When will MEN become WOMEN ?

In my mind right now it’s a woman’s world. In this fairyland called my mind there is a handsome almost Greek god look alike with olive skin sleeping next to me. Those strong arms flexed and relaxed wide shoulders. Every part of him can be defined in acute and obtuse angle language with symmetry to every degree. A gruff voice spotless bald shinny head, voluptuous earlobes and a stubble just a few days old. Draped around him is a SHORT and FAT girl like me. And even better, he looks so in love with me !!! He dresses up for me. He takes hours on end to immaculately put on some cologne to seduce me right into his arms and keeps the stubble soft and not spiky.

In this world the order of the day is that Men are getting waxing done instead of shaving. They are complaining about sunstroke and tan. They are talking about which kind of heels hurt more. They are discussing how to lose weight before their wedding to fit into the perfect outfit to look like a man-doll. They are talking about man versions of period, child birth, and menopause. What a pain in the ass cooking and cleaning the house is ! What the wife likes, the mother in law hates, the brother in law does is all on his mind. What exercises will reduce those Indian child bearing hips and those thunder thighs. Tummy tucks and lady luck ! And then – the best of them all, saved for the last- Men are shopping ! Even better – the Men in my world are WEDDING SHOPPING !

WAKE UP WOMEN AROUND THE WORLD !!

If this is how exactly we want to live why is it that it is always the other way round ? Why is there always an ugly man with a beautiful wife ! It’s not the fault of the men ! It’s the fault of women. From the time we are little our mothers will stick a book in our hand every time we cried. Those fairy tales like Beauty and the Beast are the heart of all the troubles – Why wasn’t there a book called Greek God and a normal city girl. Or Why does Cinderella have to dress up in a gown and run to make it home for a deadline in those painfully high heels and prince charming pursue her – why isn’t it the other way round ? Why doesn’t a normal guy sweep the floor and cry cause he cannot go see Cinderella being vowed by other suitors at the ball and prince charming have to run in high heels in time to make it home !!! And moreover Why weren’t guys made to read those books ? Shocking but true story - the fact remains that the author for these books were all MEN.

From times immemorial girls are made the wait on, linger to find the perfect boy while men chose their pick ! And then there are the other motherhood statements like What is it with girls and shopping ? Why are these 2 words so synonymous to each other ? Why is it that they love each other ? I was recently subjected to an extreme “wedding shopping spree” for a dear friend of mine and I couldn’t help but wonder why are there twice as many a shop for women than they are for men ware? Why are there only men in a women’s ware shop who give approval or disapproval for your choice of colour and cut? MEN and the world they want to live in define the rules applicable for the women who live in this world which in turn defines their love for shopping.

Ask yourself this- Have you ever seen a man take hours to dress up for his girl friend/ wife ? How often do you see a man crib about her clothes than the other way round ? I urge women around me to finally stop dressing up for a day and see how guys fit into our shoes. And then they say women love shopping. The reason discovered is that men, oh the needy men, require girlfriends and wivies to be dressed to kill while they can look like ugly ducklings. Those handful of men who do dress up are called Metrosexual etc. Can you image a guy pulling his hair over what colour will suit him the best ? Or what colour does she like on me? What style of skirt should it be, wheather a fish cut or an A line ? What embroidery will fit the puzzle right ? What jewellery will match these outfits ? Shoes, and then its own dilemma comfort v/s how good they will look ? What kind of hair ? Pulled back, Curled, ironed, bun, French roll... !!! CAN YOU IMAGINE !!!! We are so into the routine that it’s hard for us to even give this a moment and you just read on !!! We are made to believe we love shopping cause WE love shopping. The truth of the matter is, We love shopping cause THEY love us in shopped clothes.

I started out thinking this blog will be about how a girl goes through days shopping for her wedding outfit and trousseau. She walks through narrow lanes and even narrower by-lanes. Puts up with the tantrums of tailors and designers just so that she can get their best craft out of them for her wedding. She sweats it out on a summery day in Santacruz- the heart of wedding shopping district in Mumbai to find “THE” thing. Some even travel to other cities in their search. She goes through the pains of making every part of her body made to order to her guy and all this out of love. For him to look at her coming down the aisle, walking effortlessly in that heavy outfit just so that he could have one look at her and see how beautiful she looks on their wedding day. The heat makes trinkets of water droplets go down her spine and yet she is gleaming with pride that all those shopping days were well spent and this makes her cheeks flush different hues of red and pink and it makes every moment spent before this moment when she sees his eyes go wide and hear his heart skip a beat worthwhile. Her eyes twinkle looking at him dressed up for the first time for her, for their wedding, to make her happy. HE DRESSED UP for the first time to match HER and not just in some ruffled clothes straight out of a dryer. He did it cause HE loves HER !! and not the other way round !!

And yet I cannot help but wonder why guys make it such a big deal to have bachelor parties to mark an end to the era where fun was dirty !! Why can’t he celebrate the start of doing all dirty things officially. Women who until recently just sat back and heard tales of the night spent drinking with strippers are now beginning to have HEN-nights. I wonder why is there such a sudden need to compete. Men will be Men... when did Women become Men ! I am waiting for a time when Men will become Women to see a balance of our world.

Child Sexual Abuse

“I asked you for help, and you told me you would
If I told you the things he did to me.
You asked me to trust you, and you made me
Repeat them to fourteen different strangers
I asked you for help and you gave me
A doctor with cold hands
Who spread my legs and stared at me
Just like my father.
I asked you for protection
And you gave me a social worker.
Do you know what it is like
Ihave more social workers than friends?
I asked you for help
And you forced my mother to choose between us.
She chose him, of course.
She was scared, she had a lot to lose.
I had a lot to lose too.
The difference is, you never told me how much.
I asked you to put an end to the abuse
You put an end to my whole family.
You took away my nights of hell
And gave me days of hell instead.
You have changed my private nightmare
Into a very public one.”
This is a poem written by a 12 year old girl ! Which girl has written it hardly matters, what is written moved me to tears. I came across a book called BITTER CHOCOLATE by Pinky Virani a few years ago. I was only a little child back then, but the fear of something like that happening to me looms over me each day, even today. I can’t even begin to imagine what the Victims of such a heinous crime would have to go through, living with someone their own, each day.

The book talks about the Child Sexual Abuse (CSA), and how it is so very common in India. Mira Nair portrayed it so subtly in her movie – MONSOON WEDDING. More recently we heard about the Austrian case and then about the astrologer – dad-child-mother quadrilateral case in India about incest’s ! It sends shudders down my spine. It is so prevalent, time and again I have heard stories, until I saw it for myself ... SHOCKING , but TRUE !

Each morning I pass this 1 street to get to work. The routine included the looking at the over-crowded bus-stop, the magazine vendor, the Unch with a tattoo of a scorpion on one side of the stomach, the beggar woman with a bad limp, the pandu directing the rush hour traffic and a little girl sitting on the side bench. She was not a beggar child. She wore new clothes each day, sat only when there was space on the bench, else stood there waiting her turn. Her eyes were deep, but revealed only how deep the hollow within it was. They talked about the pain and anguish on her life. One cannot forget these sights of their everyday life. It’s only a routine.
But my routine got disrupted the day my car broke down. From the comfort of my air conditioned car, I had to now look for an Auto-Rickshaw to get into. But Bombay being Bombay I didn’t find one coming my way. I then tried getting into the Bus ! I tried once, I let another one go. And then my friend called – she offered to give me a lift if I waited there for 15 mins. Beggars can’t be choosers and so I waited there for her.

Now I am the kind of individual who will strike conversation at a drop of a hat. So I the little girl on the bench something. She didn’t say anything. She just stared into my face and then looked away. I asked her again, “ Whats your name ? You know, I see you sitting on this bench everyday...” She looked back at me, this time tears started rolling down her eyes. I told her, oh I am sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I got scared and walked away, and stood below the shade on the bus-stop. My friend came after 25 minutes, but I hopped into her car without complaining.
The next day I passed that place again. This time I rolled down my window and waved at her. She just stared in my face and let me pass by. A few days into the routine of waving, she finally waved back. I was content with this acknowledgement and that at least I didn’t scare this little being anymore. A few months passed by, she was growing into a more beautiful girl than I had imaged her to be when I first took notice of her. The seasons changed and then came monsoon.

On days that it rained I saw her sitting below the bus-stop. Days when the sun came out it seemed as though it was all on her... Until that day when I saw her crying in the rain. I felt as though I owed it to our routine to stop and ask her if what was wrong. Maybe she was hungry? Maybe she was hurt? Maybe she saw a new stranger like me, who scared her? The car stopped a little ahead and I walked back to the bench. I held my umbrella above her head. For a minute or 2 she just thought the rain had stopped pouring, until I snapped her out of it. I asked her what had happened?
And she told me the most shocking story ever. Here is what she had to say ...

“My first memory of abuse was at a very early age, with my father abusing my mum or should I say bashing with closed fists, it seemed to be a regular event in my life. My father works at a beddi factory earning daily wages. He is a big solid man and demanded and expected everything to be done his way and if wasn't there was hell to pay. My poor mum's life consisted of being a housemaid and wife. There was nothing more to her life other than this routine. She was not allowed friends except for the neighbours. But the neighbours kept their distance for my mother’s sake in fear that my father would torture her till the end of the night, when he would collapse on the floor from all the drinking. Meals had to be at a certain time and that included a hot meal at 12pm as father would come home for lunch and dinner at 9pm on the dot. Dinner was only for him, for the rest of us it was daal and rice only.

My worst memory of mum’s abuse was one night my dad had gotten into a fight with his boss and was thrown out of his job. We were pushed into the neighbour’s house for the rest of the night. In the morning when I went into the house to see how my mum was, the memory of which is still with me today, my mum’s face was black and blue swollen beyond belief and dried blood not only on her face but up the bedroom walls. Even as a young child I tried to defend my mum only to receive a smack across my head.

My mum’s world was our world too, my brother and I knew no different and even though my mum endured all this she still idolised my dad. A few days after this episode my mother collapsed. With the help of a neighbour we rushed her to Cooper Hospital. The doctor pronounced her dead. He said that the beating has caused internal bleeding and today she bled out. That night my father came home drunk once more. This time it was my brother’s turn. He bashed my brother up for not taking care of my mother while he was away. I urged father to sit down and eat. I served him daal and vegetable with rice that had been cooked by my mother that very morning before she collapsed.

What was surprising was that my father was not grieving. He ate the food like a scavenger and left nothing for my brother or I. On the pre-text of going and getting some food my brother left the house never to come back. A neighbours’ boy told me that he was sorry for my state, and that my brother promised he would come back for me, but he needed to get away and had apologised. I understood him, and was happy that at least he would find a solution.

Days turned into weeks and then my agony started. My father came back home one night sober. He asked me to come and sit on his lap. For a moment I thought I was living a dream. I ran into his arms and hugged him really tight. He started stroking my head, and then my back and was now slowly getting down to his dirty business. I was ranting about how I missed my mother, while he went down and further down. I was now slowly feeling his hand under my frock on my thigh. I looked at him in disbelief. I didn’t want him to touch me there. But he was, he put his hands into my underwear. At first he stroked me gently, but then it was hurting. He fingered me so hard, and then he rubbed his hands against my breasts. I tried to get up and walk across the room, or run out of the house but he held me very tight. I couldn’t break free from his grip. I started crying. He shouted and screamt and ordered me not to cry, but I couldn’t help anything that was happening. He slapped me. The blow was so hard that I fell against the floor. I felt as though my ribs has crashed against the floor. I could hardly get up. I crawled into the next room and sat in one corner. I was scared. I just hugged myself and listened to some activity in the other room for a while and then he fell asleep. From the small window overlooking the nalla I could see the night turn into day.

The next morning, it was almost as though everything was k. He asked me if I had slept alright. He said he would be back for lunch and left for his factory. In the next few days he found a new job. His new job took a toll on him. The long hours gave him just enough energy to trudge back home, eat and sleep to renew his energy for the next day. I didn’t know who I could speak to, cause father forbade me to have any contact with the outside world. He said if I did he would throw me out of the house. The memory of that hell-braking-loose night was fading. But such a happy arrangement didn’t last long. He started drinking more, and went to work with a hangover. After several warnings he was fired again. This was 2 weeks ago. He now started drinking in the house. We had more empty alcohol bottles in the house than the other things put together. Hewould drink and drop and in between his drinking he abusse me, sometimes 3 – 4 times a day. He would insert all sorts of things in me, some even sharp that have left scars. I cannot move as the pain in between my legs is so intense that I just want to die. I have lost control over my urine. I drip all day long. The dripping is causing a foul smell. If I wash myself with soap it burns... and .... and .... and”

OH MY GOD !!! I didn’t have the heart to listen to this little girl anymore... I was shocked, I was horrified... It caused some acute pain within me. I said to myself I had to do something about this. The first thing that I thought was of a Police Complain and Social Service Organisations who know how to control these things. I wanted to take her to the hospital. I had a 1000 thoughts in my mind running at the same point in time. My heart went out to this little girl. I told her if she wanted me to help her I would. She said this has happened before. People take on a cause like hers, and then forget all about it. The momentum was lost somewhere. She didn’t want to lose hope one more time. She asked me to get going with my day. I urged her to let me help her. She said she could do with some money to buy some medication. MONEY!!! You want money!!!

When she asked for MONEY, it ticked me off. An urban INDIAN is so used to beggars and CON men , that I thought this was some ploy to get some money out of me. I asked her how much, she said Rs 1000. So now, this was it really! A 1000 bucks once every year v/s the 10 rupees everyday!!! Was my sympathy to take her to the hospital not enough? I insisted that I pay it myself. She said she wouldn’t go with me. I thought this was a foul play. I said to her I didn’t have the money, knowing full well I did. She insisted only on the money.

I left the bench in a fury !! This girl had wasted so much of my time on a Wednesday morning!!! I went through the day. I was so upset. I didn’t understand why beggars were becoming CON-MEN. I ranted about this episode to my family and kin throughout the day. What is the world coming to,??? said my mother. My grandmother screamt – KALYUG !!!

The next day I passed by the same bench, only to find her still there. But this time she was in her same clothes from the previous day and she was not sitting but she was sleeping on the bench. Some passersby looked at her for a moment and turned away. Most people covered their face with their handkerchief indicating foul smell. Then someone screamt and a huge crowd formed around her. I was looking at this scene from my rare-view mirror now. I felt inquisitive, I pulled up. I walked back to the bench only to find her dead. I called for the ambulance and rushed her to the hospital. The doctor recognized her from a few days ago. He has suggested her a Gynac. The Gynac at this government hospital has asked her for a minor surgery to be performed on her. It would cost her Rs 1000.

Maybe she couldn’t move when I offered to take her to the hospital ! Maybe I didn’t give her a chance to end her story ! Maybe she was scared I would inform her father. Maybe we are so pre-judgemental in our daily lives that an apple cannot be an apple always. I feel partly responsible now for not looking out for her. I feel as though I didn’t fulfil my purpose. I ask the universe for forgiveness today ! May her soul rest in peace. But her story needs to be told, so that we can break out of our mansions and beautiful lives to commit to a cause !!

I have found my cause – People against CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE ... !!