Things to Talk About : Body Shaming

Note: Essay writing has always been quite a task because unfortunately our education system is as unimaginative as it gets. Thus after years of writing 'Science: a curse or a boon' and 'Unity in Diversity' my prose writing has simply refused to produce anything more than Facebook status updates. This is but a desperate attempt, because someone seriously awesome told me that we should try to write about things we feel deeply about. I feel deeply about 'body shaming'. 

I think I was in the second standard, when my grandmother first pointed out that I might have gotten exchanged at birth, because I was not fair like my parents or my grandparents. It was a joke. It was a ‘harmless’ joke which eventually became my identity. I was the dark, tall, blunt featured girl who after a point hated school programs because she would always get the weirdest possible roles, even though everyone admitted that she was a great performer. I am the only girl I know who has been cast as Ravana, Yamraj, Duryodhana, Hanuman, a tree, local gunda, and the Giant in The Selfish Giant. The only feminine role I was ever offered was that of the Goddess Kali. Though an adult me knows that any role is worth the effort, but a 15 years old me had had enough, and said goodbye to her aspirations to join professional theatre. 

I think I would have called quits on a lot of things but thankfully, my parents were feminists of their time who brought up their daughter like a ‘son’ and I wore my hair short, bought only pants throughout my teenage, and played football at the neighbourhood field, picking up profanity faster than any boy of my age. I was desperate to prove to everyone that I could become a better boy, and nobody pointed out that a child should just aspire to be better; the gender is irrelevant. I was the letter perfect tomboy, and before the hormones could even hit me properly, the fate of Kajal in ‘Kuchh Kuchh Hota Hai’ and Rani in ‘Mujhse Dosti Karoge’ had already taught me that in the rare occasion of romance, I shall always remain second to the ‘Fairs’ & the ‘Lovelies’. 

The Defining Moment Of My Childhood

It is quite unnerving to imagine how smoothly a teenager was being taught her place in the society just by her looks, and no one seemed to quite understand the role that they were playing. My cousin did not realize that during our trip to the north-east, when she laughed about my mongoloid features, she was just kickstarting a lifelong discomfort with one’s own face. My physical education teacher did not understand that while warning the boys on the field against picking a fight against me, he was mocking my genetically inherited strength, and made me give up karate while I really liked it. My ‘foreign-return’ uncle, did not think that his joke about finding me a husband from Nigeria because ‘no Indian man will be a match for her’, developed body image issues, in me, so deep rooted, that it took multiple abusive relationships and a lot of reading to finally see through all of this. Another blog post is necessary to touch upon the conditions that finally made me muster the strength to fight against the anxiety of never being good enough.      

I am telling my story because it is my story to tell, but I know a hundred similar stories of women and men developing body image issues because of the lack of awareness among adults, who have been our guardians or heroes at some point. It’s so frustrating to think that adults, the people whom we were supposed to be looking up to, were creating such deep gashes on our self-esteem and simultaneously teaching us racism without so much as a flinch. Believe it or not, 70% of my friends’ circle is made up of self-loathing individuals who would just about do anything for some amount of validation, and they are actually the happier lot that I know. 

Some of us developed unhealthy defence mechanisms, which range between eating disorders and commitment issues to self harm and crippling depression, and that’s not even the sad part. The sad part is that nobody is ready to take responsibility. Nobody is ready to accept that their words and attitude had such profound effects on young minds that it is taking lifetimes to deal with that trauma. Most of the time, I think people are insensitive and selfish but then again everybody is shaming everybody else. How is this system going on for so long without anyone realizing that it is harming us all? 

My cousin damaged her hip permanently wearing heels because she was short. My physical education teacher became an alcoholic when he developed a potbelly (or was it the other way round?), but he definitely suffered. And my uncle left home in the first place because he was bullied for not having ‘manly’ looks. But will these people understand the implication of their own actions? I don’t think so, and even if they did understand, they won’t accept it because if they did, they will also have to acknowledge the role of society, media, culture, and individuals in creating such disturbed human beings and good god, imagine the complete overhaul of values and standards it will take to put things right! Let’s just look the other way.  

A post-colonial country like ours does not bother much with stats. So, I don’t have figures for India, but a BBC report in 2019 had reported that 1 out of every 8 British citizens has had suicidal thoughts because of body image issues. Add to this our obsession with fair skin, Aryan features, and the general lack of sensitivity towards mental health, you will see that the figures in our third world country is the numeric version of the word ‘dismal’.   

Nonetheless, the world is apparently changing and even ‘Fair & Lovely’ got a new name but funnily, 2020 CBSE Class XII topper, Divyanshi Jain could not escape becoming a meme. A girl who managed to score the highest marks in the country was being laughed at -- you know why? Because she is bucktooth. Just that. While you let that sink in, I have a question for you humanity: how do you sleep at night?     

Anxious - 1

Desperate evenings like these
Bring along the necessity
Of reassurance
The need to sit down with a colouring book
And draw a road
Getting lost in the distance.
That road which leads to
A quieter childhood
And softer winters
One needs peace to draw a blue sky
Or a green field
Or a small house.
A house with a little child
With crayons strewn on the floor.
Colouring her anxieties away.

Back to the Basics, Please!

The newspapers hailed it as a landmark verdict. Most of the population on social media praised the progressive judgement given by the Supreme Court but upon implementation, the lift of ban on women entering the Sabarimala Temple faced major criticism in Kerala. Kerala has the highest literacy rate among all the states in our country. 

There were protest marches where thousands of women walked in demonstration of their support of the ban on women entering the temple. They were claiming themselves to be devotees of Lord Aiyappa. They were marching because they believed that they were unworthy of entering his holy shrine.

This was happening right before Durga Puja when one of my friends was telling me how she was not going to be able to take part in the rituals of ‘anjali’ and ‘baron’ during Puja because she was going to get her ‘chums’. My friend is a post-graduate on Women’s Rights and Gender Studies. 

Irony died several slow deaths as I sat reading about the Sabarimala verdict.

I read articles on how the issue was being politicized. I read a gazillion tweets about a stupid comment by Smriti Irani. I even read up all information available on the internet about the mythological references of Aiyappa and Sabarimala legacy but nobody was talking about why and how was all rationale failing when it came to blind faith.

There are three points to be noted here.

Highest literacy rate which means prevalence of education could not save Kerala from understanding that the judgement passed by the apex court was in line with the fundamental right given to all citizens of this country - that nobody can be discriminated against, based on caste, creed, religion, gender or identity of any sort. People failed to accept and understand the necessity of a broader mind set which we take to be default result of acquiring education.

Women, who have been oppressed for generations and have been denied freedom and respect because they menstruate, a necessary natural process, could not think of themselves beyond the social customs and beliefs instilled in them. They failed to recognize themselves as human beings first and not sexual objects inspite of facing the resultant disrespect throughout their lives in some form or the other.

An educated, independent, young woman such as my friend still believed that menstruation is ‘dirty’, ‘unholy ’ and 'impure'. She consciously decided not to participate in Durga Puja because she had never been taught, as a woman, to think of herself as a complete individual with a sense of self-respect and ownership of her mind and body. Even her degree in Women’s Rights could not make her stand up against such regressive customs; sadly could not even create the consciousness in her.

As inexplicably bizarre as it may sound all the above points are the direct result of us believing women to be the lesser kind.  

I love it how we keep talking about empowering women without making them understand what empowerment actually means. We equate empowerment with jobs, academic excellence, social status but never with self-respect; never with women having full consciousness of their mind and their body.

Let’s please start at the basic now. Let us please teach our daughters that they are not impure for having a natural physiological process that involves blood coming out of their genitals. Let us please teach them that it is not shameful to accidentally get a stain on their dresses; that they don’t have to hide it from their brothers, fathers, male friends or colleagues when they are getting period cramps. No amount of education or professional achievement will have truly empowered women if we don’t stop all regressive practices related to the woman’s body and not break the fake concept of purity right at our homes. Let us please teach the coming generation of women to first respect themselves because if we are raising our women to think of themselves to be second class citizens then whatever we might do, we will not have progressed as a nation.  

Photo sourced from Google

Happy

To imagine that there are people lonelier than me. To think that there are people who do not choose their loneliness. It is sad.

Sad is such a small word. At times it simply fails to capture the magnitude of the heartbreaking numbness that comes with the feeling. But probably that is the idea. The idea is to not let anyone know through big words or probably the idea is to stay quiet.

To imagine that there are people quieter than me. Who do not even think of saying 'hello' to strangers the way I wish to do.

Wish is such a strange word. The world revolves around wishes. We wish for things, for moments, for people and all we ever achieve are failures. We still keep wishing.

Probably someday we'll be replacing the word 'wish' with 'hope'. Probably someday we will learn to hope for the right things.

Like, I'll start hoping for a less lonelier room. Instead of looking for my place with anyone who seems to have even a little bit of gap. Possibly I'll look for a person, who like me, hopes to find a hand to hold. Because human touch releases 'serotonin' in our brains. Serotonin is a happy hormone.

Happy is such a light word. One could probably replace all the helium in the world - in balloons, in the atmosphere and even in the Sun - with happy. The Sun probably would shine brighter if it had a little bit of happy and possibly would have lived a little longer. Like all of us.

To a Friend

Let's share a coffee someday
Ideally in a quaint little town
Where faces will be just faces
Words merely passing.
They will not bring back death
Of everything once held close.

Let's find a favourite corner
By a small little window that
Neither brings light or hope
And share a coffee.
Coffee that tastes of your numbness
A little salty, to be honest.

I will not ask. You don't have to say.
In between cappuccinos and insignias
Not much will be left anyway
The pain will however be more human
Not bearable. Just human.
With eyes and ears and nose and tongue
And a coffee in her hand.
Your pain will be sitting right across you
Holding a cup of coffee in her hand.

Two People

Two people are walking around
A town they call home.
Two people who have been to
Too many other places.
Two people who have met too many
Other people, are walking around
Streets that smell of childhood.
They are talking about
Angry fathers
And distant families.
Of songs that are sad
And of songs that are happy.
Of past and future.
Tense.
It's past midnight
And two people are walking
Towards and away from each other.

 

Didun

I am scared that she might die tomorrow and so it is important that I write about her today.

I have had the past 15 years; basically the time since I have been able to make coherent meaningful sentences, to write about her but I never did. 

Didun is there. Right next door. One call away. One 'O Didun, Ma marchhe!' (Didun, Ma is beating me!) away. She isn't going anywhere. At least that is what I thought and left home; and have been living away; growing distant to what life looked like. A bit more everyday. 

She isn't really my grandmother. As in we aren't related by blood. We, small town people have this thing about making people our grandmothers and brothers and uncles and nieces. To be honest our smallness of existence in that small town where nothing happens finds purpose only through how many people are we connected to. How many households we visit during festivities, how many families call us for help in an emergency and of course, how much we mean to them because in this small town where nothing ever happens, one surely needs to find a purpose.  

So Didun,in fact was my 'real' grandmother's best friend and next door neighbour. They were these two well-educated women in a time where they were a rarity with retired husbands and established children and a life full of failed aspirations but so very graceful about it all. 

My 'Chhobir Dinna' which literally translates into 'Grandmother in the photograph' (read my real grandmother) passed away before I even spoke my first word, so without any recollection of her whatsoever, I went ahead and decided that Didun, invariably, is all the grandparent I shall ever have because the rest were either dead or not living up to the expectation. 

In my growing up years, Didun and I have spent a lot of time together which involved other people but was significantly just about us. One of our rituals was that on every Monday evening, after school I'd eat at her place. I'd also help her with her pujas at times, braid her hair, lie next to her and listen to stories and also do homework with her at times. Didun was also the first person I'd run to in case of an uncalled for injury. Because if I were to go to my mother with a cut on my knee and tell her that I got it while racing a friend on my cycle, it'd mean saying goodbye to my evenings of cycling around forever. While going to Didun would mean no scolding but injuries being tended to and also a treat of some sort for just braving the injury.

If I am ever asked to define Didun in one word, it would be 'solution'. She practically had solutions to everything. From ridding fish bone stuck in the throat to tea stains on new clothes. From how to fix a completely messed up curry to bringing up an adamant, gender-confused teenager who insisted on wearing clothes that belonged to her dead father. Didun has handled all of this with such finesse and has given such great advice to that child's mother that not even for once could I believe that this woman doesn't hold a PhD in Homemaking, only to find out later to utter disappointment, that they didn't have this as an academic subject.

To be honest, I had never really thought much about her till date, but now when I see the fragile, shriveled human being smiling at me and asking me about work, marriage and life, I realize how pretty she was. Long hair till her waist, a kind smile and a never-give-up attitude. 

I remember, I was in junior school when one year just before Durga Puja, Bengal was hit by flood and our small town where nothing ever happens was very badly affected. This woman who now can't recognize people properly had hosted 13 people in her 1600 square feet house for 20 days, cooking and cleaning after them like this is how they have lived all their lives. Every year during the winter vacations she would arrange for a picnic for all the children in the neighbourhood, she'd cook our favourite food and bring it over every now and then, she had adopted all the dogs on our street, she'd be the first person to run to any neighbouring house if there was a medical emergency and she was also the person who could put my grief-stricken mother to sleep when my father passed away. 

I was in my IXth standard when I started giving out tuition and was basically about to earn my first salary ever. Over-excited about everything, I went and told Didun about my achievement and in a very unlike-her voice Didun said, 'Make sure you bring your first salary directly to me.' I didn't understand but I still did. She took the envelop which had a paltry 450 rupees inside and said 'Thank you.' Honestly, that did break my heart a little but there wasn't much to say. I wondered for a pretty long time that what could she have done with it? My first salary. My first ever hard-earned money. Eight years later I again went to her with my first proper paycheck, this time the amount was not as insignificant and told her very smugly, 'I'll give you this if you tell me what you did with my first salary.' 

'I gave it away to the poor. First earnings should go to God.' she replied. 

So, she might die tomorrow and might not be able to tell her that she is all that I have left from my childhood but Didun did make the best custard and pickles and fried rice and Grand Mom I've ever had. 

P.S: Me: Do you know how to take a selfie?

       Didun: No. Let's take one.