match some day.
Gradually,I told myself I was beautiful. I convinced myself that weight, complexion and body hair notwithstanding, I had the right to flaunt. If I didn’t like what I saw in the mirror, nobody else was going to.
And there has been no looking back. With every passing year, I find myself dressing bolder and bolder. I find myself picking out clothes when shopping that I wouldn’t have dared look at when I was 14. Crossing 30 was an important moment because at that moment, I realised I no longer cared when men thought of me. I realised that I only cared what I thought of myself.
Now, I realise that all it took for others to find me attractive was the courage to accept my own body for what it is. That acceptance is never easy to get. But it’s essential for me to be happy with who I am. The other day, someone told me that very few people can look elegant with no makeup on and I am one of them. I acknowledged that with a quiet sense of pride in who I have become.
When I look back at my teenage years, I tell myself that I will never let this happen to anyone else if I can help it. Maybe this is why I felt the need to write this blogpost.
Beauty is the way you treat yourself rather than in the colour of your skin or in the inches around your waist. If you love yourself, everyone else will love you as well.Of love, art and Greek mythology
Looking around the Musee d’Orsay on Saturday last, I came across several works of art based on various Greek myths. I’m not really surprised given that most Greek myths centre around the theme of love and beauty. And who doesn’t like to talk of these two?
Of all the myths I’ve read, I find the Judgement of Paris the most fascinating. Haven’t heard of the story? Let me tell you.
One day, three Greek goddesses had an argument on who was the most beautiful of them all. Hera, the Goddess of Wealth and the wife of Zeus, Nike, the Goddess of Victory and Aphrodite, the Goddess of Love. Unable to agree upon a judgement, they invited Paris, the most handsome man in the the world to judge. These women, being women, each offered Paris a bribe to judge her the most beautiful. Hera offered him all the wealth of the world. Nike offered to make him the invincible ruler of the world. But Aphrodite, offered him the love of the world’s most beautiful woman, Helen of Troy.
Paris, being a normal man of course, accepted Aphrodite’s gift and judged her the most beautiful. And thus started one of the most destructive wars in history: the Trojan War. For wasn’t Helen’s the face that launched a thousand ships?
Love has been a powerful theme in art throughout its history. Who doesn’t love a good love story? And if it involves lust, intrigue, murder and war, even better.
What makes love such a powerful emotion? What makes people do things for love that they would never otherwise do? What makes them forget the rules of right and wrong, of social mores and of moral values and pursue something to the end of their lives? Is it really love? Or is it something more basic? Lust perhaps? Or perhaps it is a need for validation. Or maybe it’s none of the above. Maybe it’s just what the heart wants.
Did Paris really believe that by abducting the wife of another there would be no repercussion? Or did he not care about the repercussions? Did the love of Helen really mean so much that was willing to put his country, his family and his own life on the line?
We can never get completely satisfying answers to any of these questions. But, we are human and therefore not infallible. If there is one thing that makes us weak like no other, it is love, especially the forbidden kind. But great love is also great art. As is great tragedy. And by loving without reservations, we open our souls out to great achievement. And perhaps heartbreak as well. But, that’s really part of the game isn’t it?
The art of sari-draping…
I am strongly convinced that the art of sari-draping is dying a slow death. Why else would someone be willing to pay 6000 rupees to a random stranger to teach them to drape a sari perfectly. In case you are wondering what I am going on about, you should probably read this article from Wall Street Journal.
The story talks of Kalpana Shah, a freelance sari-draper who offers “basic and advanced sari draping courses” for a fee in Mumbai. On top of that she gets invited to conduct group sessions on sari-draping. Wait a second! I am missing something here. Someone actually makes a living from this kind of thing? And others pay for it? Now, that’s a lovely business idea, ain’t it? Maybe I should consider this an alternative career. Now, sari-draping is one thing I do reasonably well. And, so many women seem to think it’s an art that I should perhaps make use of the opportunity. Making hay and all that you see…
However, I can’t help but lament the fact that the sari is slowly becoming a garment to be worn only for wedding and special occasions. Not that I am a prolific sari-wearer, but the day I do end up in a sari to work, people look at me rather strangely. Just yesterday, I was dressed in a sari and was accosted almost the second I entered office by an enthusiastic soul who asked me almost accusingly, “So Amrutha, what’s special? Sari and all…” I was so taken aback by the tone of the question that I just stammered that there was nothing special.
I find the slow disappearance of the sari quite unfortunate. After all, a well-worn sari actually makes a woman look lovely. There is something about the sari that lends elegance and beauty to the woman in question. And, it doesn’t necessarily have to take hours to drape. I truly appreciate women who take the effort to wear saris regularly despite the obvious conveniences of kurtas and jeans. I only wish I could be more regular in wearing saris to work and elsewhere.
Maybe this should be a new year resolution: Wear the saris in my wardrobe at least once a year! What say? 😉
When you begin to say, it’s enough!
This is the first post of 2013 and also the 300th post on this blog. At this juncture, I expected to be writing about something rather more pleasant, but some things need to be said. And now. The whole world and its dog has just exhausted its energy crying itself hoarse about the need for change in anti-rape legislation and justice for the murdered 23-year old physiotherapy student. Demands for justice ranged from the sane and sensible calls for societal change in attitudes and stricter law enforcement to some knee-jerk demands of hanging, chemical castration and even physical castration for the accused. However, what really struck me in this whole drama was that every other protester spoke of how the increasing incidence of sexual violence against women went against Indian culture that respected and worshipped its women since time immemorial.
Now, I do agree that many of those who spoke of an irreproachable Indian culture were young men and women barely out of school. But this just goes to prove how much we are brainwashed into believing that everything Indian and traditional is good and great. We truly believe that the root cause of the increasing rate of crimes against women is western decadence, even if we are too diplomatic to say it in as many words. But really! Enough is enough. Enough of blaming the pub culture, western influence, mini-skirts, Facebook and Bollywood for rape. Let’s face it! Indian culture has traditionally treated its women no better than any other culture.
In case anyone forgets, we are talking about the same Indian culture that shows, covertly or overtly, a distinct preference for sons, that teaches its girls to be submissive, that kills off baby girls for the crime of being…girls. It is the same Indian culture where thousands of young women lose their lives for the crime of not bringing enough dowry. It is also the same culture that refuses to acknowledge a woman’s identity as distinct from that of her husband and where it is still a crime to survive the death of a partner. Rapists and sexual offenders are not made in a day. They grow up with a sense of entitlement and cannot fathom why a woman would say no to them. In fact, they do not even realize that a no really means a NO, simply because they have never been denied a thing. We are talking of an Indian culture where a parent will deny their daughter three full meals a day to fulfill every whim of their son. Just because some of us are lucky enough to grow up in a healthy and gender-equal environment, it doesn’t mean that Indian culture is all good.
If we really want to change things, we need to demand societal change. And, this doesn’t come with amending laws or naming a new anti-rape legislation after the unfortunate 23-year old. It comes from within. Holding candlelight vigils and chanting slogans against misogyny will not help. If we are so concerned about change, we must not hesitate to change ourselves. Let’s stop praying for a male child because that will take us to heaven, stop treating our sons differently from our daughters, refuse to buckle under the societal pressure to kill off our baby girls. Let us also refuse to pay a dowry to secure a “good match” for our daughters and instead look for men who respect them enough to keep them happy. Let’s stop using the B-word to insult women we do not like or worse, call misogynistic men b*****ds. Let’s remember that when we do that, are not insulting them, but their mothers. If we really want things to change, let’s BE the change we so crave to see.
But, while we are at it, let’s also remember that change does not come easy. It may not even be visible for the next 20 years, but there will come a day when we will be able to turn out a better class of human beings for a better future. This may not be as satisfying as hanging the rapists or castrating them, but will surely be more effective. And this solution will take time. After all, Rome was not built in a day.