A tribute to women’s magazines

in the 1950s..

We all have our little escapes, don’t we? The secret little worlds we build in our heads that become places of refuge when things are wrong, or just not that right. And those worlds get their expression and even engendered from objects and places around us…

The other day, not too long ago, Pree n I were passing a magazine stand. The new Marie Claire was out, and in an unnatural state of excitement, I picked it up. Pree bemusedly watched me through all this from outside the store, since she thought she’d catch up on her smoke, and later said to me: You know, I’ve only ever known one other woman who spends good money on these good for nothing, weirdly expensive magazines. And that one was such a weird ass, got married at the age of 18 and all she could ever talk about was clothes and sob about all the men who’d broken her heart and think that the tests that these mags have defined her. I’d never really have thought you were one of those!”

Now, I don’t know if that was a backhanded compliment or just a plain snide remark against those that read the ugh-so-lame mags, but later it got me thinking. Let alone the fact that I’d loathe to be classified as one of those females, there was something still in what pree had unwittingly (as always) said. Why do a certain class of uber cool women who are given to defining themselves and generally identified as intelligent, sort of denounce women’s or fashion mags as the dust on their prize bookcases, or even as a conspiracy against them?

And then I was reminded of myself circa 2003-04, when I’d look at my aunt’s ‘Grihshobha’ or my mother’s Femina, and go – eeeuuch! Ma, how can you read such rubbish? Don’t you have any self respect? She’d give me a puzzled look and say, what’s self-respect got to do with it? And for some reason, I could never really explain my ‘feminist’ anguish to her.

It was undoubtedly feminist because the associations we’ve come to make with these beautiful, big, glossy pages is another male conspiracy theory of yore that women rebelled against by burning bras: that of keeping the woman involved in her life, and defining this life as an involvement with homes and gardens, children, the husband and a woman’s office and temple all-in-one, the kitchen.

I got a forward from a friend that had a scanned clipping of one such magazine from the 1950s which was a list of directives on how to be the good wife. It included tricks of the trade in the line of ‘never sulk when your husband re-enters the house after a long day of work. Always look fresh, with perfume, lipstick and smile in place because he will be tired from work which he does to bring the bread in.’ and there was worse, believe you me.

In other words, subjugation. Structuring the place of the woman in the family as the dependent and the slavish. Of course this was masked under heavy jargon of feminine strength, dependability and the real driving force. After all, every successful man has a capable wife and all that jazz.

But really, being career-oriented, rebellious and wild wouldn’t necessarily make a woman stop from being slavishly devoted to a man, even a wrong one at that, and reading such mags might not make any woman a given walk-over or brainwashed enough to take the nonsense akin to that of six decades ago and live with it. Hell, we have pre-nups today!

My mother’s reason for reading femina then was that they used to have good recipes. She has a folder full of yumminess, scraps cut out, Xeroxed, even stolen from her sisters. She’s stopped reading the mag since then, simply because she can’t identify with it anymore. And to extend the point, she’s equally, no, maybe way more fond of Agatha Christie and Ruth Rendell. And an excellent cook. My grandmother loves to read ‘Sarita’ because it gives her stories, real and fictional, of courage and happiness that she says she never saw in her on life.

I guess we need to get over our prejudice against this gloss, because unlike then, they don’t really come with an undercurrent of compulsion any more. If the arts professor at Wellesley college in ‘Mona Lisa Smile’ is agitated, she has reason in the proximity of those stormy events, and the possibility of a relapse. We urban women of the 21st century, on the other hand, do not really need to have our guard up so much.

Be cautious and own pepper spray, but not act militant against the innocent.

And me, I am a fan of Marie Claire simply because it is one of my escapes from the mundanity of daily life, ugliness of this world and what not. It does have some good features on social cultural positions of women, but mostly, it is the still beauty of places, ideas, being, existence and movement in their sprawling pictures that is my pull-factor. Nothing criminal about wanting to get away, I’m sure.

…And more in the name of wishing Mr Muthalik’s health in pink!

a small, inspired moment of very naughty inspiration, and here we are today, garnering support from even the BBC. here’s a second opinion piece on the biggest movement of the year…

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/Subverse/The_power_of_pink/articleshow/4107798.cms

bloom(er) on!

Curtailed Flights (on starry starry nights)

the umbilical chord stays forever

“You may leave by the 10 45 cab.” Words that unhooked my heart, and sent it flying as did i, frantically signalling to Preetha, “its time to run, before he changes his mind!”

 She obligingly complies, we fly, giggle, soar down the staircase and out onto the the now relatively damp, dark and desolate MG Road. Everything goes into shutdown mode by 10 pm around here. Kingfisher, CNBC, Levi’s and now DNA adverts blink neonly in the twilight of our day. The day that begins, effectively, at 3 30 in the afternoon.

At this hour, there are only the rich car owning suave night birds, the auto wallas who wait for tyres to get punctured, the stray dogs who wait for the tyres to get punctured so the night birds and the auto wallahs may fling away any food they might be partaking of, and two stray women who don’t like tonight’s mess menu, on the road. Although the two stray women might not mind being treated by the rich night birds to rich dinner on 13th floor of Barton Centre, Murphy doesn’t want such things to happen so he makes sure there are no punctured tyres.

Then, we and the auto wallas are left at each other’s mercy. Again, we soar as high as our flat wooden soled cappis can take us, amid wails of ‘auto! auto?!’, hoots, songs sung to attract the attention of the ladies, to the haven of chicken, otherwise known as KFC.

KFC, on Brigade Road, is another happening place. Outside, is parked a car that belongs to the 60s, with a man at the wheel, who’s probably singing in his head, “I wish i was a punk rocker, with flowers in my head,” with friends leaning in and one particular punk, past his expiry date, asking in tones that might be directed at all people on Brigade Road, “Dude, have you been to the latest Floyd concert?” The other punk has a joint dangling from his lips, which seems to be as old as he himself was, going by the remaining strands of grey on his head. He spies us, the old pervert, dunks his head inside the car window, and stage whispers – “dude, women!”

We bolted in some confusion, wondering if crossing the street to KFC had led us to another planet called Mars, the absence of femininity in the neighborhood was conspicuous.

Inside KFC, amid frying pans and oils and fountains of Pepsi, stood about a gang of blonde chinky boys – the blondeness put KFC’s lighting to shame, and made them look like cloned ‘Dollies’. loose shirts, ties with skull-print, pierced lips, underlips, brows and whatnot, and shifty looks in the slits of eyes made them unlikeable to me – which is a first, since i generally admire the whole lot. No discrimination intended.

And as we made our way out, loaded with cholestrol dripping yummy goodies (salutations colonel kentucky!), and as the beggar (the only other woman ’out’ that night) and dogs hounded us for food alike, and as we crossed the street to buy Pree’s Classic Milds (60% of which, in Dr Pree-thha’s theory, i smoke, all passively, so she wants ME to pay), it dawned on me, that it’s only hunger that would make women mad enough to roam the streets at that ‘ungodly’ hour. Unescorted, i mean.

Why? Why o why o why?? Why do men leer and grin like its Christmas or their goddamn birthdays when they see women out on the road at night? Why do my ‘well-wishers’ want me to not go out in the dark because it is unsafe? why do men have to make it unsafe? why is women’s honour such a big deal? why do men, as a dangerous cannibalistic tribe, have to make women all feel like they’re being preyed or being readied for devourment, once the sun is down and they dare to step out on their own? why does the social animal aspect of being human forget all the social-isms and retain the animal hood, like wolves on a spree? 

We walk to one such group, with their yellow and green automotives ready to whisk us away, and the gleam of recognition in their eyes, as they quote our address to us with question marks, we contemplate backing off. With no other options around, and still haggling prices, we get in and the auto driver put on his headphones. Music always went well with driving. When we reach our residence, the man, takes off his headphones and considers it fit to advise us on the undesirability of loafering about on roads at 10 in the night.

The audacity of my ‘well-wishers’ is beginning to piss me off.

another gender bender…

Here’s an example of how we completely absorb the mentality that fevers around in society, even when no one has explicitly taught us things. Here’s also an example of what blindness men and women live in, and how easily hypocrisy comes to man. and woman.

IH:i hope u’v seen boratG: yupi bought the damn fake in burma bazaar in chennaiIH: hahahaG: oh what a laughIH: i wnt to see ur face wen tht scene comes in which the both of thm are fightin nakedG: oh its alrighti didn’t scream- “my eyes! MY EYES!”if thats what you mean IH: haha…i know my girlfriend wud have faintd on th spotG: i went to a second hand bookstore todayits a real famous one in bangaloreand i found erotic literature!for the first time in my lifeIH: whaaau’v nevr seen it beforeG: my friend and i were quite ecstaticnopenot in real life at leasti know rachel read it in friends i’ve seen it onlinebut not actual booksas in pages and print and all!! IH: achhau’v nevr seen lettrs to penthouseG: nopeheard sooo much about them but never seen emIH: its the most famous in erotic litG: yupi know thatIH: i have a copy bak in my hostelG: unless you count D H Lawrence i haven’t read any everof letters to penthouse?my myyou naughty lil boy!IH: yeah n i got it frm a girla batchmateG: well welli see your education is quite forward! IH: and this ws th same girl hu ws rumored to hv givn a ******* to her boyfredn wen th lights went outG: omigodok its all goodIH: and dnt draw a wrong impression of hershe’s a very sweet n nice girlG: no who am i to judge?IH: who hs a darker side i guessG: good for herand who says the two can’t coexist?and honestly, if she is sexually awakened, why is it called her darker side?IH: hmm…i see an eg in front of meG : nobody calls horny men dark!thATS NOT FAIR…IH: all men are hornyits a factG: exactlyIH: thr born tht wayG: and have you seen anybody calling all men the dark human beings, or animals for that matter?!no, thats no excuseIH: its a fact i have to smtimes hide frm my girlfriend to kp peace btwn usyeah yeah u winno darker sidewe’re all jediG: hah hagood…now you’re in line

i’d rather we were all jedi than being differentiated along the lines of something so basic to being alive. it’s just silly!

I am. HERE!

It is amazing how the liberation that i claim to have imbibed over the years, through my upbringing, education and general growing up, is not even close to as complete as i’d like it to be.

Liberation. Freedom. An individual. Rights. My Rights. It is all fine to shout to the world that this is all true. This is all mine. I can live as i want to, where i want to, how i want to.

What is not fine is how, when you do do that, even if only by walking down a road by yourself, and not really voicing it, there is always somebody- somebody- who will try to put you back in your ‘place’. it doesn’t even have to be alone. sitting in a car with the windows down can also prompt the man standing on the sidewalk, with his friends, blowing away his life in smoke, to try and make a grab at you.

how, if you so much as dare to step out after sundown, there is not a moment when you yourself do not fear the onslaught of a menagerie of men, all trying to claim equal share of the pie.

how, if you sit at a cafe or restaurant or go to watch a movie, on your own, you’re considered as available. And willing to be a player.

how, if you’re travelling in a bus or by the local train, and if you wear western clothes, and if you try to put on your ipod to block out the sounds of perversion, they’ll make sure you listen to them. and if you don’t oblige, you’ll see it. and feel it. the grossness of it all.

how if you want to hang out with you guy friends, or just your boyfriend, you’re again considered fair game. and the danger of being nabbed and swallowed by the beasts will intimidate you.

it continues to intimidate. it always will. it is imperative that women forever keep their minds and all senses open, at all times, when a part of the public. always, always we’ll feel the prickiness of being alert, for fear of being violated. what about the violation of one’s individuality in this constant experience of fear? how do you feel free if your, womanhood, is forever is at stake?!

there is liberation. It is a tangible facet of my life today. of a lot of women’s lives. but it is not complete. it feels like it will take forever to be so. the power tussle is not going to get resolved by burning our bras and screaming for sufrage or the threatening refusal to make dinner. the idea of equality is one that was never digested easily by the one who had the upper hand.

and that has to be a given. they do have the upper hand. and not all of them are alike. hell, not all of us are alike. there are those who submit, are taught to submit, to the will of power meekly. and those who are merely turned on by it. but for the rest of us, we will have to continue to yell in the face of our infringers, to tell this ‘civilised’ world what a severe breach of conduct some of the members of this society are making.

and till the day that our daughters will be able to walk in peace, as carefree as that languid black cat that crosses the road on its pace, leaving those behind with a shadow of doubt if they should tread further, we will continue to walk the roads, and wear skin tight tees and listen to our ipods and scream bloody murder when the beast raises its paw…till then.

Jump! for my love…

The jumpsuit is back! more flowy, feminine and pret than ever before. this amazingly convenient item of clothing was once the need of assembly line workers, astronauts, and was generally something that must’ve been a harbinger of all those moments of boredom spent at dreary work.

Then some high flying fashion designer, on a hot, tedious summer afternoon, with the weight of heat and unproductiveness, glanced in the direction of his son and realised the beauty of the coverall he was wearing. And decided to display it to the world. On the ramps and on the profiles of hot bods of the time. since then, there’s been no stopping the jumpsuit from hopping to the forefront of any fashion show.

And then, it gained mega-celebrity status when Elvis Presley did a number in it.

And today, although in and out of fashionistas wardrobes and the racks of haute couture, it has gained the status of the stiletto- not always in the limelight, but forever sexy. and its sexiness is largely attributed to its comfort-ability. like that favourite pair of dungarees that you’d never want to take off, all those days ago. And altered to a little less here, a stitch there, it can make the most (unwantedly) curvacious bodies look like flat ironed steel. this time, its chanel, zoya and even Indian designers like Arjun who are doing the honours.

time for another swagger down high fashion’s memory lane. (and that is such a pleasantly vicious circle!)

I Do, right?

Browsing through Orkut profiles the other day, i came across an old friend, whose album is full of pictures of the entire world, which she has been travelling with her husband. Who works for the merchant navy, so its no big random adventure. what IS a big adventure, although not random, is the fact that she got married when we were all in our second year of being English hons. students at Delhi University. She was all of 19 years.

Getting married at that age is not only shocking to most of us urban, city, career oriented girls, but also quite unimaginable.

This, in a nation, where the women have only very recently, by global standards, started claiming an identity for themselves, or having more to their lives than a household, a husband and children to take care of. In a place where its still a bit awesome for men in relatively smaller towns, to see women out in western clothes, walking by themselves, and which inevitably gives rise to some attempts at subversion.

The fact is that this woman was very happy, and quite prepared for this eventuality, not to mention quite excited. she, unlike a lot of us, was quite clear in her head as to what it was that she wanted, and that a career was certainly not one of them. i think i also need to mention that she was very intelligent, was once the sports captain in the student council of the boarding school that she went to and possessed every ounce of urbane sophistication that many of the rest of us can only pretend to have.

There were people who laughed at her, pitied her, voiced their ‘feminism’ in front of her and even despised her. paying no heed whatsoever, she still went ahead, head held high, smirking at the devil, down the altar.

If feminism is about equality, about having the will and the power to live by one’s own decisions, without having to look for permission from male counterparts, relatives, members of society at random, then she certainly was queen of this movement. If we women start hurling mud at such women, who have made their own choices, and blame them for not swearing allegiance to our religion, and try to force our opinions on them , then what is the entire purpose of feminism? where is the independence? where is the pretense at it? how, then, is feminism more noble than Communism, or Islam? what then is it fighting against, when it recreates the same force in essence?

She’s happy, ecstatic with her decisions today. She fell in love, and carried that indulgence through to its just conclusion. And the brat that she is, she does not care a hoot for what whispers follow her. There goes one embodiment of Feminism.

Go Woman!

It is a time of strange contradictions. The urban woman can be found yakking on a cell phone, all dressed swankily, with a cigarette hanging on shiny gloss, driving smooth wheels in slim heels, rushing to her next meeting. Her ayyah, on the other hand, is a meek little woman, with five children of her own, and a husband who lives to drink, and hits her if she does not give him the money to do so. Her daughter, though, is relatively better off, since the mother may not want the same fate to befall her girls, and has the privilege of education. Mixed bag, truly. But what is yet more amazing is that all these people may have one thing in common- the prime time sob-opera that will be the substance of all conversation and hot gossip for tomorrow.

Ekta Kapoor has revolutionised the world of Indian television, people claim, till date. The star kid made her big bucks and a seized her throne in the world by floating a string of soap-operas which had the Indian woman hanging on to them, and hanging on to the edge of her seat. Having exploited the sagas of domestic tussles and claiming to depict the truth in her stories, the real ground reality, she has become one of the few extremely successful women in the nation. And that, in a nation deeply divided on the lines of gender; one where the idea of independent women is still new, despite the national identity being close to 61 years of independence.

What really is the Indian woman? In the early years of an independent India, she had a number of avatars and was interpreted in a number of ways, on and off screen. For Satyajit Ray, she was Charulata, the modern woman who had a point to make, and a very sophisticated manner of making it. Ritwik Ghatak saw her as the oppressed woman, ever more burdened after the concept of identity development sunk in to the Indian psyche, as the land of opportunities was just beginning to open up. Ghatak’s protagonist in Meghe Dhake Tara crumbled under the pressures that home and the world imposed upon her, implying the hollowness behind the tall claims. Bharat Mata herself stood for the spiritual strength and unrequited anger, that was to stand mighty against the oppression of the exploitative British Raj. (British Raj, which was under the monarchic grip of a queen. talk about irony!)

Fast forward to today- We have the likes of Arundhati Roy, Medha Patkar, Sudha Chandran, Sushmita Sen, Barkha Dutt, Sonia Gandhi, Mayawati, Sania Mirza (and more, in no specific order of importance), living within the same national boundaries as uncountable nameless victims of abuse: physical, mental, psychological, verbal, traditional. This second category even includes the likes of Bhanwari Devi- one of the few who are high profile by virtue of being stuck in highly impossible situations. Its a mixed bag- the assortment ranges across caste, class, religion and language.

In the present context, of an India which is touted to be a super power by 2020, empowerment of women is taking centre-stage for a lot of political mobilisers and high end aspirants. Feminism was never a scandalous, eye-snatching, bra-burning movement here. Today, as more people are waking up to the capabilities of the fairer sex, it is becoming increasingly apparent that reservations, even of seats in the Parliament, are ways of ‘empowering’ this largely backward section of Indian society. It is a given that a democracy needs to ensure the welfare of all its citizens- minority or otherwise. Only, women have so far qualified neither as a minority nor as otherwise.

But it is to be understood- for empowerment to work, emancipation is essential. Only a mind free of shackles would know the meaning of and have the courage to pick up the weapons being handed to it. Maybe Feminism should be taught as a subject right from pre school. Maybe that alone is the way to ensure that militantism does not dawn on the gender war. Maybe that would be the only way to educate a girl about her rights as an equal. Maybe that would be the only way of destroying any future prospects of misconceptions about what a woman is and what she wants to be, when India is finally really ready for a woman as head-of-state, as a true leader, she at least knows her own worth.

It is true that this will take a really long time- America has only just arrived at this juncture today. We will take time, but the Indian woman really needs to be able to represent the confidence that is being fostered within the state, in the name of a booming economy and rising international clout. And a confidence which will be able to stand up to any form of patriarchal bullying. Maybe financial betterment is a prerequisite to all this. If so, now is the time to shine, amigos.