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I am not a feminist and I don’t believe in equality.
I know this statement ruffles a few feathers but I can explain.
What I understand from the term ‘feminist’ is a person who supports the idea of women having equal opportunities as men. Believing in the idea that men and women are equals. This is where I have an issue.
I don’t believe that men and women are equal because they are biologically different. Both men and women have different set of abilities and shortcomings and when two entities are fundamentally different, you cannot possibly compare them.
There is a simple solution to this and it can be explained with a rudimentary concept of mathematics. Do you remember how we used to compare improper fractions (fractions with different denominators) in our 3rd grade? We would make the denominators equal to fairly compare the fractions. This is exactly what we need to do in our society.
To do this, we need to change the word ‘equality’ with ‘equity’ in our definition of feminism.
For women to succeed, it is not enough to provide them with the same opportunities as men. Instead, as a society, we first have to prop up women with the privileges that men have and then provide them with equal opportunities.
Marriage, child birth, menstrual cycles, biological clock, parenting are the pile of miseries that avalanches over women that slowly gets the better of them.
Recently, I was telling my grandfather that I eyed the corporate world and that I was considering management for my postgrad. As a reply to this, he brusquely said that it would be better if I did my Mtech and became a professor as it was a better suited job for a girl. This irked me. But in retrospect, what he said is not entirely wrong. The corporate world isn’t designed for women. As cliché as it may sound, in the cut throat, competitive corporate world, it is usually the woman who has to choose between work and family.
Former CEO of PepsiCo, Indra Nooyi, in her autobiography mentioned how one of her bosses offered her 6 months of paid leave so that she could take care of her ailing father. She said that because of this generous gesture she didn’t have to compromise on her career by quitting, to fulfill her family commitments.
This case, however, is like a pin in a haystack. What about the millions of Indras who could have brought immense fame to our country but couldn’t because of family constraints?
Recently, I was watching a TED Talk on a similar topic where the erudite speaker shared an anecdote. It was about how her housemaid’s brainy daughter chose marriage over education because she was convinced that she didn’t have it in her to secure a seat.
Isn’t this an evocative reflection of our country’s mentality? To a country which is so concerned about increased ‘brain-drain,’ I ask, what are we doing to protect the existing brains in our country? Don’t such instances portend a greater doom of the same ilk? Shouldn’t we be more concerned about these beautiful minds which get effaced before they can prove themselves?
At the same time, equity is subjective and it has to be implemented judicially.
For instance, recently in the parliament, when questioned about monthly menstrual leave for women, an eminent public figure, intrepidly replied that menstruation is not a “handicap.”
Menstruation doesn’t entitle you for a five-day monthly hiatus. Implementing such norms could pose to be more troublesome than good. It could go either of two ways- it could be misused or women could start getting harassed at work places for having extra leaves. Like we have heard of students getting brutally ragged for having entered the college via caste reservation.
In a nutshell, providing reservation in colleges and jobs and formulating laws for protection of women isn’t enough to bring about gender parity.
Steps that can make a mammoth of a difference are as follows:
This will unequivocally ensure equity and maybe then we can talk about comparison between men and unfettered women in a supposedly equal world. These changes will increase the chances of women enjoying the best of both worlds. Because for women family and kids are like the ‘delicious burdens’ that Walt Whitman mentions in his poem ‘Song of the Open Road’
Still here I carry my old delicious burdens,
I carry them, men and women, I carry them with me wherever I go,
I swear it is impossible for me to get rid of them,
I am fill’d with them, and I will fill them in return.
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“I have a Bachelor’s and a Master\’s degree in Law, a Master’s certification in song-writing and music business from Berklee, a Montessori diploma, an MPhil, and a PhD in Music Education. Despite all this, I’ve spent years overcoming the imposter syndrome, seeking constant validation, and being greatly underestimated because of my age and gender.
Coming from a family of musicians, performing has always been a part of my life. However, I never actually saw myself as a performer. What I wanted to be was a Lawyer – working in a flashy corporate firm that romanticised 100-hour work weeks.
It took a 5 year law course PLUS a master’s degree for me to get disillusioned with law as a career path. I got certified as a bar council lawyer, but that was the end of my glorified childhood dream.
While exploring alternate career options, I came back to music. I joined my family in running our music school – SaPa – while simultaneously performing multiple gigs. Even then, I never considered music as ‘my calling’. It was something I enjoyed doing and I took each day as it came.
It was the birth of my daughter that shifted my perspective. While introducing her to music at an early age, I realised how limited the access to music was for most children. This led to the birth of the SaPa baby program – a music program for schools that started at a nearby orphanage and eventually spread to schools across India. Since then, I\’ve become completely entrenched in the world of opportunities available in music education.
In hindsight, my journey sounds intentional and fabulous. But the reality was far from it.
A conflict-averse people-pleaser at heart, I’ve faced multiple adversities over the years. When I transitioned from law to music, I had to convince friends and teachers that I wasn’t throwing away 6 years of education. As a young female entrepreneur, my ‘nice’ nature was often misconstrued for incapability, and I was often dismissed. As a working mother with a heavy travel schedule, I was judged for being inattentive to my child.
But through it all, I put my head down and took it one day at a time. And over the years, I learned to make the most of my situation by being my authentic self, building faith in my capabilities, and effecting change while working within the system.
It’s taken me a while to accept that you don’t have to hold yourself to a goal you made when you were 7. We live in a day and age where it’s okay to be more than just ‘one thing’, where the lines between passion and profession are blurred. Embrace it.
I’m no visionary. I take life one day at a time and give myself the permission to evolve. And that’s my biggest accomplishment.”
INSANE AND ABLE Condemning her to hell With her wrath he did not reckon He’d have done well To remember a woman scorned
Anjana had all the time in the world now to reflect and philosophise. In fact she really had nothing better to do, for her beseeching, crying and bouts of hysterical insistence that she was normal had left everyone at the asylum unmoved. If anything, it had made the doctors and attendants over there even more convinced that she was indeed a mental patient. For all of them knew with experience that every lunatic genuinely believes that his is the sole voice of sanity in an otherwise loony world and thus he makes sure that this voice is heard. In just a few days here Anjana had realised this and had therefore stopped remonstrating.
Forced to be a quiet observer, Anjana had also stumbled upon another ironic realisation – that true happiness was to be found only in the minds of the insane. The insane, who were the sole inhabitants of their own private universes, did not depend on other people for their happiness. Sane people who did were more often than not unhappy. Going by the same logic, Anjana was completely unhappy, and therefore completely sane. She was surer of this fact in the asylum than she had ever been in the world of the sane outside.
Anjana bit her lip at the thought of how much easier she had made Vishwa’s task. That’s what landed her here today … her constant and honest admissions of feelings of inadequacy and inferiority when she had been with him. She looked all around her, as if to belie the disbelief she felt even now at having landed here.
Except for her, each one of the eleven inhabitants of the dorm were fast asleep. The pale moonlight streaming in shafts through the two windows seemed to bounce around the room, reflected by the cream-coloured night suits that each of the women wore.
Ever since Anjana had passed out of boarding school, she had never imagined that she would have to spend a night in a dormitory again. For she had married soon after and this was hardly the sort of place one would associate with a woman who had a husband and a child.
Yet here she was, in the prison of the mind, where sleep had eluded her every single night in these last few weeks, just like it had today. By now she had even lost track of time – it simply stretched in a vast endless sea in front of her, marked only by the ripples of her constant incomprehension at how and why her world had fallen apart in this last year.
It was just about a year ago that she had returned home from hospital with her newborn son Arush. She had hoped so much that Arush would be able to bring colour to their pale lives as a couple and that they would help them finally feel like a family. Arush had made her feel so wanted. He was the first human being who made his preferences for her so loud and clear that she felt like the most desirable woman on earth. In those early few weeks it had seemed that she was nothing except a mother. A feeling she had smugly accepted until that fateful afternoon when she realised that her motherhood had come at a price.
Anjana had just started nursing three-week-old Arush. She could hear her sister Gudiya, who had come from Bangalore to be with her for a few weeks after her delivery, clearing the vessels in the kitchen after lunch. She herself was sinking into a delicious nap even as Arush continued to suckle at her breast. She was vaguely aware that she must soon sit up and hold Arush upright to make him burp, but sleep overtook her. And it was only when she felt a sticky wet feeling on her chest that she awoke suddenly. Arush had thrown up his feed and spluttered helplessly in his own vomit. A panic-stricken Anjana picked him up and ran, shouting for help, towards the spare bedroom which Gudiya had been given.
She burst the door open and stood transfixed. A naked Vishwa strode upon Gudiya, making love to her as she moaned with pleasure.
Anjana screamed and ran back to her room. She put Arush on the bed and stared at him. He had recovered by himself and showed only telltale signs around his mouth of the mess he had made. Anjana wiped him vigorously – almost as though she were wiping away from her mind the scene that she had just seen. But that was not to be. For the more she tried, the more the import of what she had seen that afternoon sank in.
Now it all made sense to her. Gudiya preferring to manage Anjana’s house rather than attend to her when she was in hospital, the indulgent glances that Vishwa gave his sister-in-law, her insistence on serving Vishwa his meals fresh and hot. It was not Gudiya’s girlish enthusiasm for living up to responsibilities. It was Gudiya’s discovery of passion with Vishwa. The lust of a polio afflicted girl who had not been able to find a timely and legitimate outlet for her desires for want of a suitable groom.
After the initial shock, Anjana came to terms with the fact that she might be able to forgive Gudiya her sin. She was so young after all, and more importantly she was her own kin. It was Vishwa she found more difficult to forgive – firstly for being a man and therefore more in control of the situation, and secondly for the timing and object of the deceit.
Forgiveness as an issue however did not even arise, as Anjana was soon to learn after the discovery. For having discovered a certain magic of passion together, and already having been damned for it, Vishwa and Gudiya together decided that they did not need Anjana’s lifelong martyrdom. They needed instead to have her out of the way, in order to rework their future together – after all, everything was fair in love and war. And this was both! And so it was due to their efforts that Anjana was at the asylum today.
It was amazing how quickly Vishwa had been able to medically certify Anjana’s “madness”. If she chose to remain silent as to the cause of her prolonged postnatal depression, the doctors would concur with Vishwa that she was in chronic and therefore dangerous depression. And if she took the risk, as she did on two occasions, to reveal the double betrayal as the cause of her shattered feelings, she was marked out as a hallucinating schizophrenic. Either way, Vishwa and Gudiya walked away with all the sympathy, for having to manage her poor son Arush, who now had to be kept away from a “dangerous” mother. It was therefore decided by professional opinion that Anjana should best be kept confined in the interest of both mother and child.
*
Oh, how Anjana ached for Arush, whose birth had brought nothing but trauma in its wake for her. How she longed to hold him upright as she used to and feel the soft down of his head as he chewed her shoulder to indicate his hunger. How she longed for him to grab at her breast and drain her until she felt as dry and thirsty as an Indian summer. Anjana opened the first two buttons of her nightshirt and ran her hands over her breasts to relive the sensations that she had just been thinking about. But her touch was like an insult to them and made her feel even more barren than before. Not only was it impossible to come anywhere near what the real thing had been, it also made her cringe and feel ashamed of herself. What if someone saw what she was doing at this moment? They might be justified in concluding that she was really loony. A lunatic who had to satisfy her ache to be touched by feeling up her own self.
Anjana recalled her last few days at home. In Gudiya’s eyes she had rarely seen the guilt of helpless want. She also still had too many memories of Gudiya as the pathetic little sister of her maternal family that overshadowed the justifiable hatred she felt for her now. Anjana realised that she wanted no vengeance on her own flesh and blood, beyond denying her the one whom she wrongfully lusted for.
But Vishwa? A man who had fed like a vulture on one sister’s faith and another’s vulnerability? His words to the doctor still rang in her ears and burned them. “Imagine the crazy insinuations she makes. She’s certainly a mental case to talk about her own sister like that. She just doesn’t know what she says and does,” he had said, admitting her here.
Anjana wished for the nth time that he would die as horrifically as ready meat for the vulture whose soul she knew he actually possessed. And he deserved no mercy, for his meat was certainly not the same as her own flesh and blood. If only she would get one chance to wreak vengeance on him today she would do so. What stopped her was not a fear of punishment. It was only a lack of opportunity. For now she had nothing more left to lose anyway. Nothing much, except missing knowing her baby Arush growing up.
Would Arush ever know the truth about her? Anjana certainly hoped so. She did not know how, but someday, somehow, she did want to be able to tell him everything. It was the one hope that refused to die in her pining breast. She could not afford to die, if only for Arush and his future alone.
Anjana pulled the sheet up to her neck and shut her eyes. But shutting off the world did not drive away the quiet desperation that was now her constant companion. She soon opened her eyes, got up from the bed and walked to the small window to the left of her bed. She felt the breeze caress her face and teasingly ruffle her coarse hair as though it was attempting to break the morbid stillness of her life. The pages of the calendar fluttered with a crackle and then settled again. Anjana looked at the picture of Gandhi-ji – his toothless, beatific grin looking in her direction, and her eyes fell on the words printed at the bottom of the picture.
“Find purpose and the means will follow”. Easier said than done, thought Anjana, but true nevertheless. She would have to find a focus if she was to last out until Arush came of age, and she would have to find it fast. Anjana searched hard and found it soon enough. Found it in fact the very next morning in the form of Snehlata Deshpande’s new scheme for the women inmates at the asylum.
Snehlata had been appointed the warden of the asylum only two months ago. Known for her radical thinking, she had declared to all those associated with the place that she believed in finding positive solutions to the most pressing practical problems they were having there. Now she had found one to solve the perennial problem that the asylum faced in attracting staffers to do the poorly paid labour-intensive jobs in running the place. If the inmates themselves could be guided to do the jobs, it would not only keep them fruitfully occupied but also help them earn some money.
Snehlata gathered all the thirty-five inmates of the home in the courtyard one morning and explained her plan. She announced that she would guide and review their work and also make sure that the money they earned was put aside in their accounts, which they could either give their dependents, or save up for themselves to use when they left the asylum to face the world outside.
For most of them gathered there, Snehlata’s rehabilitation plan was just a new rule they would have to follow. It was only Anjana who walked up to her, her eyes full of gratitude and appreciation, for the focus that the plan had just given her life. Snehlata, taken aback by Anjana’s intelligent response, only stared hard at Anjana. Something unspoken passed between the two of them that moment and a bond was formed.
Snehlata knew that Anjana was not like everyone else. And in the forthcoming weeks she was vindicated in what she had felt at that moment, without even once discussing it openly with her. Anjana came to be entrusted by Snehlata with the most trustworthy job at the asylum – that of running the kitchen. In no time at all she took it over completely. From morning until dusk, Anjana rushed about, chopping, cooking, cleaning and directing the five women who had been assigned to assist her. It was something she was used to doing, for she had run her home with Vishwa with remarkable organisation and competence. Until that dark day.
In a few weeks’ time Anjana came to symbolise the success of Snehlata’s rehabilitation scheme. She became a virtual exhibit for both the inspection staff who occasionally visited the asylum, as well as for the few relatives of the inmates who sometimes called on them. She was an embodiment of hope and the living proof that a mental patient could lead a fruitful and dignified life and maybe even recover and heal.
And then one day Vishwa came visiting. Snehlata led him proudly into the kitchen to watch Anjana who sat on the floor finely shredding her way through half-a-dozen cabbages with utter concentration, totally oblivious of their presence. Vishwa watched silently for a few moments. Snehlata prodded him to stop hesitating and they walked towards her. Anjana looked up at Vishwa’s forlorn face. A wave of anger lashed at her. She knew that he had only come to size her up and check whether her condition was conducive to his future plans. She listened quietly as he pretended to brighten up when Snehlata praised Anjana.
The unsuspecting Snehlata told him that at the rate at which Anjana was making a positive impression, she might soon test to be completely normal and therefore be allowed to go home. She added that they would all miss her at the asylum, but that Anjana surely deserved better.
Vishwa looked confused as Snehlata goaded him to go closer to Anjana and talk to her. Snehlata turned to walk away a few yards, to facilitate the hesitant and tender husband-wife intimacy that she thought might follow.
Vishwa had no option but to comply and went closer to Anjana. Snehlata smiled contentedly as she neared the exit door. But stopped dead in her track soon. A bloodcurdling scream rent the air. She turned around, horrified to see Anjana repeatedly stabbing a screaming Vishwa with her kitchen knife, and watched aghast as he slumped to the ground in a pool of blood upon the pile of shredded cabbage.
“This is the man who said I was mad, when I wasn’t. And he’s paying for it now. This proves that I’m mad, doesn’t it?” she screamed as she drove the knife again and again into Vishwa who lay there with a stunned look on his face, feeling the life slowly draining out of him.
Snehlata ran towards Anjana and pulled her away from him as Anjana continued ranting. “It is your gift of madness, Vishwa, which has today enabled me to wreak vengeance on you, without any fear of punishment,” she continued, as she threw the blood-soaked knife to a corner. “I’m a certified mental case. How can I be punished for this when in my madness I don’t even know what I say or do? Didn’t you yourself say that about me, Vishwa? Answer me, didn’t you?” she hollered.
But Vishwa did not answer.
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In the unforgiving terrain of Uttarakhand, October 2022 will forever be remembered as a month of profound loss. A catastrophic avalanche claimed one of mountaineering’s brightest stars, Savita Kanswal, leaving a void in the world of adventure sports that is felt to this day.
Her inspiring journey from a small town girl to a record-breaking mountaineer, and her tragic end, serve as a timeless reminder of both the indomitable human spirit and the unpredictable nature of the mountains she loved so much.
Born and raised in Uttarkashi, a small town cradled by the mountains of Uttarakhand, India, she dared to dream big and transformed those dreams into reality. Her journey from her humble beginnings to conquering the world’s highest peaks is nothing short of inspiring.
From an early age, the towering peaks that surrounded her hometown captivated Kanswal. As she matured, this fascination grew into a profound passion for mountaineering. Even when she encountered societal and financial challenges, she remained steadfast in her pursuit of her passion. Her tenacity soon bore fruit.
Within a mere 16-day span, she triumphed over two of the world’s highest peaks – Mount Everest and Mount Makalu.
This remarkable achievement not only set a national record but also propelled her onto the global stage. People hailed her as one of India’s most accomplished mountaineers, a title she wore with both pride and humility.
In October 2022, the tragedy was marked by a catastrophic avalanche in Uttarakhand, ensnaring Savita Kanswal and several of her fellow climbers. The group had embarked on a routine expedition, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster. The avalanche struck suddenly, giving them little time to react.
Despite the immediate response from rescue teams, the harsh weather conditions and treacherous terrain made the rescue operation extremely challenging. Fighting against the clock and the hostile elements, the rescuers braved the freezing temperatures and the unpredictable nature of the mountain.
However, despite their heroic efforts, the arrival to Savita was not timely. The news of her death sent shockwaves across the nation, leaving the mountaineering community in mourning. Her untimely demise served as a stark reminder of the risks that these brave souls take in their pursuit of the extraordinary.
In the wake of her tragic demise, the nation sought to honour Savita Kanswal’s memory and acknowledge her significant contributions to the world of mountaineering. This recognition arrived in the form of the Tenzing Norgay National Adventure Award. It is one of the highest recognitions in India for remarkable achievements in the field of adventure sports.
The award was presented posthumously by Droupadi Murmu, to Savita’s father in a solemn ceremony. The event was charged with emotion. The award served not just as a tribute to Savita’s incredible accomplishments, but also as an acknowledgement of her indomitable spirit and unwavering commitment to her passion.
Savita Kanswal, even after her departure, remains a significant figure in Indian mountaineering. Her posthumous Tenzing Norgay National Adventure Award is a touching tribute to her exceptional life. This life was about reaching new summits, shattering obstacles, and motivating others. The award stands as a lasting emblem of her legacy. It ensures that her inspiring story and immense contributions will never be forgotten.
Today, Kanswal’s legacy continues to inspire. Her life story stands as an example of the heights one can reach with determination, bravery, and passion for their dreams.
In memory of Savita Kanswal, we do more than just acknowledge her exceptional accomplishments. We also celebrate her indomitable spirit, her courage, and her steadfast dedication to her love for mountaineering.
Her story holds a powerful message for future generations, especially women. It encourages them to aspire for the seemingly unreachable and conquer their own personal challenges.
May her story continue to inspire future generations of women to reach for the stars and scale their own personal mountains.
Image source: Savita Kanswal’s Instagram
A woman is the first enemy of another woman!
This statement is not to generalise any gender or is against feminists or feminism. The experience turns out to be the statement!
I refer to myself as a feminist. However, this word has turned out to be a bad word. It is because most of the time it’s fought without understanding the term “Feminism”. The fight for equality crosses a line and becomes a fight to be dominant. I don’t say all feminists are bad. Women are in better positions because of the untiring efforts of all feminists from the previous generation. But let’s think about one aspect! When there is a group of people, the first one to pass a comment about another woman is sadly a woman. It could be about anything about “her” which turns out to be bad word of mouth. I want to emphasise the fact that I am not generalising all women but it is a personal experience! Very rarely, do I find a woman who understands me and doesn’t judge me in any aspect. I wondered if it’s because of the competition that lets these women put another woman down. The battle to fight another woman began at school and it doesn’t seem to end any time soon. This experience made me question what is feminism and what we are fighting for if we can’t perceive another woman. In the middle of this chaos, I have had good men in my life who have played immense roles in my growth. This support from men especially in the workplace is very important for one’s career! Well, is it November 8- International Men’s Day, that’s why I am writing this post. No, but why not an appreciation post to all the wonderful men in my life?
First-ever experience sets a benchmark for future expectations! My first-ever work experience was remarkable only because of my first-ever boss! From day one, his support let me focus only on my career leaving behind all passing judgements! After the best work experience, I stepped into the next stage of my career. From day one- something didn’t feel right and I hit my lowest point. I wanted to give it up. My boss and I started to work together which not only helped me get back to the grind, but it also gave me a strange confidence that comes when you learn how to figure it out! I don’t know what is with the definition of feminism, but I started to embrace men’s feminism!
The world is already cruel, if not make it a better place to live, let’s not make it a worse place for others! In the journey of figuring out feminism and everything else, let’s not put anyone down and let’s all grow together by embracing each other!
Wedding.con, a 5-episode docuseries on Amazon Prime Video opens our eyes to the rampant scamming and fraud that happens on popular matrimonial sites. I got goosebumps as the episodes progressed. It’s appalling to know of the amounts these conmen could swindle, and the techniques they employ to exploit prospective brides.
These men generally pose as potential grooms, contact the girls using a fake profile and gradually win their trust. Within a span of a couple of months or so, the fraudsters extract lakhs of rupees from the ladies and vanish. And mind you, the women we are talking about are educated and financially independent, belonging to protective families.
Then how did they err so bad and end up getting exploited, that’s obviously what we all might think. The series presents 5 true incidents, real interviews and victim accounts. And we get to know how they were duped in the name of marriage, some were promised a life abroad and instructed to pay for visa, some others were cajoled into paying off certain debts…
Wedding.con is a riveting watch, but I’m not reviewing the series here. What struck me the most, was, even in this age and time, the arranged marriage arena is as brutal and competitive as ever. Of the 5 cases highlighted in the series, 3 were single and 2 were divorcees and single mothers. Here are the aspects that perhaps made them easy prey to the scam.
We are well into the 21st century, and we pride ourselves in being a tolerant and equal society. But young girls, educated and emancipated, are still bulldozed into arranged marriage. As the single lady from Telangana says, “Me, my mother and my sister lead a happy and independent life. But marriage, marriage, marriage. That’s all my mother and the society had to say.”
Ditto with the other two girls. One of them confesses that she was totally done with this profile searching on Internet. She had contacted almost 100 of them, and either there were no replies, or there were rejections after hours of chatting and profile matching. But the nagging never ends, so the moment there appears that one man whose wavelength matches, and who complies with their preferences, the girls agree to the proposal. Mainly out of exasperation, to finally silence the pesky relatives, many a times, parents.
Honestly, I was aghast when I heard of one of the accounts on Wedding.con, wherein a young lady admits that dowry is very commonplace in her community. If the groom turns out to be an NRI, the dowry doubles. Though the proposal arrives online, once matters begin materializing, the boy’s side starts calculating dowry. A man duped her by refusing dowry and even had his fake parents talk to her, claiming they were only looking for a good girl, not money.
How much ever we discuss inner beauty and intelligence, the marriage market starts and ends with appearance.
In the series, a lady faced rejection numerous times due to a mole on her nose. Despite advice from friends and family to surgically remove it, she chose to wait for the right man who would accept her, mole and all. Another lady’s eyes brim up as she admits that she has faced many rejections online, because though she’s modern and emancipated, for marriage, they judge her by looks alone.
And this outdated thought perhaps made them fall into the trap laid by fraudsters, who called them beautiful.
For the two older women who were married previously, they were taken advantage of their vulnerability. Both of them had been through bad marriages in the past, and the perpetrators posed as caring men who respected them for who they were.
“All my life,” mentions one of the women, “I have been forced to prove myself. As a good daughter, a good wife, a good mother…My previous husband treated me wrong, but somehow I was made to believe it was my fault, in not adjusting enough. So when this man seemed to love me unconditionally, I fell for him.”
A police personnel dealing with such fraud cases shares, unfortunately, that these cases do not involve severe punishment. 3 months imprisonment at the most, and it’s a bailable offence. So the fraudsters come out, change their identities and go about committing the same crime again. Alas…
Wedding.con interviews psychologists and lawyers who tell us, that these scamsters do their homework well. They contact many women simultaneously and gradually strike conversation. They understand who is the most gullible of all, and then lay their trap. Catering to the girl’s needs and likings, pretending to love them to eternity, they begin to politely ask for money.
One lawyer correctly states, “There is no point of judging the victims, as to how naïve they have been. These women have been asking that to themselves, have wept for hours, and then approached the police. It’s our duty to help them.”
Marriage, as another social worker says, is a glorified institution. Why don’t the parents and society let these women be? Why do we throw our daughters into a web of lies and judgments, where they often end up getting their hearts and confidence broken at the hands of conceited men.
There’s one statement in Wedding.con that hits hard, “If you do not pressurize girls to get married, you are actually denying a criminal the chance to commit online fraud of this magnitude.”
If only more of us understood…
I have a confession to make. I am a bad cook, always have been. No, it’s not like I can’t cook, I can prepare a decent meal for a small crowd of max 4 people, given time. But mind you, by decent, I don’t exactly mean delicious.
And that’s where the problem is.
Cooking I believe is a life skill, not gender specific at all. But then as a dialogue in the Malayalam movie Ustad Hotel goes, “Anyone can fill a stomach. A good cook can fill your heart.” Can’t agree more.
My mother is an excellent cook and she trained me alright, when I moved away for work and before marriage. I couldn’t master the pickles, sweets, or other delicacies, but I learned the basics. Honestly, I wasn’t all that interested.
The initial days after marriage were fine, we were young, we had fun, we cooked together, we ordered food, and we had all the time.
But ten years down the line, with a young kid, more stress at job, and little time, I realized I had lost all interest in cooking food. I never prided myself in my culinary skills, unlike many others, cooking was never my hobby or passion. They say cooking is therapeutic, but for me, whipping up a tasty meal was stressful.
It wasn’t like I didn’t try, some of my senior colleagues made sure I did, by passing comments like, “Kya hai yeh Mareezon ka Khana? (Tastes like hospital food) You serve this to your husband and children as well?”
Sadly they weren’t totally wrong. And more than often, we would end up ordering a takeaway. Much as I tried, the taste just wasn’t there. Two days of having meals cooked by me and we would be craving for something better. I blamed it on the morning rush and the evening lethargy, so couldn’t I do better during the weekends? But weekends were the only time I got to unwind, why would I spend time on something I disliked?
But I did have the perfect solution, employ a cook. That’s easy, isn’t it? But no, it was easier said than done. And who stood in the way of me and taste? My close relatives.
“You will deny your child of Maa ke Haathon ka Khana?”
“Love is the main ingredient of mother’s food. Would a maid provide that?”
“Oil, salt, masala? Wouldn’t she overdo all that?”
“When other kids claim their mom is taste mein best, what would your son say?”
Trust me this was some of the gentlest advice I received. There was worse; I knew if I hired help, I would be branded lazy, irresponsible, in short, a bad mother.
Two more years of deliberation, and here I am today, into the third month of freedom. Finally, I employed a cook, regardless of all unwarranted opinions coming my way. And I can’t tell you how happy and right I feel about this.
Of course, I understand outside food on a regular basis is unhealthy. But now, I am providing my family with wholesome and delectable home-cooked food. With just the right amount of oil, salt, and masala. Meals now have a huge variety, in fact, we look forward to eating from home. And I now have plenty more of me-time, to read, write, study, practise my music lessons, to sit back and destress.
I am happier now, my family too. Lunch boxes don’t look boring and unpalatable anymore. I get to spend more quality time with my husband and son. The cook is happy too, as we really appreciate whatever she whips up for us.
If it is a win-win situation for all, and if I’m not hurting anyone’s feelings, then why would I bother about what a random relative thinks of me?
Perhaps not a ‘Mother who cooks Maa Ke Haath Ka Khana for her kids’, but I’m sure I am a lot more. And as of now, I am exploring more options, trying to find where my real passion lies.
I did it finally, and I am celebrating myself.
PUB BY: HARPER COLLINS PUBLISHERS INDIA
Hyderabad. Lahore. Kashmir.
With ‘Kashmir’, ends the Partition Trilogy by Manreet Sodhi Someshwar –a powerful chronicle bringing alive the hopes, fears, anguish, pain, and the undying fortitude of the human existence.
The Independence and the partition of India and Pakistan is a topic fiercely debated and discussed arousing passions and emotions even today, especially in the troubled valley of Kashmir.
‘Kashmir’ is the last book of this trilogy after ‘Lahore’ and ‘Hyderabad’ relating events leading upto the partition and the violence and unrest erupting thereafter. A well-crafted narrative amidst the haunting beauty of the valley, the last of this trilogy portrays the intense research undertaken by the author.
India is independent. India is free, but scarred by the horrors of the partition. The book begins in October 1947. Maharaja Hari Singh is unwilling to sign the accession to India. And the valley is being attacked by kabalis, acts of savagery and terror from across Pakistan who are hell-bent on making Kashmir theirs. Sheikh Abdullah is imprisoned, but then brought in under house arrest to thwart further violence and gain peace for the state.
Akbar Khan of the Pakistan Army fights a desperate battle to make Kashmir his. And a shaken Maharaja Hari Singh signs accession to India prompting military help to save Kashmir. Just 2 months into independence, India and Pakistan are at war.
The whole valley is up in flames. Terror. Horrors. Escape. Survival. The story is narrated through the tales of the common people who are trying to outlive the seemingly closing in of death and finality.
Zooni escapes the brutality being inflicted all around. Kashmira is desperately trying to stay alive and feed a family in the face of her nasty brother-in-law after her husband is accidentally killed by the Indian army. Durga seeks refuge in the refugee camp after her husband is killed by kabalis. Margot, the journalist caught in the lives of the characters as she looks for her stories.
Historical research and facts are woven onto a fictional canvas creating a gripping portrayal of the events of partition and the circumstances exploding soon thereafter.
Each chapter shifts to different cities and geographies. In the entire trilogy, Manreet Sodhi has brought alive the characters of Pandit Nehru, Vallabhbhai Patel, Lord Mountbatten by giving them a very intimate flavour. Indira playing with her sons. Maniben counting Valllabhbhai’s cups of teas. Nehru walking across to Valllabbhai’s house to discuss important issues.
Zooni. Margot. Kashmira. Durga. The main female characters of the book are inspired by real-life characters. Zoon Gujjar was a real-life activist and a sharpshooter who joined the Indian army to throw off the invaders.
“two goals were very clear to me…..the other was to bring the women front and centre of my narrative…….. I want them to tell their stories”, says Manreet Sodhi Someshwar while discussing the Partition Trilogy. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZJyQz-EINWs
Chapter 50 Tithwal (June 1948) is interesting. Truce period. Gentleman’s agreement. Enmity and an understanding across the border.
What I enjoy about Manreet Sodhi is the way she brings alive the landscape of the place….in all the 3 books of the trilogy, her physical description of the place seems so real, so just in existence, that one cannot help but be submerged into the physical geography of those times.
‘Kashmir’ is a fitting finale to the partition trilogy. As Manreet Sodhi Someshwar says, “Partition is not in our past, it is resonating loudly in our present….” http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/articleshow/89362667.cms?from=mdr&utm_source=contentofinterest&utm_medium=text&utm_campaign=cppst
Strongly recommended.
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The morning starts as usual. Cold, damp and freezing – a typical January morning in the Delhi winters. I sit curled up inside the blanket on the bed, wearing a cap that covers my ears, typing away on my laptop. Having ditched my cosy writing corner for the comfort of the quilt in the season, somehow, I have been able to keep up with my 5 AM daily writing routine, even though my productivity is at its lowest.
The figure lying beside me on the bed stirs and changes her position, making me realise it’s time to pause my morning ritual and turn my attention to worldly matters. My daughter, Avantika, wakes up with a start, pulls the heavy blanket away and makes a beeline for the bathroom. I smile. In the fourteen years I have had the fortune to be her mother, I have rarely seen her still or at ‘rest’. One moment, she may be prancing around the room, and the next moment, she plops down on the bed, closes her eyes and falls fast asleep. Similarly, she would be snoring away to glory, and the very next second, I would find her darting up and around as if she had never been asleep in the first place.
Those parenting a child with an autism spectrum disorder will agree when I say there’s never a dull moment in life. Some days are exciting, some more challenging than usual, but we rarely encounter mundane or predictable days.
The last few days had been good. 2023 had ended well, and 2024 commenced peacefully with Avantika laughing, playing and smiling to her heart’s content – her mood good enough for my husband and I to take her to nearby places to ring off the old year.
Little do I know that it’s all about to change – this morning.
It starts with a mellowed cry.
Avantika emerges from the washroom and starts jumping on the bed, throwing the occasional mischievous smile at me. I put my laptop back in the writing corner and prepare to embark on my day. Suddenly, she starts crying softly. It’s not the furious cry of a child about to have a meltdown but the sound of a request from someone wanting something. Almost a decade and a half of parenting a special-needs non-verbal child has taught me to distinguish between different sounds emanating from her mouth.
She must be hungry. She usually feels hungry before breakfast and grabs some biscuits until the main meal is served. I go to the kitchen, put some biscuits on a quarter plate and return to her room with it.
Much to my surprise, she pushes the plate away and starts crying louder. Loud enough for my husband to come from the other room. I attempt to hug Avantika, but she nudges me away and continues bawling. Tears appear at the corner of her eyes and flow down her cheeks.
She’s not throwing a tantrum. Tantrum cries are loud, shrill and high-pitched – more like a shout than a cry – and unaccompanied by tears. While it is a herculean task to deal with them, the good thing is that you know that it’s a phase that will dissipate soon, and your child is not in pain.
In this case, it seems she’s in pain. What is bothering her? There’s no way to tell. The one who knows cannot speak, leaving all the guesswork to her parents. Unlike neurotypical children, my daughter is unable to express and convey the source and severity of her pain.
She starts crying louder. The tears get thicker. My husband sits down next to her and starts patting her back. She curls closer to him, but the bawling doesn’t cease.
‘What’s the matter with her?’ My husband asks me, more wistful than confident, knowing I won’t have the answer. I wish I did.
I shrug. ‘She doesn’t seem to be hungry.’ She wouldn’t have pushed her favourite biscuits away otherwise. ‘She was happily playing five minutes ago,’ I continue with a pointless explanation, hoping our talk will drown out the disconcerting cries.
But the lament increases in intensity and shrillness. It doesn’t stop when breakfast is served; Avantika cries throughout the meal.
I start to panic. What if my daughter is in a lot of pain? What if the underlying pain is a symptom of something serious? My worst nightmare as a mother is about some severe ailment befalling my daughter, which I will not be able to comprehend.
‘What is causing you pain, Avni?’ I ask softly after she finishes her breakfast and put my hand over her stomach. ‘Is it paining here?’ I enquire. She pushes my hand aside. I pat her head next. ‘Is the pain here?’ I ask again and get the same response.
For the next three hours, the crying continues unabated. Avantika wails while having her bath; there are tears in her eyes while getting into a fresh set of clothes, and the intensity increases as she roams around the room. I glance at my husband and see my helplessness mirrored in his eyes. Not knowing what to do, both of us are quiet.
Shall I take her to the doctor? I wonder. There’s nothing concrete for me to tell him, but the paediatrician knew her history and limitations and was adept at examining her stomach and heartbeats through his stethoscope. At least he can rule out my worst fears, if nothing else.
I call his clinic. The coordinator tells me that the doctor is unable to take appointments for the day. I berate myself silently. They say a mother knows everything. Why can’t I figure out what is causing so much trouble to my child? I shed silent tears of frustration.
Beep, beep. My phone rings insistently with an urgent reminder, putting me on notice for a scheduled coaching session with a client ten minutes later. I open my calendar to see four meetings scheduled back-to-back for the day. In the frenzy of the day, I had forgotten all about them.
‘How will I take the coaching sessions from here?’ I ask my husband. My working-cum-writing space was a separate corner in the same room as my daughter’s. Even though I use headphones during the sessions, it was unlikely that the incessant hysteric sounds would escape the attention of the people on the other side of the laptop.
‘Go to the guest room and take your meetings from there,’ he suggests. ‘I am here with her. Lock the door from inside lest she suddenly rushes in between your sessions.’ I feel guilty listening to his words. First, I am unable to alleviate my daughter’s pain. Then, I will abandon her and move to the furthest corner of the house to help others navigate their life’s challenges. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on me.
Am I a good mother? The question pricks my conscience as I carry my laptop and Avantika’s portable study table to the guest room and switch on my system. Going by the expressed and implicit verdict of the medical practitioners during the early days of my daughter’s autism diagnosis, I wasn’t. Perhaps they were right. What kind of mother leaves a crying child for her work commitments? Even if the latter were scheduled much in advance and the concerned people eagerly awaited these discussions?
Avantika’s sobs ring in my ears as I shut and lock the heavy wooden door. For the next four hours, I push myself to be mindful in the coaching conversations with my clients. Thoughts about Avantika frequently enter my head. As I listen to other people, I force myself to move her distant wails to the back of my head. ‘A new place today?’ One of my clients enquires, alluding to the unfamiliar background behind me on the screen. ‘Same place, different room,’ I reply with a smile, wondering if he can see through the pain behind that smile.
Avantika is still crying four hours later when I emerge from my makeshift workplace, though the intensity has reduced. Crying non-stop for so long takes a lot of energy, I muse. The persistent pain is making my daughter express herself in the only way she knows. In many ways, my fourteen-year-old daughter is no different from a small child.
‘Please go and rest,’ I say to my husband, who was at his wit’s end. It is no mean feat to give company to our cranky daughter alone. Next, I instruct the maid, ‘Mix some hing with milk and rub it on Avantika’s stomach,’ more out of desperation than hope. Shooting in the dark feels better than sitting helplessly, doing nothing.
The maid comes holding a saucer of milk on one hand and some cotton on the other. I sit beside Avantika, patting her head. She hunches closer to my lap without making a sound, but the tears continue to flow. I gingerly lift the blanket to pull up the jacket and other upper layers of clothing from her stomach. The maid starts dabbing the milk-soaked cotton around her navel area.
My daughter makes a sound of protest at first – which I know is because of the cold – but cooperates. This isn’t a new thing for her. Ten minutes into the act, and more than seven hours since the morning, she stops crying. I utter my first prayer of thanks for the day, fervently hoping the calm continues.
Half an hour later, she breaks into a sweet smile. An hour later, she’s prancing around like her usual self. I heave a sigh of relief. All’s right with the world again.
My husband enters the room, takes in the sight and asks, ‘What had happened?’
‘I don’t know,’ I admit. Perhaps it was an acid reflux, maybe gas, probably both. It may also have been something else altogether. I will never be sure of the answer.
Most likely, the Gods above took pity on me, and one of my numerous darts happened to hit the bull’s eye. It isn’t the first time. It won’t be the last.
I know history will repeat itself on some other day. Till then, I will put my feet up and enjoy these seemingly ordinary moments.
I look at my daughter. She was smiling as if oblivious to all the rigamarole sixty minutes before. Has she forgotten the past already, or is she simply immersed in enjoying the present? Again, I don’t know. Perhaps I never will.
Good Mom or Bad Mom? I am not sure. I am an Autism Mom trying to do the best I can. I have no other choice.
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