'Madame
ji, aaj lunch mein kya tha? Chickkan Curry? Meri beti ko Chikkan bahut pasand
hai. Kaash mein ek dabba le jaati uske liye. Lekin kya karoon contractor logon ka
khaana kooch khaas nahin banta yahan'.
I
met Latha in the freezing locker rooms of one of my past hotels. She was
allocated the restrooms and bunkers of our changing area as a chambermaid and
was also responsible for maintaining the cleanliness and upkeep of the managers'
cabins. She helped me quickly drape my sari in the most immaculate fashion every
Monday. The sari-draping session came to an end exactly ten minutes before our morning
meeting started, so that I could have some time in hand for rechecking on my
make-up and hairdo along with the important documents that I had to carry for
the briefing of the team. Latha did me the same favor every week after week,
sometimes even when I didn't ask for it. Her diligence and sincerity appealed
me and I left no stone unturned to protect her from the possible tongue-lashings
of her bummed out boss who often blew her in pieces with choicest
expletives.
Laborers
like Latha worked as maids, caddy boys or florists in the hotel but were not
employed by us. They were hired contractually, on a third party settlement that
paid them a peanut wage. Even the meals they were served in the cafeteria were
discriminated from ours as there was a multitude of such contractors and their
table d'hote never included anything better than a kaali daal, roti and aloo
gobi ki sabji.
Latha
came from the slums of Rajender Nagar, Bangalore, and her household was run
(not literally, though) by the man in her life with whom she decided to elope in
an impregnated state more than a decade back to the Northern part of the
country. Their marriage was never approved by Latha's Brahmin parents who lived
hand to mouth. And Satbir, Latha's spouse, was a bellicose Gujjar jaat.
We
keep hearing of such inter cast/state marriages, but what we tend to shut our eyes to is the darker
side of those love tales. Latha, when I came to know her, was the sole bread
earner for her family - each member having their own set of limitations. Her
husband, a heavy alcoholic, was given his notice by the textile company where
he had been serving as a vendor for eight years. His stagnation soon slipped
him into drug addiction, gambling, brawl over anything and everything which
only picked up the speed by his regular visits to the brothel and beating Latha
black and blue afterwards. As she squirmed hither and thither across the floor
in severe cramp down below her abdomen, the fiend went off with her purse like
a flash to quench his thirst, by hitting the bottle further and washing it down
until dawn.
Her
son, a fifteen year old school dropout, was no different from his douche bag
father. He was allegedly convicted of a rape on a ten year old girl from their
locality. He was left to nothing else other than whiling away his time fuming
and fretting over their destitute and a hard earned square meal that the poor
and distraught mother managed from giving her all to the hotel and mopping up
its floor. How could she not bear up all the exertion and the pain of
occasional bashing in her office? She had to get money by hook or by crook, for
the regular medicines in order to cure her four year old girl's Pertussis
(Whooping Cough).
That
Monday morning, the most horrific of all, I saw Latha's face swollen up with little bruise
marks all over her cheek due to sharp slaps and also, both her wrists had
disjointed scalds which looked like cigarette burns to me. She still dragged
herself to work, perhaps to go to the bitter end of her present, that she was
trying to fix desperately for her daughter. The only reason behind her
survival. Her only ray of hope.
On
asking her - " Why don't you lodge a complaint against Satbir for domestic violence?'' she looked at me in a
manner as if she didn't even expect me to react that way - ''Madame,
main use nahin chhod sakti. Maine mere ma baap ki nahin suni. Abhi to poori
zindagi sazaa bhoogatni paregi.'' She mumbled in arrant agony.
I
was baffled to realize how cursed and downcast a woman is made to feel in a
country that claims to corroborate human freedom and right to equality,
presuming that she has refused to adhere by those self-crafted societal norms,
which are very effortlessly superimposed on her by her family and relatives to
suit their own convenience.
A
survey has revealed, that since the year 2003, an estimated figure of 50,703,
of women reporting cases of marital abuse, has gone up to 118,866 in 2013,
which indicates a rise of 134% over ten years. Despite getting started with such
campaigns and government laws implemented for the cause of protecting victims
against violence behind closed doors, there's always a Latha found who's ready
to succumb to her suffering instead of speaking up. For every woman, who's
literate, financially independent, aware of her rights, there is at least one
Latha who chooses to sink in silence. It is probably somewhere ingrained within
the constitution of women, and the way they are created - Most of them prefer
not to talk to friends and colleagues if they are being abused by their
husband's family. It somehow doesn't go down well with them to accept that they
are victimized by none other than their consorts.
The
other day I tuned on to my virtual
savior - NDTV live, to keep myself updated with the current happenings on
recently exposed self-styled God woman 'Radhe Guru Maa' of our nation. Goes
without saying, her self-proclamation of a reincarnated avatar of the deity Durga/Sherawali
has been quite a jocular spoof off late. The thirty two year old bride who has
filed a case of dowry and physical as well as mental harassment against 'Maa'
for instigating her in laws to torment her until the family is paid up the
entire amount is nothing but the manifestations of our highly misogynic and
corrupt social system where a retinue of the bhakts typically confined in a patriarchal
purview has just received the shock of their lives to see their 'Maa' grooving
lusciously to Bollywood music in a skimpy red mini-skirt. It is the very notion
that she is a mere asexual idol to be worshipped and any of her activity which
might possibly have sexual undertones reduces her to the image of a whore, is
symptomatic of our hurdles to reconcile with any sort of transgression. While
India continues to remain a weird land of tradition and religion, these self-righteous
God men and women like Radhe Maa and Asaram Bapu ceaselessly hold the fort
sitting fresh-faced and showered with tons of flowers by their devotees. Their blind
disciples subject their daughter-in-laws to the whims and fancies of these maas
and paas, while their sardonic embodiments of Divine prowess and beautification
reign supreme in its prophecy of those ominous gloomy billows, with kicks and
blows - 'Tu aurat hai, tera janam hua hai sehan karne ke liye.' That's how they stay 'pure' and 'pais'(Pious)
in the true sense of the terms. And the rest becomes history.
One
of the extensive family surveys have successfully divulged that 54% of men and
51% of women subscribe to the idea that - physical scuffle between husband and wife is normal and should rather be treated as
a prelude to a stronger relationship. However, I could never look at it as
justified, (as even many court appointed mediators would believe so) - that a
little bit of adjustment and compromise calls for getting beaten up by one's
partner as a penance for making a mistake. It is immensely disturbing for me to
have known women with considerable amount of education and self-respect
yielding to advices of ignoring, accepting and indulging in maltreatment,
stemming from reasons like neglecting home or children, differing in opinion
with their in-laws and most insanely, something as insignificant as putting
less or more spice in the lunch.
I
remember another case of a Muslim girl, whom I met during my aviation training
days in Kolkata. The year was 2005, and I, fresh from college, was bubbling
with my feminist agendas those days. My new found obsession with 'Fantomina; or
Love in a Maze', by Eliza Haywood, and its erotic plot revolving around its
female protagonist, was the ultimate victory of a liberalized woman in my eyes,
and a complete turnaround of the power equilibrium with the opposite gender
only to give way to her sexual desire or amour.
Nazia
reminds me of the good old times we spent together, frolicking over the
weekends in City Center, strolling in and around Kwality street of Salt Lake's
BE Block, and ordering Lamb Biriyani from 'Rahmania' in secret for a late dinner,
waiting to salivate with raita and phirni at the end, within the delicious imprisonment
of our two-seater room, which hardly allowed the two of us the space to walk
around at the same time, yet came as a great deal of fun.
That
was just the joviality thrown in good measure. But every coin has two sides. It
was only three days into her arranged marriage when she was first beaten up.
She was financially self-sufficient by then, working in one of the reputed
call-centers and perusing her MBA in Marketing simultaneously.
''He
hit me with his belt. I fell on the bed, injured badly. I sobbed the entire
night, but he didn't bother to look back at my condition and say a sorry,'' she
grieved.
What
I knew already was the established fact that domestic violence has rarely been
a unique phenomena in India, keeping in mind its hideously male-dominated
milieu. But what distinguishes our 'mahan' Bharat from the rest of the planet
is the culture of silence that surrounds and vitiates the gender equalization,
every time a crime takes place within the four walls. When Nazia sought help from her mother, the
response disillusioned her and fetched her scanty sympathy. ''I shared with my
mum what I had been going through, and also the source of it. My honest
confession to my shohar on the wedding night that I am not a virgin. I had sex
with my ex boyfriend before this alliance was found,'' she wept. That
trepidation to disclose her experience, the hesitation to come face to face
with her so called 'guilt', that simpering coyness that has been injected deep
inside her veins ever since she gathered her sense of understanding the ethical
and moral values - all confronted, challenged and lambasted her open admittance
that she gave in to recognizing, honoring and satisfying some of the most
basic, human, and natural instincts in the past. The issue of losing one's
chastity willfully before entering the wedlock has been in Indian speculation
for long. The freedom of choice, the overwhelming unison of one's self with
one's very inner, primal and suppressed emotions disregarding the prescribed
standards of a 'good Indian woman' has
been in question and a subject of intense excoriation for ages. Nazia was no
exception, as for the husband, her candidness and integrity was of less
importance over learning that a portion of her well preserved asset of
maidenhood was uncovered by someone else way before she took on the oath of
staying loyal to him. The failure of our society is as a microcosmic representation of
singularly conservative and unruly power structure, that doesn't permit any
'good' and 'clean' girl to emerge as a metaphor of female desire who can
unhesitatingly surpass the peripheries of a duty bound conjugal relation,
unleashing her pleasurable side to the man of her interest, instead of
remaining a mare object to reproduce offspring. It is nothing new for us to be
preached, sermonized, and reminded of the very utterance of sex before marriage as
a taboo, probably the filthiest thing one can ever imagine of. Nazia was a
scapegoat of those fearful repercussions born out from her error of living a
little, that the society deems as
forbidden and felonious.
As
tears rolled down Nazia'a face, she murmured in despair, ''There was a point in
time when I showed my mum the bruises on my back, I confided in her that my
husband forced himself upon me repetitively as a penalty of not letting him
slay my virginity at first.'' ''What did she say?'' I inquired in gushing
inquisitiveness. ''You need to understand the importance of this marriage and
do whatever it takes to convince him that it was a blunder on your part. Try to
simply work this teething problem out,'' she responded.
It
was possibly this apprehension of social stigma that also provided my roomy the
strength, to disbelieve - all that was actually getting too much to put up
with. She chose seclusion over separation, reticence over voicing herself, only to find a happy medium
which led her to gradual depression, from a bright and chirpy MBA student, to a
door mat eventually, who was turning almost into a vegetable during those last
few days when I heard from her for the final time. She couldn't shrug off the
deep-seated bigotry within her - that the remote possibilities of a divorce or
remarriage might also bring forth a threat of pillory for herself and a permanent
ignominy for her Maulvi father.
One
of the evenings, sitting on the balcony of our new house, the wind chimes bring
about my uncanny appetite for some detective derivative (You bet that Mr.
Sherlock Holmes). My hands are on the emotionally perturbing book 'Aarushi' by
Avirook Sen. The murder of Aarushi Talwar had stormed the whole nation
primarily because it could have happened to any of us - any dazzling teenager
like Aarushi and any well to do and doting parents like hers. Another aspect of
this mysterious death of Aarushi that initiated multiple probing and raised
several brows was over Nupur Talwar's stoic stance and stiff upper lip which we
are simply not accustomed to. Apparently everyone assumed the parents to be the
perpetrators as the mother was seen unusually in control of her (un)motherly
emotions and remained composed. How can a mother who has lost her child prematurely
in a brutal homicide stay so calm without the display of slightest remorse?
Does the Mother India ever behave this way? Where are those teary eyes whipped
up in glycerin and anguish? In the meantime, what we deliberately turned a
blind eye to is our flexibility to give out that benefit of doubt to Nupur,
that she, in all likelihood didn't have
any option left but to hold herself strong while her husband was fallen apart
to all his intents and purposes. For us, it rationally comes under the
criterion of an evil mother, a stone-hearted woman, whose dry eyes and sordid
coldness pretty much eases out our task of concluding and declaring who the
guilty is. Voila! Aam janta, aam khasiyat.
''I
cannot tolerate this. This is a Pakistani woman who is an ISI agent, and she is
stalking my husband. And you know how men are. He is flattered by the
attention,'' -
a disturbing tweet from an effervescent businesswoman and wife of former union
minister, was put down roots as the
winter tide of 2014 hit the New Delhi capital region. Shashi Tharoor's latest
and much talked about oration on British Rule at Oxford just flashed back how before long the dust around the
controversy of our honorable diplomat's allegedly illicit love affair with
Pakistani journalist Meher Tarar could settle, his dismayed wife Sunanda
Pushkar's dead body was found in an extravagant hotel in New Delhi. A woman of
substance, who lived life on her own terms, possibly couldn't soldier on the plight
of watching her mentally estranged other half hatching a divorce from her. Her
death has been a subject of several inquests and was later explained as due to
some 'sudden' and 'unnatural' causes. What showcases Sunanda, the dispirited
wife of one of the most charismatic yet embroiled in more than one scandal
politicians of India is however, intriguing in various ways. It is symbolic of every
compeering Indian woman as a cursed Sita who haplessly flutters her wings within
her line of demarcation until those trials and tribulations thoroughly rob her
off all fortitude. Sunanda, at least doesn't appear alienated from rest of her sisters of the same ethnic
background, who sail in the same boat with her day in and day out. Many other
mediocre wives who share a similar misery like that of Sunanda's, of being
stabbed in the back only unveils something sinister about the fate of every
Indian woman tingling in pride behind all those designer accessories and layers
of maquillage. Nevertheless, masquerades of such kinds, more often than not, do
not continue for too long. Some women sweep through at the outset, by the
blessing of a close confidant like Nalini Singh, who still stands as the last
witness to record and voice that bone of dissonance between Tharoor and Pushkar.
Some aren't that lucky to be heard of, and go weak in their knees while there
is nobody to hold them together. Some ostensibly race for a power revival as
well as reversal, engaging in an equally complex game of self comforting promiscuity.
As they seek for some amatory escapades with those toy boys in a vengeful
spree, society in no time ostracizes them as deplorable and scarred for life. And
their fall is customarily inaudible, tremulous on the outside. One fine day our
Amazon's innermost volcano erupts, and then the author's countenance is almost cathartic.
She unmasks herself with least ambiguity, and the universal woman in question pushes
the envelope by postulating her eternal quest for justice, an unrelenting
combat for her optimum supremacy. So, the battle for triumph goes on. Triumph
over plenitude of what we know as 'woemania'.
