Why am I not playing the “fabulous woman” tag either

A few days back, there was a lot of hullabaloo when I questioned women nominating each other to rise up to the challenge ofmotherhood and post their pictures. Thinking that two wrongs can make a right, someone with a lower IQ started this even more disturbing chain of nominating each other who are proud to be fabulous women. Here, take a look:

“I have been nominated to post a picture that makes me happy/proud to be a woman... I'm going to tag the ladies that I think are fabulous, and who do not need to be a mom or a wife or a daughter necessarily, to post a happy/proud pic of their own. If I've tagged you as one of these awesome women, copy the text and paste it to your wall with a picture, and tag more ladies who can hold their own, without any labels!!!”

Now this is what I find so wrong about this post other than the three exclamation marks, there periods and typos (picture is not pic), and the fact that you claim “without any labels” although you ARE labeling yourself happy/proud/fabulous/awesome/lady in these lines.

I don’t do these tags because I am not considered as fabulous [insert noun of your choice] by most women. Neither married, nor a grandmother or mother, nor a wife or even a pet owner, most women consider me a freak, someone not in their league. And why wouldn’t they? I am in my thirties and still single by choice. I spend my free time traveling the world or watching air crash investigation videos. I live in hostels during my travels. I try to avoid Indian potluck parties, and show no interest in bonding with women who cannot hold a conversation beyond the prices of lentils at different Indian stores or an impending visit of in-laws in summer. I am not a part of any makeup group where you post (scary) close-up pictures of all the makeup you were wearing when you went to do that weekly grocery chore. I don’t pose wearing sarees and standing in a group like the choo choo train, exactly at an angle of 45 degrees to the ground, showing shiny straightened hair and perfect dentition. I have nothing to contribute to a conversation about diapers, Gerber, or how scary it is to drive a car. Most Indian women of my generation wouldn’t even consider inviting me home, let alone tagging me in any of these posts. However, there are more important reasons.

I see these tags and labels as being not only offensive, vain, narcissist, and divisive, but also dangerous. A combination of two words often has more meaning than the simple addition of these two words. For example, to call myself fabulous is something (honest, maybe vain at the most). To call myself a woman is a truth. But when I call myself a “fabulous woman”, it has many underlying layers of meaning. Fabulous compared to whom? Other women whom I am calling less fabulous? Or a fabulous woman, compared to a fabulous man? And what exactly have I done to deserve this label? Even if I was fabulous, shouldn’t others be the one calling me that?

Now think about this. What if men started a similar chain of posts, tagging each other as fabulous and posting their pictures? What if they started describing why they are fabulous? It will not be long before someone is going to call on them, labeling them sexist (even though they never posted anything sexist). Sexism isn’t always about men propagating it and women being at the receiving end. I find this post on Facebook equally sexist. If I was a man writing this blog post, I would be instantly labelled a sexist. 

In principle, I usually post stuff that is either informative or entertaining for others. This kind of post is neither. It is not like those “ten books I read” or “twenty movies I loved” tags, which at least is informative to some. It could be vaguely entertaining for the self, but not for others. Can you tell us why do you consider yourself a fabulous woman? Have you overcome a disability? Saved someone from drowning? Climbed a mountain? Donated for a cause recently? How exactly is the narcissistic picture you just posted portraying the legacy of a fabulous woman? To call oneself fabulous (or fabulous human) is something, but the tag of a fabulous woman comes with even more accountability. And by the way, what is the credibility of the woman who just tagged you (and herself) as being fabulous? What is her claim to fame?

Would you be okay sharing stories from your life you are not very proud of? Like maybe when you hurt someone or judged someone? Would you be willing to own up to those stories? Stories of glamour and glitter don’t make you fabulous. Stories of you being first in class don’t make you fabulous unless you are willing to share stories of the times you failed. Stories of you flaunting your shiny new car don’t make you fabulous, unless you are willing to share a story of about your shortcomings. And even if you did those, let others be the judge of whether you are great or not.

You can argue that these are innocuous posts that do not mean much. For me, if you post something on social media, it comes with a lot of responsibility. Be accountable for the words you write. Take responsibility for the messages you give and the energy you bring in to a conversation. Nothing you post on social media is innocuous or without a message. It shows who you are, and what your values are (much more than your claims of who you are). I find it intriguing that men never participate in such posts (unless it is a challenge where they have to pour a bucket of ice on them in the freezing cold). It’s women who tend to propagate such divisive messages. Married versus single. Mother versus non-mother. Awesome versus not-awesome. And women versus men.

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Is this also sexism?

Recently, I got acquainted with a young gentleman through some common friends. A personable, soft-spoken, and affable gentleman who works abroad, drives, travels, and takes nice pictures. The photography-bit probably got me interested in prolonging the small talk. I realized that he was one of those who lived in the desi hubs of foreign land, hung out with desis, spent his weekends cooking desi food and traveling with more desis. Nothing wrong with that of course, so I chatted some more, asking about more personal information. Like, family.

He tells me that he has a younger brother, although the brother is a sister. I am clearly confused at this point, unable to understand, and ask him to explain. He beams, telling me that his younger sister grew up to be pretty independent, taking care of the family, their ageing parents and all since he left for foreign shores. She took responsibility for the bank, and sundry other such things back in India, and he was so impressed that he now calls her his younger brother.

Something didn’t sound right to me. I mean, he was all nice and warm and well-spoken, but something was really wrong with his values, with what he said. A sister becomes a brother when she turns out to be smart, independent, and responsible? I smelled sexism. Not sexism as in beating up a defenseless woman and looking down upon a woman and other such heinous crimes. This was more subtle, implicit, and innocuous. But it felt like sexism nevertheless.

I don’t know what you would have done if you were in my place. I mean, here, we were conversing effortlessly, with no undercurrents or looming tension. Confronting him, even most gently, would have made things uncomfortable. I shifted. I tried distracting myself, thinking of other things. But something did not feel right. I was convinced that if I did not confront him today, and told him why it sounded all wrong, I would be a hypocrite. A coward. I never participate in scathing Facebook conversations, where people fill up discussions with their strong, confrontational, opinionated views, provoking more confrontational views. I try to remain non-confrontational, not because I do not care, but because experience tells me that people are seldom willing to consider alternate viewpoints. But I had to say something here.

So I told him, that it sounded very wrong to me. I told him how my dad used to say the same thing, that his daughter is equivalent to a son, not realizing that what he thought was praise was actually demeaning me. Just because I had certain desirable attributes didn’t make me a man. I told him in the most genteel way possible. He was educated, he had traveled the world, and I assumed that he would understand. Perhaps he did. I don't know. 

He was clearly uncomfortable. And defensive. Embarrassed too. He repeatedly tried explaining that it was just a metaphor, a figure of speech, and I should not take it that seriously. Not once did he take responsibility. Not once did he say that I made him see something new, think of something in a new way. He did not own up to his views (“I see what you are saying. Thank you for sharing your thoughts. I will reflect upon them”) He just kept asking me to not take things so seriously. He kept shifting responsibility to my side.

Which is fine. At least I did my part. Hopefully made a difference. And I hope that in some little way, I made him think.

sunshine

Gripping reality

            It was a dinner date that got downgraded to a coffee date for lack of time and opportunity. Nevertheless, it lasted for four hours. Between two cups of French press coffee with an insufferable amount of condensed milk and another cup of tea, conversations happened.

            There were so many tales to be told. Tales about art, paintings, exhibitions, photography, rocket engines, mergers and acquisitions, western music, farms in Hungary and eastern Europe, density ratios, fuel propellants, and camera lenses. Time was on supersonic wings. There is nothing more disheartening than someone constantly checking work emails during a conversation, but it is an unavoidable occupational hazard. Nevertheless, she did her best to look feminine. She even reapplied her lipstick and combed her hair in the restroom that day.

            Soon, it was time to say goodbye. It started pouring, and as she watched the rain pour itself into an already brimming pool, she wondered how this would all end. She would perhaps shake hands, say formal goodbyes, and drive back home nodding her head to her latest favorite milne hai mujhse aayi.

            Her prediction was partially off. That was the first time he hugged her. But not before shaking her hand and saying, “You have a very manly grip.”

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More Hairy Tales

Is it true that women notice women more than men do, or am I just imagining things? After my last haircut, my roommates immediately commented on how different I look. A few days later, my department mate commented about my haircut. The class instructor who I meet once a week who I thought barely noticed me amidst the huge class size also commented on my haircut. The comments kept coming in weeks after the haircut. It was nothing fancy, just a one liner “Hey, nice haircut”. At least 15 people noticed. All of them were women.

Yet I went out to dinner with a male friend the same evening I had the haircut. Not a word. I sent some latest pictures to a good male friend. He noticed the iMac behind me in the picture, but not my haircut. I kept bumping into other men, all good friends, but no comment about the haircut.

I wonder if women notice the minor and not so minor changes in other women’s appearance significantly more than men do. And if so, why?

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Are men really from Mars?

Mars, because you don’t need to shop there. Or lug stuff half way across the world from point A to point B. And lug stuff back from point B to point A.

While visiting Kolkata, I made sure I chose an airline that let me carry the maximum weight as baggage allowance (Apparently Air India still allow 2 bags, but American Airlines doesn’t). Then I made sure every bag was filled to its maximum capacity, and a little more. I got away smiling innocently at the person at the counter who had started to protest because I was carrying some 1.5 kg extra. Perfumes, body lotions, chocolates and candies still unfinished after 3 months, IKEA stuff, and this and that. If my airline had given me four extra bags to fill, I’m confident I’d have filled them too.

Once my bags were empty in Kolkata, I had to fill them up again before I moved back. This time it was Indian clothes, books, jewelry, and more “this and that” things. I asked myself how much an innocuously looking saree could weigh. Oh that kurta looks amazing, isn’t it? And I want that dress in blue too. Before I knew, I was long past my weight allowance. Oh hell, I had to prioritize and take only certain stuff with me now [I kept the rest and convinced sister I got it for her for her birthday which is still 7 months away].

And then I called up my guy friend visiting Kolkata for a rant session about how it sucks to have baggage restrictions. I was sure he would have understood my plight, going through the same situation himself.

Me: “Isn’t it a pain to have baggage restrictions? How are you managing?”

He: “Err…. I got just one suitcase.”

Me: “What !!! Poor you !! What airline are you flying? It allows just one bag?”

He: “It allows two. It’s just that I carried one.”

Me: “Wh…Wh…What?? Why on earth?”

He: “I didn’t have much to bring back home.”

Me: “So you could have got empty bags. What about stuff you need to carry back?”

He: “I don’t have much to carry back to the US either. I have enough ethnic clothes and so I didn’t get anything. In fact I still have some 5 kg empty in the bag I brought.”

Readers, I cannot tell you how shocked I was. I wondered if I should have been impressed with him or ashamed at myself. For someone who could have carried 46 kg each way, he is just carrying 18 kg and is happy about it while I’m having sleepless nights. I’m sure I would have filled those 46 kg and would have bargained for more. My friend neither eyes the amazing clothes he could have bought from Kolkata, nor regrets that he left a bag behind. And me, with my Europe trip and all those hostels I’ll be staying at, am carrying two hugely pregnant suitcases, crammed with this and that, half of which I might have done without. I don’t know if this is a girl thing, or it’s just me.

And ironically, I claimed I am not one of those who tried to recreate my Indian life in the US, carrying packets of rice, masalas, Ponds talcum powder, and Boroline cream overseas.

I just fill it all with clothes.

sunshine

Talk Less Walk More

Happens to be an incorrect statement. I'll tell you why. I've grown up reading these lines neatly written on classroom walls and being recited in school assemblies again and again. And I tried implementing it as well. Constantly worried over my ever-increasing girth, thanks to the sweet n sugary lifestyle the U.S. has to offer, I have been meaning to start walking again. Walking it had to be, since trying to run and ending up huffing and puffing like a puppy with its tongue hanging out was not going to add much to my coolness factor. I mean, look at the people around me, who can walk for miles and during anytime of the day. Their designer sportswear, well toned muscles, and single-minded determination always put me to shame. Here I was adding pounds to myself by the day, waiting for an auspicious occasion when I could start working out. Anyway, the episode about my unsuccessful attempts of getting back in shape is better ranted on another day.

So I discovered this lake with a surrounding trail, a lovely place to spend time, walk, and work out. Soon I convinced another man-friend to partner me. I don't think I have ever done anything ambitious without some aid, and though I was not really banking on the testosterone-proximity to fuel my incentives of shaping myself up, I thought I could do with some company. My man-friend agreed, and we were soon on the paved hall-of-fame pathway where several brawny men, sexy figured women, their puppies, and other lesser mortals have jogged and walked and huffed and puffed before us. This of course happened to us a couple of months ago.

I never really did finish one whole lap, despite my teeth-gritting efforts. I tried on several occasions to walk the whole length of the lake, but halfway through the process, I would be out of breath, bored, suffer from disturbing bowel movements, be on the verge of a blackout, and would have to stop and retract. My man-friend was soon lost amidst the volley of other friends who had been promised company during rigorous gymming or working out session from me, with unfulfilled promises and lost friendship. The lake trail had just seemed too long for me to complete one lap of walk without running into considerable risk of sunstrokes, hormonal dysfunction, or nervous breakdowns. Never again did I return to the lake with my jogging gear, running shoes, or my man-friend.

A few days back, I get an email from a woman friend for a brief reunion and an evening spent catching up. The venue soon turned out to be the same lake. So we meet there after months, amidst the same joggers, skaters, and their pets, who must have hopefully forgotten me by now. My friend suggested a brief walk by the water, and even before we know, we start to discuss about everything under the sun. We spent a short time discussing international politics and game theory, but soon the discussion shifted to more girly issues plaguing the world, like clothes and shoes, perfumes and lingerie, waistlines and the ever-scaling hemlines, men and the women in these men’s lives, dates and crushes, cheesy soaps and food channels, about pedicures and cantankerous women friends and men for whom we still sigh like a furnace even after we are decades past the teenage. And even before we ran out of topics of discussion, I had completed my first ever round of walking around the lake.

There were no concerns of physical unfitness, lack of incentive, or lethargy the first time I had tried walking with my man-friend. It’s just that my man-friend turned out to be more focused, and did not give me enough verbal stimulation and girly topics to rant and rave about while we were burning calories. So the next time I am hiking the neighborhood hill, I know whom to go with now. And yeah, the saying henceforth should be talk more walk more. Or better still, talk girly, walk more.

sunshine

Leave That System Alone.

Last week, I heard someone mutter a certain expletive. It’s not that I had heard it for the first time, but it was one of those whose meanings I never understood. After much coaxing and cajoling and telling him how laidback I was, he finally told me the meaning. And that got me thinking. Most of the expletives have two meanings to it, an inherent meaning, and a more often meant or "prachalit" meaning. Like, “screw you” didn’t really mean I wanted to screw you, it could rather mean you are the last person on planet Earth I would want to screw. 

And this got me thinking about the number of expletives in any language. I wondered why 99% of the swear words I knew either alluded to either the whole or parts of the reproductive system, or to the act of having sex?

Fuck, screw, klpd, the different sub-families of swear words ending with ch**, b***, jh*****, the list is inexhaustible.

I would think the power of the reproductive system has been historically acknowledged and worshiped. Then why don’t we say “I care eyes/liver/throat about you” instead of “I care balls about you”? Why can’t brains rot instead of testicles rotting? How is the reproductive system any different from say, the olfactory system? Or is it because the lower we want to get (in terms of words), the lower in the anatomy we have to go? 

What is this big deal about the reproductive system anyway? You are born, you breathe, eat, live, sleep, and just as normally you reproduce. Just like your heart pumps blood and aids in circulation, your sex organs help you in reproduction. Why then do matters of intelligence lie embedded in the brain, matters of emotion and affection stem from the heart, while all the filthy swear words you hear are concentrated in the reproductive system? Our fucked up imaginations needn’t really be fucked up all the time. For there are better ways to describe filth than alluding to the act of procreation and to the system where from we have sprung. 

sunshine