History, 'a story of men, by men'

The other day I was watching a wonderful documentary on the BBC called the Ascent Of Woman presented by Dr Amanda Foreman. It was all about how history was written by men for men and there was a significant omission, namely the virtual non-existence of women from the narrative.

I studied History at the Bachelor's level and never really thought about this particular problem. I loved the subject and wanted to become an archaeologist, for me my love for history was absolute and I never really gave much thought to the narrative. In my defence, I was nineteen when I started studying the subject and was obsessed with becoming a serious scholar. On what exactly? You may ask, however the teenage me would have breezily answered that I was in search of a worthy area as yet unexplored. 

My ambitions however, changed by the time I started my third year. By then I was as direction less as can be imagined and had decided that I did not want to continue studying History. It would always be my first love, I declared loudly to my equally confused friends, but I had lost interest in reading about the constant wars and mistakes made by past generations. By then I had noticed, to my particular distaste, that there was a noticeable absence of women, from the narrative. 

The reason behind this particular epiphany was my introduction to feminism in college. I went to an all women institution and had the good fortune of being taught by some remarkable women who made us question the very fabric of our existence and beliefs. Delhi University, cannot by any stretch, be labelled as 'a bastion of liberal thought'; however, within it's ranks are some pockets of exclusively women's colleges, that promote dissent and encourage alternate streams of thought.

One of the topics I chose during my three years as a student of history, was called  'The Individual and Society'. It was an interdisciplinary subject where history and literature were taught in confluence. This choice changed my life. We were taught by one of my favourite teachers, a woman, who made us question the society we lived in and made us see history through the prisms of caste/class, race, religion and most importantly gender, which she insisted should for us as women, always accompany the former three. 

The concept of 'Home and the World',  the dual lives that women lead and the influence we as a gender, exert on time and contemporary events is significant. In the documentary Amanda Foreman says to the male audience, "Whilst you were writing history, we were living it" . I think that is one of the truest statements, that I've heard in a long time. We as gender, have contributed to time and the very essence of the existence of the human race. We give birth, nurture and sustain; we provide the first education at home and are the spokes in the wheel that is the world. So then, whilst men sat on thrones, held important positions, explored new territories and fought in important wars; women stayed back and worked in the fields, and provided the day to day services within the walls of the home and the world outside the threshold, that sustained the so called 'mundane' day to day lives of nations. So then, how could we have as a gender found the time to write history?  

The coolest month of the year....Literally!

I think that January is the coolest month of the year, I know you'll think I'm bonkers but I do believe it's true. For most, it is that time of the year when everyone seems to be blue. January, the month that heralds the start of the new year and the freshness that is should, in theory bring to our mundane lives is actually in the opinion of most, the most depressing month of the year.

Now, one needs to ask why, poor January has to put up with such a bad reputation. Well to start, the holiday season is behind us, it is probably the coldest month of the year in most parts of the world; at least the northern hemisphere. Also, most of us begin the month by taking up New Year resolutions, that we invariably end up abandoning by the end of the first week.

For me however, January has always been a good month. One of the main reasons is that my mother was born in January, so I have always spent an enjoyable time looking forward to her birthday and planning to make her day memorable. I've never felt that way about my own birthday, which is curious, but for me, my parents' birthdays have always been special.

Also January is the month that never disappoints, it is always cold, and winter is my favourite month. I love the cold biting air. I suppose I am an odd one, because many invariably spend the month complaining about the cold; but you see I have never liked heat, and being an Indian, I had to suffer through the torrid unbearable summers in the Indian subcontinent. However, in my defence, I loved the cruel winters even when I lived in England, as well as the one winter that I spent in the American mid-west. So I do love winters, no matter how brutal they might be.

So, even if January ends up disappointing you dear reader, take my advice and look at it with new eyes. It always meets our expectations by being terribly cold, always starts with us making new resolutions, which we have the pleasure of breaking; because we can. And lastly, it starts with the promise of spring and a new year that helps us turn our backs on the disappointments of the previous year. So here's wishing you a Happy New Year.      

"Women should be seen not heard" REALLY?????

One of the things that I have begun to  ponder about, is how women are really not present in public discourse in small towns and suffer condescension and disrespect when they do voice their opinion in rural areas, towns and tier 2 cities in India. What I mean by this is not a criticism of my own sex but, just the fact that I have begun to notice how much we, as a voice are ignored by men, especially those men who I personally deem intellectually inferior.

One example of this, is the men living in our building, who completely ignore my mother and I, even our reasoned suggestions, and their generally condescending behaviour. What really gets my goat, is that they not only rudely interrupt and counteract us at every turn, they actually pretend to invite us into discussion in the name of "democracy" only to completely ignore us. It is mystifying for me, to come across the "women should be seen not heard" brand of misogyny in the second decade of 21st century India.

What can we as women expect, in reality ? In my opinion, men really are the product of what they learn at school and at home, especially from their mothers and other women. The Great Indian Joint family, according to me is capable of producing men who are the proponents of the most regressive, and misogynistic thought in current  times, as well as some truly remarkable men who believe in a diametrically opposite thought process. I believe that women are the most powerful agents of change in any society. It is on the laps of mothers, that sons must be taught to respect women and be open to change and accepting of difference.

The irony is, that many of the men, who I have come across in recent times are fathers of daughters, who have seemingly strong wives. What is mystifying, is that they are perfectly incapable of respecting women and display a disturbingly condescending attitude in particular towards women with strong personalities. This is what I find highly objectionable and alarms me on a personal level. I end this post with a question to all my sisters out there; if I as a highly educated woman have to suffer such condescension; how do those who are not living a privileged existence like me suffer through this?  

Why books trump life....

As a young girl, my heart raced every time I walked into the school library... What every pre-teen and teen were feeling for boys and girls, I was feeling for books. Yes, admittedly, I was and have always been an escapist, a runner. I hated reality then, I still hate reality now. However, that doesn't mean that I am completely delusional, I do realise that life is seldom fair or satisfying like the stories that I love reading. But what is really wrong with loving the new world opened up as one opens the pages of a book?


Some might say that being an escapist is not really the way to live, but I disagree. Characters from books do not laugh at your eccentricities, they laugh with you, they don't poke fun of talkativeness born out of loneliness, they sympathise,  books are seldom cruel, they are not rude or hurtful, some even understand grief and loss, love is always reciprocated if not appreciated. Books, in my opinion are are much better companions than people.

Books open up a world full of possibilities, one is not 'jobless' in a book, rather, the character is on a break, trying to find himself and/or the true meaning of life. Life's cruelties are always defeated and there is always a way to resolve issues and closure at the end. In my opinion books are the fulfillment of all our wishes. An example of this is the fact that the reader has all the power to choose, one can pick and choose whichever story strikes one's fancy from a plethora of choices.

Life is not the same, there are cruelties, disappointments, grief, loss, unemployment, unrequited love, journeys with unimpressive destinations and struggles ending with abject failures. Yes, I'd pick a book over real life any day.

Woe to be a feminist in this day and age!!!! The age of complete chaos….the time when it is unfortunate to even possess the wrong set of genitals in India….Whatever are we carping on about sisters??…. The subcontinent today is no place to even be a woman, this a place where the male of the species are so evolved, that they think nothing about throwing acid on ‘the hot chick who didn’t spread her legs for them, at the first crook of their finger’…..

Forget the so called annoying ‘vintage obsessed hipsters’ in the West my friend, the subcontinent has men soooo into the vintage and are such huge medieval age obsessed nuts; that they think nothing about abducting innocent girls belonging to the backward caste under the notion that it is still cool to exercise, the ‘droit du seigneur’, that reprehensible medieval notion that men in positions of power used to rape innocents and leave them without any personal liberty whatsoever.

So then my dear reader, I ask you; is it easy to be a feminist in the subcontinent, when it is difficult being a female? A few days ago a woman, whom I hold in high regard lamented at the stagnation of the women’s movement in India. Stagnation??? I couldn't help but disagree with her, I pointed out that post the December 16 Delhi Gang-Rape incident, we came together and fought for better laws…I stated that we have made our stance about zero tolerance to violence against women known more than ever before..So how was the women’s movement in India stagnating?

She countered by asking me a simple question that shattered all my smug self assurances about being a modern and emancipated feminist in India…. “Do you still carry that pepper spray and are still extra careful in crowds?”

I was floored. I realised that I really have been living in a fool’s paradise for the past couple of years. There are extremely disturbing reports of rapes, acid attacks, dowry deaths and other terrible instances of violence against women in the news every few days. Perhaps, the frequency of reported incidents have increased, but to what end? Are we able to prevent any of it? We express anger, outrage, regret and in some cases even fear, yet soon after, we cocoon ourselves in a sense of complacency and even go as far ahead as blaming ourselves, society, the government and alarmingly even the victim....but never the perpetrator...As if finding fault, will suddenly cause all these terrible incidents to stop.

I can’t seem to help but ponder on my own sense of shame, post the thin bubble that I was living in burst. Why shame? Why that particular sentiment? Yes, it is indeed shame that I feel, that, coupled with rage. Have I really been so disconnected with reality? So secure in my feminist beliefs that have arisen from my privileged and excellent education that I completely forgot what being a feminist really means.

I think, I am amongst those who got lost and have found my way back. I realise that I have a long way to go, before I am justified in claiming to be a feminist and a women’s rights activist. I found the very foundations of my outlook and beliefs burnt to ashes; only to find that there is still life, like the phoenix, my beliefs and faith have risen, renewed. There is hope still, as there are women like my friend who are perceptive enough to see the stagnation behind fancy speeches, and jolt even a smug, insular feminist such as yours truly out of complacency. So yes, woe to be that kind of a feminist indeed! I end this article with a fresh resolve to try and bring about an actually useful change before calling myself an activist again.    

Clair De Lune

I love listening to music, I love all kinds of music, but what I love most is listening to classical music. I am listening to Clair de Lune by Debussy; for some reason it reminds me of peace tinged with fiery turmoil, of happiness tinged with a sorrow, of contentment tinged with loss.

I don't know why, but every time I hear this particular piece of music, I get an ache in my chest....or perhaps my soul, for it really makes no sense... Ah, perhaps that's what good music does...it tends to be an experience designed, not for our bodies or minds, but for the soul. That inner being behind the masks that we wear daily to fool people into thinking that their cruel words and actions do not have the power to hurt and possibly maim.

Oh how I wish I could go on listening, just listening to the sublime music that, somehow always manages to bring tears to my eyes. It reminds me of the happy times spent with my father. Of listening to his heartbeat as I hugged him. It is as if the music seems to come from within me. It speaks of the grief that I feel of having lost him and of the joy that I felt just hugging him and loving him.

It is my companion, my only friend.That's what Clair de lune means to me... A piece of melody that transcends everything. It is ME right at this moment... It is a partner in my silent grief but still gives me hope, because in the end it is all in there, the aching beauty of the melody, the haunting notes, that somehow remind me of how much love I have for my father and what I meant to him.

Clair de Lune existed before me and even my father, it gave millions of people comfort, joy and a sense of peace, that is what music does. That's what Clair de Lune will still do, when it's beautiful notes ring out long after I'm gone.

I finish this with a thought I just had, this feeling that I'm not really listening to these hauntingly beautiful  notes alone, I think that right at this moment Debussy is playing Clair de Lune up there in heaven and my father is right there sitting in front of him listening and thinking of me.

Waking Sleeping beauty or Sleeping Monster

I could talk about so many things... where do I begin.... I'll start with a confession, I hate being woken up before I've finished my quota of sleep.... I turn into Mr Hyde....The Hulk, Voldemort, and a number of other dudes with major anger issues rolled into one... I sting the poor soul brave/stupid enough to wake me up. It is a terrible, terrible habit, and the worst part of it is that more often than not, I don't remember much of the bad behaviour when I do regain consciousness aka when I wake up properly.

In an ideal world, this could be a theme straight out of the script of a bone tickling yet thrilling sitcom about a normal superhuman who turns into a monstrous supervillain whenever her peaceful slumber is untimely interrupted. However, it is not an ideal world, or I would surely have come out of these situations with nary a scratch. But, the rule of the jungle says that if you roar, there will always be a roar back (no one really said that, I just made it up to look cool and wise).

I am sure that there are those of you out there who share my affliction. Well here's my question to you wise beings. How do you deal with waking up on the wrong side of the bed daily? Is there a formula to counter the ill humour which always accompanies the first couple of minutes after I wake up? I send this question out into the void and eagerly await sage words of wisdom.

I could write about this and I could write about that.... but really I break out in hives when I think of writing about my life. You see I lead a very dull life and have done absolutely nothing...

I turned 28 last week and was forced to see my life as it is now, and it certainly wasn't thrilling.... I realised that I have been spending the past couple of years unemployed and dressed in highly comfortable yet highly ugly clothes... Yes, realising that sweatpants are not really the epitome of glamour was quite a shock.

The thing is, I am unemployed for a reason, but the fact that I didn't have to get up in the morning or follow any routine really made me sloppy. This is something that I should have avoided. So, after that awful moment of looking in the mirror to find my dumpy, sweatpant clad self, I decided to dress up everyday, even if I didn't go out.

In that vein, I have dressed up everyday, certainly not haute couture but definitely more suitable than baggy old clothes. The reason that I am writing this is because I am certain that there are many out there who have let themselves go a bit. I would just like to say that despite this dull attempt at introspection, I empathize and hope that you'll find purpose like I have.  

Dear Reader, sometimes during the day, I find myself in the grip of a sadness....is it even sadness, I wonder? It is like that silence that can only be heard in the middle of the night.... that perfect silence that can make one even hear the thoughts that run in one's head at a zillion miles an hour....

I have come to realise that I actually crave this disjointed and alienating sadness....... Perhaps, if I let myself feel.... I would feel too much...That I would crave to be loved and wanted too much... It is not that I'm hated exactly, but I realised a long time ago that people don't like me much, even when I try hard to be liked.......

I know that you're thinking that I probably need to go see a psychiatrist, I have long thought so. However there are circumstances that have often made me rethink. You see I live next door to an asylum for the mentally infirm. I see them roaming around in the gardens subdued and becalmed due to the medicines they are on, and it makes me think about my own inner turbulence.

From my high vantage point of the neighbouring apartment building, it seems safe to observe people going through extraordinary calm lives, even if they do so under the influence of strong medication. I frequently find myself actually thinking that turbulence, fury, anguish and constant melancholy are preferable to the becalmed numbness, these medicines seem to bring on. Perhaps, I'm wrong in thinking thus, however I have decided that on reflection I prefer my peculiar kind of insanity to mundane sanity.

Dear Reader, will it surprise you if I told you that I have recently become addicted to going to the Gym?However, I loathe this particular addiction, unlike my addiction to books. I suppose that after going on and on about the beauty of nature and the outdoors, you are sure to have deduced that I love the outdoors. However, it is rather difficult for anyone to go for a nice run when it is pouring, courtesy the 'Great Indian Monsoon'.

I crave the sense of normalcy of working-out on a regular basis. I really like running and I find that it lends coherence to my otherwise turbulent inner dialogue. I also like the fresh air and sense of achievement that only a nice long run can provide.

I must admit, that I do find these things whilst working out in a gym . However, at the risk of courting the wrath of all you serious gym aficionados..... I confess that I hate running on a treadmill. I feel absolutely no sense of achievement.

In a philosophical sense, I must explain that my love for running stems from my desire to lead a life full of movement. I want to go further than everyone I know, explore new avenues as opposed to doing all the work, going through major exertions yet staying put; quite akin to running on a treadmill; where you run but don't go anywhere.

So, I confess that despite the wonderfully plush surroundings and swanky equipment, the gym still hasn't managed to lure me away from the siren call of the asphalt on the open road.