Dreams and Traditions

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Having recently read “Lean In” by Shreyl Sandberg, COO of Facebook, all the talk of women not being proactive enough at work, and denying themselves the ambition is fresh in my mind. As I see it, women do assume that their place is following their spouse after marriage, to wherever in the world he ends up. In doing so they sacrifice their career, friends and family. Now I understand love makes people do crazy things, but when did you last hear that a man quit his job to relocate to the city his wife works at?

I have never been made to think that I could not achieve or do certain things by virtue of my gender. I guess, I owe almost all of that to my parents, who always encouraged me to move beyond gender stereotypes. Coming from India, which Hofstede calls a “Masculine” country by virtue of its values of aggression and competition, and the general dominance of men in all areas of work from bartending to taxi driving, as well as a skewed sex ratio, the men outnumbering the women, I never felt impeded by my gender professionally. Ofcourse this was the naïve age of innocence, when I was in college and a graduate student in Delhi.

As I started my PhD, soon I realized, through chance conversations with old friends and acquaintances, about how being on the path to being “more educated than the average Indian man, may make other men in my life feel intimidated.”  While I was rendered speechless by the explicit nature of this query, I felt foolish for never having thought this might actually be the case. Needless to say I spent many days and nights wondering, if men thought that I was intimidating because of my education credentials, then I might never actually find a guy who would like me! It seemed pretty far-fetched so I dropped the idea eventually. This was a pre-mature decision in hindsight, since many conversations hence, have led me to the conclusion that a woman’s ambitious streak is regarded with as much contempt and judgment as a man carrying a ladies handbag to work. 

From an evolutionary perspective men have been the hunter-gatherers, thus being responsible for providing food and shelter for their kin. Woman always took the role of nurturing the young offspring. Of course I am talking thousands of years ago when we spoke cryptic languages, and made ornaments from clay. This argument obviously falls flat now, considering that both men and women contribute or atleast are capable of contributing equally to the families incomes.

Woman do have a physiological and biological selection to be the bearer of a offspring, courtesy the womb, yet the task of the primary caregiver also falls upon the woman, even if she is working, until many months after the child has been weaned off. There are exceptions to this rule of course, however, but the point is not to bring home the few cases, but to elaborate what happens at large.

Having been recently married, I did not perceive any change in my professional or academic life, and to be honest there isn’t. But the many women in my life, make sure to remind me that I must fulfill my “wifely” duties and live with my husband who works in another city. I feel saddened that these voices belong to many educated and professional women, who perhaps should encourage each other to pursue their dreams, rather than advocate me to charter along a path of archaic sexist traditions

Moving on to the role of a teacher in a class comprising mostly boys, it is also often difficult to get your point across, being funny and meaning business at the same time. A man could do it with great ease, but for a woman, it’s often the dichotomous variable: Mean and strict or friendly and easy going. So when I go out in the class and try to lighten the mood with a joke, and then later come around with a strict face to get everyone to shut their laptops, the transition isn’t easy. The students don’t expect this mercurial nature, and of course the routine takes time to get used to. I am still shaky, but I am sure it is possible to perfect. The stereotypical mean woman teacher who wreaks death upon all wayward students, or the timid new lady teacher wanting to appease the class, these images have to be destroyed, and fast. Studies show that women who are aggressive at work place are judged to be mean and “bitchy”, where as a man exhibiting the same behavior is judged as “competitive and achievement oriented”. In a teaching environment too, the same stereotypes would hold.

Finally, breaking into the “boys club” at any organization isn’t easy. Boys club are synonymous with talks of snooker, poker, American football, and related activities, accompanied by a feeling that it is their turf and theirs alone to traverse. By default, the women aren’t invited, since it is assumed that they are ignorant or uninterested or both for that matter! This makes entrenchment increasingly difficult for women. But of course, taking up initiatives of your own, and not waiting for the men at the work place to make an activity event, would of course enable a level proactiveness, that can be rewarded by like minded participation.

I guess I am writing this because I wanted people to know, that women are not there to follow men. Be it as wives, following husbands to their place of work, or as girlfriends sacrificing their promising careers for love. Yes, some would say they’d do it happily so to be with their loved one. But love to me, is what transcends borders, boundaries, and archaic traditions.

I don’t know when I would actually end up living together with my husband, maybe this year maybe next. Maybe something will present itself to me, and everything will fall into place. Untill then, I am moving on with my dreams, and ambitions, as some call it. Trudging on into the darkness to find out who I am.

Love doesn’t need a reason, it just needs faith. Whether its love for another person, love for yourself or love for your dreams.

Not Fitting in. And Proud.

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It’s a jolt of reality that brings you down, when you realize that issues that bogged one in adolescence still seem to surface now and then. More now than then. 

All through high school we try to fit in, do as the popular girls and guys do, and be accepted inspite of out nerdy quirks. Nerdy awkwardness, yes, the uncool cousin of geeky cool. By we, ofcourse I mean people like me. The introverted-reclusive-front-bench-sitting-long-skirts-wielding-teachers-favorites-for-always-completing-the-work-on-time. The ones receiving a pat on the back for taking an extra class, much to our embarrassment, and being beckoned upon the dias to receive  the “Most Obedient Student of the Year” award, much to our chagrin. While all you lust for, is really to be like those other kids, the girls with their short skirts and long lashes, flirting with the tall guys, while managing to do well in school too. Ofcourse, this is not an option for most. Its not a conscious decision, it just happens. One day you walk into school, and there it is. The arrival of the nerd. 

I was a nerd I admit, because I possibly couldn’t see myself as the cute little girl on the bleachers. Perhaps I thought that was not my place. I wasn’t pretty enough, tall enough, savvy enough to deserve that, so I seemingly relegated myself to the lesser ranks of being shunned. Yet the daydreams would not end. Perhaps, the popular kids would invite me to their party today; perhaps, they would not make fun of me when I walked past them. Maybe, just maybe, they would not play a prank on me while on a dare, just this time; maybe they’d be a tad nicer. It is surprising that even though the collective meanness that was dumped upon me could give a cities garbage disposal squad a run for its money, I still wanted to be like these cool kids, and so yearned to be a part of their group. 

Ah, the desire to fit in! Durkheim did say that social fabric is what prevents a man from complete self-destruction (he meant suicide) but I think he is silent on the deleterious effects of the high school social capital.  

High schools are famous for mass-producing what you more colloquially know as bimbos and jocks. I am not particularly fond of these disparaging yet seemingly accurate terms, so I would perhaps use alternate nomenclature. Bimbos would be henceforth referred to as Species 1- seemingly-dim-witted-pretty girls. I say seemingly since they often put on the damsel in distress show to garner attention from the opposite sex, which as I have witnessed on many accounts works like a charm. This leads me to the description of Species 2 or Jocks – dim-witted-hedonic-sporty-men and yes very susceptible to the overtures of the seemingly-dim-witted-pretty-girls.  Be it a school in Columbus, Ohio or one in New Delhi, India, these two species are everywhere, making life for us nerds hell in high school.

One would think, that a nerd, having spent so much time with books and literature would develop the discernment of not wanting to be associated with either of the species. But as the all-engulfing passion of fitting in takes flight, all rationality is dumped at the doors of the toilet.

Over a period of time, a nerd may realize his or her true nature i.e. of being a nerd. Embracing this, indeed, engenders a feeling of wholeness unparalleled. Evaporating instantly the need to be accepted by the others, and belong to that group of Species 1 and 2. And no, I am not still talking about high school. These species often transcend the educational threshold of schools and often permeate into adult society. 

A sense of belonging is healthy and perhaps imperative to the well-being of a human being. Yet, this belonging must not be artificially created. It must not be an unreal place, or an unreal need. Only when you are true to your nature, rejoicing in standing out from the crowd you once so-desired, respecting that your individuality can accomplish more than the collective action of a bunch of people you don’t fit in with, that’s when you belong - to yourself. That’s when you jump ecstatically from the realization, that you don’t fit in, but you stand out.

Inspiration from the Cosmos

The last few weeks have been particularly bereft of inspiration. Returning to Madrid after many days spent with family was always hard but never as difficult as this time around. With an article review decision pending somewhere, dangling near the horizon, and the thesis proposal being delayed for many months, I was losing all hope there was.

While commencing a PhD I never envisioned this day, where I would be fighting to stay afloat in more ways than one. I guess we never really see that far. But battles of motivation are fought everyday, by everyone. The frontiers differ, the weapons too. But the strife and angst is very real.

Usually I let these grey clouds of insipid and lackluster dejection pass by, waiting for the clear blue skies to show me the light. However this time around, the cosmos had something else in mind.

As I stumbled through Altdstadt in Nuremberg, the snow flurries floating in the air with a careless abandon then placing themselves delicately on the ground, I was empty. Not empty in a spiritual sense, but more in a cognitive overload fashion. As I walked slowly through narrow streets,  I saw a big book store, without the slightest hesitation, I entered and asked for the English section. Up I went, to the second floor and discovered an array of books after books. My mood lifted, and the haze of emptiness started to give way to an adrenaline rush. Needless to say, I bought several books-fiction, non-fiction, mysteries, and biographies. I felt I had met some long lost friends, and I couldn’t wait to embark on an adventure with all of them. Just as I was about to leave, I saw a little pistachio green book titled “ Inspiration for Writers”. I opened it, and the first quote I landed on, went like this: “Writing is the Geometry of the soul.” And in this little way, this tiny pistachio green colored book reminded me what was important to me. I devoured the book within minutes of purchasing it. My most memorable quote would have to be “…fill the paper with the breathings of your heart” –William Wordsworth. And this way, the universe told me, that there was something I believed in, and there was something greater than me.

Another instance close to the one narrated above also in the realm of books, inspired me, and got me going to stretch beyond my fatigued and mellow motivation. I had picked up the book Lean In by Sherly Sandberg, the COO of Facebook at the Frankfurt Central Station. I was skeptical at best about reading this book, but what it had in store for me, took me completely by surprise. In her book she talks of the startlingly skewed gender representation in upper echelons of management, and goes on to explain how psychological and socially we might be brining that about. I found myself nodding in agreement to so many instances, where I have pulled back or not behaved aggressively, as she rightly explains that women behaving in that very fashion tend to be perceived negatively. While a man being authoritative is deemed as him being true to his “role” or “position” or his nature even. A woman behaving in the same fashion is dubbed with expletives which usually have the adjective “iron”, “cold-hearted”, “mean” pre-fixed to them. Reading Ms. Sandberg’s research backed narrative gave me a much-needed motivation in terms of analyzing my own behavior and that of others around me.  Being recently married though, I do not see myself culling my career or sidetracking my professional and academic aspirations. Thankfully my husband respects that, and I know I will only respect myself when I can hold my own- be it in a city where he is or be it 1000 miles from where he is.  Ms. Sandberg’s books conveyed that only 4% of women expected that their partners would move to accommodate their relocation. Although this is an abysmal statistic, it made me want to try harder and not give up. The passion and gumption endowed in the tone of this book, makes me believe in my dreams and goals a bit more. It even rekindles my sleepy motivation and charges it to a new high by making me feel I belong to this community of young and independent woman, who are trying to battle this self-incriminating gender bias.

Finally, my third dose of inspiration came from chatting with a close family member today. In trying to solve an external problem, I realized an internal issue that needed sorting on my part which could be the very cure. This rendered me empowered, and in control. Although in reality, what I really need to learn is to let go in situations outside my control, but that’s another battle, for another day.  For motivations and its related minions, I am happy with the three doses that made their way to me- be in the form of an inspirational quote, a book from a powerful business woman or simple a moment of self-realization. So thank you dear Universe and its manifestation- my friends – my books. You always find me when I need you most.

Extinction

And the men walked in daze,
Across a land grey and blue.
The deserted roads were now a playground for the few
They reminisced about times when women roamed the world
What magnificent creatures, what a beatific presence they had,
some remembered.
But the reality is this they agreed,
an inevitable path of extinction
-a land without a future
-a land without women.

Freedom

 

I don’t want to live in fear,

I don’t want to walk with my head bent,

Looking at my toes

In a crowded street,

While others admire the clear blue sky.

I don’t want an escort every time I leave my house,

to ferry me after dark

I don’t want those untoward nudges, those piercing glares

when I board a bus or enter a room

I want to breathe free,

I want dignity.

Discontent and Musings

Nothing fills the heart of this writer to the brim more than a love lost, nothing makes her hand quiver with anticipation more than a conflict of thoughts. The state of a citys affair in disarray, or the ignorance or turpitude ways of an acquaintance are what burn through my body and stirs my soul. Discontent then is the Mordor of my Middle earth. It’s this dark, morbid place which fuels the chariots of words and bridges the distances with sentences.  I must admit it has been a while since I was there, and hence the dip in my writing curve. But how must one orchestrate a conscious trip to this land of the discontent? To do so is fraught with peril.  On one hand as the writing suffers you are prompted to delve into the dark murky waters to resurrect the black genius, on the other hand, bidding goodbye to the happy place consciously is perhaps contrary to rationality, with the return not eminent, it is a risk a writer often takes. But this conscious journey can not always be willed, and what must then a writer do? In such grey times the writer expresses her discontent with the absence of discontent.

The Burden of Being Obtuse

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There are weddings and then there are marriages. The difference you ask? There is a big one of course. Wedding is the party that entails expenditures totaling to thousands of Euros or lacs of Rupees. Marriage though, is what the real deal is. But yet noone talks about that. What is discussed is shopping-trousseau-clothes-jewels and things of the like. Kind of makes me wonder, isn’t this focus a tad bit myopic?

The number of times I have been asked “ how are the wedding preparations going” and the number of times I have shrugged in response, has psyched me out enough to write this apparently.  I thought it was only the Indian culture that was obsessed with nuptial planning but turns out, it’s the most of the civilized world.

"It is the preoccupation with possessions, more than anything else that prevents us from living freely and nobly.”

― Bertrand Russell

Truer words were not written, I’d say. Yet, we ensnare ourselves in this filigree of things that must be acquired before a marriage can take place. Gifts, clothes, precious stones to adorn oneself. Sometimes, this is acquired to appease the boys parents (as may be in India – in the form of dowry) and sometimes to  symbolize ones’ status in the society ( the more lavish the more sublimely you’re perceived). Yes the society expects that the worth of a family will be defined by how much money they spend on their wards wedding. And we fuel this grotesqueness. If you buy your son or daughter one diamond less, it doesn't mean you love them less. It means a) you are not sustaining the warped traditions of the society and b) you are also bringing to your ward a culture where material gains mean nothing- which is a world we want to live in. One parent my think that it is their duty to spend as much as they can, but this is a duty only if the ward is a spolit rich brat and wants Armani designed nightwear. The first situation I feel can’t be rationalized with. It required radical social and cultural changes, which is not the scope of this writing. However, it is the second form of ostentatiousness- conscious, voluntarily and pretentious that perhaps can be argued with and I guess dealt with through a forum such as this.

A marriage is not defined by the money spent on the wedding. A marriage is rather sustained by happy memories- trust and other such virtues. None of which are up for sale in a store.

Wearing silk and diamonds perhaps may bring momentary happiness, for a total of 10 minutes, it may dazzle the society, but then that sparkle fades. All that is left then is the heavy stone. The burden of being obtuse.

Encountering Fear

As I am counting down the days till I reach Delhi, I am enveloped with a feeling of dread. When I read about the girl from Guwahati being attacked, my mind took me back to a few years, to Mumbai, where another girl was attacked by a mob of men on New Years Eve. A shiver runs down my spine every time I think about these incidents. I can feel the gnawing helplessness, the agonizing and paralyzing fear that numbs your peripheries. Has this happened to me, you wonder? No.

But I am in an Indian girl (woman?) and this is what my nightmares are made of.

I haven’t lived in India for three years now.  Living without the fear that someone will come around and purposefully ram into you to get a feel of your bosom, comes slowly. Even now, when I walk down the streets of Madrid at night by myself, I look over my shoulder to make sure no one is following me.  It’s summer now, and careless abandon is in the air. Girls wear whatever they damn well please, and admire the warm spirit of the city at 11 pm. This can indeed be uplifting. The independence, the ability to wear whatever you want when its 40 degrees outside, the safety that no one curious eyes will undress you as you cross the road, it can be uplifting. But only till the moment you realize, this is not reality. My reality is my country, which scares the living day light out of me for being a woman. And that will stay with me for eternity. 

Growing up in Delhi, a girl learns that she can not go out by herself at night. . For those of us who do not have boyfriends, brothers and fathers handy, this can be a problem. Ofcourse, some of us do venture out anyway. To hell with the world, we think. The few times that I had the temerity to do this, I remember sitting in the drivers seat of my car, at a signal, silently urging the gods of the colour green to beckon the signal. I looked to my left and there was a car full of men, looking in my direction, smiling, laughing even, and smirking. No they didn’t do anything; no they didn’t say anything that I could hear since the widows were forced closed. But my heart pounded, and as the signal turned green, I sped across the road, looking in the rear view mirror time and time again. Making your way home at night, Delhi Girl, you know, is worthy of an accolade. The adrenaline is nothing short of what you would have generated in a battle. 

As I sit here writing this, I feel angry. Not that boiling rage which makes one want to throw stuff around but that kind of systematic low range rage, which makes you want to write this. I want to be able to talk to those men, that driver from a licensed motor training school who felt comfortable enough to graze my thigh while teaching me how to drive a car. I want to say yeah, I would like to slap him. But really, I want to know his psyche. What was he thinking? What made him do that? Was he pathological? Was it the first time he did something like that? Did he know it was wrong because I was uncomfortable? And ofcourse, the 17 year old me didn’t know what was going on and rationalized by saying hey, maybe it was a mistake. Well, if it happens every 5 minutes, it is sure as hell not a mistake.

I did tell the management and they refused to believe the word of this 17 year old girl. And I didn’t drive till I was 19 because I was afraid to take lessons. One day though I decided it was enough, and I picked up the old family car and my best friend and bumped away into the horizon, in second gear, with the hand break on. 

Maybe it was the guys background, maybe he wasn’t educated enough, I would tell myself thinking about what happened. Well, I was wiser atleast. Or Was I?

What about the gentleman in the business class seat on the flight to China? Did he think the small of my back was a mitten he could use to warm him hands on this warm August night as our flight took off? Was his unapologetic nature when I shrugged it off and ran with my bag to the back of the plane, induced by drugs and alcohol? Or was it just him thinking that a helpless looking girl tucked in on the window seat would make for a good story? I didn’t say anything to him either. I just sat in my new seat, mortified, thinking about what happened, writing a blog!  So I guess I vented by writing, and ofcourse I always book an aisle seat when flying now, but hey, everyone has baggage right?

How do we change this mentality? This brazen nature of accosting a woman and getting away with saying and doing anything. What do you call these men? Hooligans? Maybe the mob, yes. But the guy in the plane or the car guys? Are they just regular men like we know or there is something different about them?

I want to know. I have questions. Conjectures and guesses are not enough anymore. It is easy to say that he must be illiterate/ignorant/a criminal or other such justifications. So girls, next time you meet someone who whistles at you. Please stop him, and ask him. Why. What gave him the liberty to do this. Maybe we will get an answer. Maybe we won’t. But we need to try and get to the genesis of this behemoth of a nuisance.

I have many stories to tell, which would be the same as the stories of another Indian girl with only a few details changed. The man in the bus staring at your ankles, the man on that motorcycle shouting profanities in your direction, or those boys in that car, circling the street you and your friend are parked in, waiting for someone. That trepidation which makes you crouch down in your own car to lose the stalkers, the fear which makes you want to wear jeans when its 45 degrees outside, the dread which makes say, Girls, wake up. We need a revolution.

Words Revisited

Dull, is the sound in my head

The waves of the brain

That slow to a crawl instead

The inspiration fades,

 as the night lingers on

The glow of the candle,

Dances around the dark

My eyes want to close,

But the hands tremble on

They utter these words

I can’t discern

The letters form words

words weave sentences

while the heart pounds

gently in the body cavity

The magnetic force draws me in

The night descends, the light fades

The fingers cease to caress, the words.

The words are all there is.

The Mighty Unknown

I like not knowing,
What comes tomorrow
The obscurity, the questions
The uncertainty of tranquility
The probability of bliss
The dreams remain alive,
Not buried in the sand,
When nothing is certain
there isn’t any blueprint
What comforts me most
Is the prospect of adventure
new cities, love, muses
The possibilities that lie
in the mighty unknown.