The fault in our laughs, on Karvachauth

Let me begin this post by a status update Sfurti Sinha shared on the morning of the Karvachauth fast. 

‘Whether I am fasting or not - NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. Whether my husband is fasting or not - NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS. My life is mine, not yours. You are not in my marriage. Freedom and equality in true sense means choosing whatever I want to do, whatever makes sense to me. There is a fine line between having an opinion and sounding judgemental. Your opinions should be the basis your life, they shouldn't sound like a judgement on others.’

On a day when she had much else to take care of, Sfurti was ‘driven’ to vent publicly thus. If I wasn’t around in the same place last year, I would not have understood why. But I was. So in a way, I have been meaning to write this post since a year now. I waited because I wanted to see if rituals other than Karvachauth garnered loud amused laughter too. Not that I noticed any and certainly not equal in magnitude to the humour that surrounds a woman observing a fast for her husband. 

Here is me now, thinking aloud.

Humour is important. We have all read its various forms in different genres of different media. For instance, Theatre has used ‘uncomfortable laughter’ in the audience as a way to hold a mirror to their lives – political, social and even marital. Slapstick comedy shows a man slipping on a banana peel with similar intent; it could be you up there. Scatological references make us laugh because shit and spit is best seen on the other’s person. On television, we see stand-up humour including in its funny tentacles commentary on the government, the news channels and the entertainment industry.

While humour in the various arts was named and came with a larger purpose, the picture in the tweeting-updating social media is often like a mock-epic of what was once classic. ‘Art for art’s sake’ is no crime, but then really, what may be the point? Except wondering at the end of a virally-sharing day - whose line was it anyway?

On Karvachauth day, it doesn’t take much to realize that loose laughter is not just directed at the patriarchal ritual of fasting for a husband. The butts of the jokes become the women following it. Those laughing? The women who do not believe in it, of course. While what’s between the husband and the wife stays where it is supposed to, between them, everything else associated with Karvachauth occupies centre stage and space in the minds of those who have half-baked ideas about the ritual and none whatsoever about the fasting woman’s idea of it.

Thinking …

Is poking fun the best way to ‘guide’ a woman out of a deep-rooted patriarchal discourse? Isn’t it as unfair a ‘peer pressure’ as was given to her by those who made her embrace those traditions in the first place? How does our lackadaisical ‘promotion’ of an antithetical thought-process towards a redundant tradition differ in lack-of-substance from the stoical one of far Right. Are we, in our fun and games, creating but a poorer alternative even if at the other end of the spectrum? It is for this reason that I liked #FastForHer movement. It did nothing to do away with the day. But for now, it got men into the fray. A constructive step towards re-examining the necessity of it all by being a part of it. From inside the circle. A much better, more understanding way, to reverse trends. More sensitive too. 

Because …

We are not providing that line-towing woman sensible alternatives to a symbolism codified over generations, one she has believed in and which provides her with comfort. A kitty of jokes may get us a few giggling followers, but nothing more. The shell we want to break is built on three very thick layers – obedience, belief and comfort. If we are so desperate to break it, we'll need to know more about it.

But, why do we laugh?

Are we, in the larger scheme of things, trying to show her sense or poke fun at what we see as obsoleteness that she surrounds herself with? A bid of one-upmanship and modernity, maybe.  At the same time, furthering lines of difference based on our ideas of modern and ancient, tradition and revolution. Disservice is what we are doing, by making her feel outdated, conscious, stuck and worst of all outcast in lobbies which don’t fast. When the idea of feminism grew this mocking army amidst all the painstakingly-built theories and practice I know not, but I wish we remember what the movement we so glibly use essentially stood for. One word – Choice, as Sfurti’s status above signifies. 

Interestingly …

The tray that a woman carries for her Karvachauth puja holds a few symbols of matrimony. Most of those objects are found in most women’s dressing drawers that you and I anyway may use as a matter of routine, or during festive times. The difference is, she wants to spend a day with them while you may freely reserve the biggest bindis for your designer saris or Durga Puja times. (Yes, you may include that idea of a parlour visit in this, which for so many is one of the greatest social outlets in a year). To not eat is not so much of a suffering as it is made out to be, that too by those who are eating their three meals anyway. Concern doesn’t mock. It helps. But first, it has to try to understand what is wrong to understand the ‘victim’ of it all.

Did you who jest know … 

We don’t have to dress up as brides on Karvachauth. We don’t need to use sieves to look at the moon. Henna is not compulsory and neither is touching the husband's feet. I blame popular media for propagating limited understanding of this tradition. Which does mean, more groundwork needs to be done before the laughing party decides to become a mouthpiece carrying the cause of fasting women on its shoulders.

Manjulika did this for her mother-in-law.

Tanya created 'American Karvas'.

I think … 

Humour cannot alone help cut through years of nurture. Not even shake the idea of obedience to elders and fear of Gods; especially for rituals created around husbands’ well-being, because they are based on a relationship. It also will never stand ground against the idea of Choice, which women like me make when we decide to fast or not fast. If we are to liberate minds, we need to show them how our freedoms are worthy of emulation. In all the mindless cackling, the voices of sanity who seek to deliver women from coerced and oppressive rituals get drowned and lost. 

We need to question traditions to see how they affect gender narratives and we need to reinvent some of them to better suit the changing times, or do away with those which we no longer agree with. How we do it is the point, and the key to it is in each one of our hands or in our homes.  Read these lines shared by Hrishikesh Bawa:

“Fasting does not lead to anything … Love and respect for each other is more important," said a woman’s mother-in-law to her. I think a hero is not just the guerilla rebel. Sometimes, she is the one who is a part of the system too. Likewise, the one who impulsively jumps out of the ancient window might just have been a hasty fool.

This was probably my last year of observing this fast. My husband’s tank of patience with it is full. I no longer have to give company to my mother-in-law – in deed or in spirit – by not eating with her and enjoying the evening katha too. Next time, I will probably go to the other side of the fence, well aware of what made me follow the Karvachauth ritual and promising myself not to forget it. Perhaps, that will help me remain sensitive towards those who wish to do as they please.

Because you know as well as I do how private choices get played with on public trampolines all in the name of jest.

[Written for WordPress Daily Prompts : 365 Writing Prompts. The prompt for today was - Community Service - Your entire community — however you define that; your hometown, your neighborhood, your family, your colleagues — is guaranteed to read your blog tomorrow. Write the post you’d like them all to see.]

Guest Post: The Indian Constitution; A Picture Story

This guest post is by my husband, Aseem. 

He is not a blogger. And if I have to call him a writer, he says I have to make sure government file notings qualify as creative art. Understand then that I had to use all my convincing powers to make him pen this for my blog. Also know, that his thoughts mean more to me than my own. (Alright, most of the time anyway!) Republic Day was yesterday, and today he gave me these words and these pictures. A 'Slice of History' for those who celebrate the 26th of January with as much fanfare as we do, and who, like us, are still enjoying a "patriotic" hang-over even though it is the next day.

Now, for a change, I let him speak uninterrupted.  

-----------------------

The Indian Constitution; A Picture Story

I gave in.

When she wanted me to write a few paragraphs for her blog, contrary, perhaps, to her expectations, I did not protest. My reason for agreeing was essentially just that she had chosen a great time to press her demands upon me. The timing was not to do with this being a month of birthdays or the New Year or anything as grand as that. It was just that it happened to be a holiday! A National Holiday, the Republic Day.

I wonder what that might mean to most of us. What the 26th of January means to me has changed over the years. As a child, I used to look at this day as a time when I would sing a few “patriotic” songs before an assembly of my father’s office colleagues and their families and would proudly collect applause. In later years, the ritual of attending the celebrations at his office was discontinued since we moved to a different town where such occasions were traditionally not family affairs. I do remember celebrations in school and college on a few occasions, but they were generally viewed as disturbances to an otherwise enjoyable holiday. 

But somewhere between then and now, I came to think of the Republic Day as special in an unobtrusive yet poignant way, somewhat like the birthday of someone dear from your past that you never forget to remember, but do nothing special to mark, perhaps because it would be superfluous after all. When my wife asked me to write a post for her today on the Constitution, I dithered at first at the thought of her readers turning away. But then, when your wife allows you a chance to be heard uninterrupted, one must just be grateful and grab the line.

One of the most valuable possessions of my family is a replica of the original hand-written Constitution of India, which was gifted by a very dear senior in service. Since this volume came into our home, we have often talked about the history that surrounds it, the way it has evolved over the years, its relevance in our workaday lives and, of course, its  sheer beauty.

The Republic Day is when the Constitution of India came into force in 1950. We have all known this from our Civics school books. But school did not give me a sense of what this book really meant then, and what difference it has made to our today. The vision the Constitution had was of an egalitarian and just society, promising freedom to one and all, laid down succinctly in its Preamble. I am undoubtedly enthused and inspired by the world held out as the promise of the Constitution. Though it seems like a miracle at times, and even untrue at others, by and large, it looks like we are closer to that goal today than we were in 1950.

The Republic Day to me is symbolic of that vision of society and we all have a part to play in getting there. The way is in seeing how our actions, little and big, impact all of us collectively and in being responsible for the choices we make. I wish us all this patriotism this Republic Day.

Here are some pictures of this book to stay with you. You may click on them to see an enlarged view.

A replica of the original hand-written Constitution of India

The Preamble

Fundamental Rights

Article 19. Right to Freedom

Each main border is unique in design 

Elections. Notice the art work.

Look at the salary of the President and Governor

Happy to see Dehra Dun.
Hathibarkala is the midway point between my wife's house and mine

Signatures - Rajendra Prasad, Jawaharlal Nehru lead the list

And then, passing on this 'Slice of History' to our Tomorrow. A looking back, in order to know how to proceed.

[Written for WordPress Daily Prompts : 365 Writing Prompts aimed at posting at least once a day, based on the prompts provided. The prompt for today was 'Sliced Bread - Most of us have heard the saying, “That’s the best thing since sliced bread!” What do you think is actually the best thing since sliced bread?' and I have answered with 'a Slice of History' - a looking back in order to know how to proceed.]

The Old, the New and Burp!

The weather girl looked dressed for snow inside her newsroom in Delhi. The weather app showed a few digits over zero, only. Out the window was a dull, grey and almost gloomy evening as the car windscreen stood patiently still under all the dew. And the trees shook not a leaf, blanketed by all the mist. 

Just another wintry 6 pm it seemed, the evening of 31st December, 2013. 

The eve of the new and the culmination of the old. The threshold to staring at a different calendar the next day and not just turning the page on an older month. The last night of 364 nights gone by – some short and warm, some really long. But by gone, all. The old was going to make way for the new. Readiness was all.

And what is it that I and my family were getting ready to do this evening?

Not a banquet of choices to pick from, but certainly a platter full of invitations lay on the console. All opened but none picked. Was it just the cold keeping us from dressing up in hot clothes and exiting the house? Or was it because our wallets had been emptied in the last holiday? Perhaps, it was simply the fact that all the invites with drunk wine glasses and swaying trumpets sprinkled with hearts also carried a message in bold red – Children not allowed. 

We exchanged smiles. Once upon a time, we would pick the best place to go shake a leg. Call friends too, have a fun eve of eating, drinking and merry making. Time it all such that we were sure to be on the dance floor as the clock struck 12 am. And certainly by each other’s side when it did. Today, the invitations remained the same, but the ‘No Children’ painted inside a neon star glared at us like a schoolmarm with a birch rod. A warning. An exclusion. And a way to spend the last night of the year feeling every bit a couple but the least bit of parents, at least to us. 

Age, stage or something in between convinced us to make air planes out of all the invites, for our son to fly. To those grandparents kid-pooling their night away baby-sitting the partying couples’ issues we sent a polite thank you. To friends who thought of the 31st of December as drinking-to-the-lees night, we sent in a "maybe some other time". To extended family far and wide, we messaged greetings for the new year in advance and promised to call once the jammed telephone lines were freer in their minds. 

And at the stroke of midnight, all parts of ‘Madagascar’ had been watched with utmost glee, the necessary number of ‘Cheers!’ (plus one for good luck) had been said and swallowed neatly, and my mother’s home-cooked food sat in our tummies, happy to have been consumed with so much relish. In warm blankets in the lamp’s yellow light, the first tight hug of the year was shared between us three. Such a beautiful feeling until …

‘Happy *Burp* Year, mumma papa’, said he.

Silence. And then we laughed. And laughed and laughed as if that was the most rib-tickling wish we had ever heard. Because it was. 

This was no simple coincidental burp making its presence felt. It was the one which came from the bottom of his tummy to make the bottom of our hearts happy. Big long burp, as if making place for what is to come in the new year ahead, at the same time announcing how happily satiated it was with what he had had in the old.  

The night before the new year walks in is always so special. The excitement, the planning, the anticipation and then the countdown. It is because we make sure we are where we want to be on this special eve. I did and I am sure you did too. Felt love and togetherness, family and friendship, joy and something to look forward to. Praying for nothing more than good health and happiness, as a family and for our families. And nothing less than big burps of satisfaction from the little tummies too.

Happy 2014 to my readers.

[This post is written for the Wordpress Daily Prompts : 365 Writing Prompts program aimed at posting at least once a day, based on the prompts provided. The prompt for today was "Stroke of Midnight - Where were you last night when 2013 turned into 2014? Is that where you wanted to be?”]

Christmas in the Heart

If only it was Christmas day when my first school held my orientation, I would not have cried and refused to go inside the exam room. It would have saved my mother the bribe of an orange Amul chocolate and I would have still got my 3-year-old self admitted into that school but without so much drama sitting on the steps outside.

The sights and sounds of Christmas would have helped. The reds, greens and golden would have warmed me up to the newness around. A Santa standing right behind the demure nun and her white habit, waving me inside along with her, would have quickened things. And an Xmas tree with all its goodies surely tempted me enough to speak out the correct answers like a really good girl.

But a good girl I have hardly been. Christmas is to blame. Really.

You name it and I can tick that sin off the list of popular 7 that Christmas made me commit. I have greedily made lists for Santa Claus, asking for everything which my parents could under no circumstances afford (Yes, helicopter variety!). I have proudly displayed my class notice boards to fellow-sections as the best decorated one, yet secretly coveted another’s buntings. Year after year, I have lusted for the plum cake and puddings soon as the winter set in. Why, have even stolen my own kid brother’s stocking gifts (That my parents always knew what Santa had dropped for him, and that I had been naughty even before they had woken up did not deter me!) 

I have done it all. And after all these years, I continue to do it even better now. 

The tiny tree is always dressed. The stocking (or a clean sock) is in place every 24th December, and the husband is reminded of the important date and its significance well in time. The weekend before Christmas is reserved for family. Just us, and everything that we like to do together. Because the image that all those years in two Christian schools have made me associate with Christmas is – Family.

And not just the one I have at home, but the one that we were born into at the time of creation itself – the Human family, sans all man made labels and shadow lines of difference.  

The greatest reminder of this beautiful thought came when I sat with my husband and son, listening to a carol singing competition at Sacred Heart Cathedral, Delhi, in 2012.

We stood in the queue, wondering if our son will maintain decorum during the show, already humming snippets of Noel and Silent Night and remembering our ventures with our school choir. Doing a little jig for Santa Claus is Coming to Town and waiting our turn to enter the hall. A few moments of being seated and the music, the singing and the audience singing along made us throw all other thoughts to the wind. Everyone suddenly seemed to know everyone, either from before or simply because they were singing the same song. Like us. There was merry clapping and happy foot tapping. Some got up to dance a little as my son stood on his chair, cheering every group of carollers as if it was his own team.

Not a word did he understand, but the festive spirit he imbibed.

I do not remember the last time I felt a sense of such warm oneness of being with complete strangers. Of a happy existence, and co-existence. I have also never seen the songs being sung uninterrupted and with no drop in fervour even when the lights went out. The few candles near the dais shone even brighter to keep the merry making alive. And to make me sing on top of my voice, something that I have never done before. 

There were no strangers in that hall. Just many hearts warming up to each other, and wishing each other well. Is there anything else that can shine brighter than that?    

Even as I try to be nice, I continue to be naughty too each passing Christmas. My Santa will always exist. I have to keep the child in me alive, to keep my child happy. To stuff a pillow in my tummy and go ho-ho-ho, or to remind husband dearest that although the paper weight was lovely, the gift need not really fit inside the stocking. No such rule, unless it comes straight from a jewellery shop. 

I will continue to carry Christmas in my heart, not just to spread smiles but also to make everyone see what I can about a Faith that I was not born into but one that I have opened my mind to - to teach forward and be taught by, both. 

There is magic enough in Christmas to make the littlest of pleasures into grand occasions. Warmth enough to welcome those from far and wide. And brilliance enough to light up a hall full of darkness, or human hearts saddened by the reality outside. I believe in Christmas. 

Wishing you all a Merry Christmas. 

My Santa Claus, real-ly!

I love Christmas! For 25 years now I have hung stockings, decorated trees, made wreaths from leaves, bells with Styrofoam cups, and had cakes upon cakes – since that’s what you eat when Christ is born, or so I want to believe for my gastric merriment sake. It’s a different matter that often socks in place of stockings and potted look-alikes (or those shimmery ones from China) rather than original Xmas trees were used. It’s also a different matter altogether that eating the cakes took precedence over getting the buntings up in time, maybe. Be that as it may, my Christmas has never lacked cheer or a stocking on Christmas eve. Because Santa Claus never forgets to drop by!

I am 30 years old and my son is a little over 2. Here is a picture of us from last Christmas, with both of us believing that Santa Claus is coming to town. I have decided to perpetuate this myth for as long as he starts to reason with me, and then reply to him ...

[To read more, please click here.]

Why no Ravana?

Dress them up in Dusshera costumes, the school circular read,

And the mother of the little child stared at it in complete dread.

Was a first, this fancy dress, and she knew not what to do,

Advice from well-wishers she did seek, even though they were so few.

Oh, you must make him a Rama, just get him a saffron dress,

The crown you’ll get in a costume shop or make it all yourself.

Lakshman is a better idea, said one of them to her,

Not many think of turning their kids into Rama’s younger brother.

Why, Sita too, a few chirped in, she can make her little boy,

That was sure to make the teachers see the naughty fun and joy.

Just no one said, “Oh go ahead, dress him in black, why not”

And so she thought, as Ravana she will make her tot trot.

[To read more, please click here.]

The Art and the Craft of Gifting

Rumour mill has it that China is printing a novel symbol behind/under/over/inside everything that it is producing. It looks quite similar to the recycle-reuse one, but it has a tiny present made in the middle of all the dancing arrows. This is in response to a research by a Nobel winner which shows that we, apart from revelling and rejoicing on happy occasions are also busy recycling gifts - gifts we have already used, gifts we would never use, gifts we shudder to put in our show-cases, gifts we wouldn't wear even in our nightmares and gifts which are not good for our health, festival or no festival.

In no way is the activity strange, silly, stingy or stupid. It is a fine art combined with a subtle craft of thought, and a combination of both in wrapping the present and making it viewer-friendly - the horrific inside of the ribboned box notwithstanding. The art and the craftiness is in its finest form when balls of coloured paper  make the lanky gifts look like every actress's dream, glittery flowers placed just right save a penny's worth of  fruits from fitting into the fruit-basket and a shoe-box wrapped in expensive hand-made paper comfortably carries a key ring inside. Not to forget complimentary gifts from mister's office with company logos duly (and hopefully!) removed with madam's nail polish remover before being dressed in the finest of silken paper. Extra toppings almost always include gift-tags gushing with the best love, best wishes and best of everything from the best of kith and kin, and given with a bear hug tighter than the sparkly cello-tape used to strap the nightmares in place. 

And thus China thought, let's have a new USP, why not! 

Let the eco-friendly symbol also mean economy-friendly.

Let bed-boxes get some air to breathe,

These are expensive times we know we see,

And learning the art of gifting is just what we need.     

Couple + 1

A typical invitation for New Year's Eve celebrations - two wine glasses in a near-hug, a half-drunk set of drums on one side and swaying silhouettes on the other, all drowning in the bright pink laser light coming from God knows where. The glaring typicality of design apart, I do wonder at the 'Couples Only' tag on most - sitting proudly in a bright multi-pointed star staring at you like a head-mistress out to discipline. Yes! It is for you dear stud who better have a girl around his arm to prove he is gentlemanly enough to enter the expensive portals. And for you too my dear little butterfly in a littler dress. And most of all, it is for me, a happily married mother of a 21-month-old bundle who they possibly cannot and do not want to accommodate, toilet trained or not! Very inviting indeed!   

So, what do 30-something parents, who are a couple + 1 (or 2) on a night so synonymous with being all things adult (drinking and dancing and hopefully not driving) do to welcome a new year? Is it for us that television was invented in the first place? Is it for us that celebrities shake their glittery legs on stage to be watched from 8 pm-12 pm, commercials of Marie biscuits, Pampers and Life Insurance included? Well, it surely is for some of us that God sent maids from heaven's above, to rock our babies to sleep at home, as they kiss their spouses and hug another's to spread  joyous new year wishes at 12 am on the dance floor. Boom! Lights off! There flies the confetti. And it's a Happy New Year! Hurrah!

What about wining and dining with family? Having a humble dinner with parents who we hardly meet? With relatives who we in times of need seek? With children who are otherwise busy with their own parties? Or how about getting the warmest blanket out in place of the sexiest black dress and watching our much-loved telly together, as a couple, with a +1 maybe! 

A whole new Sun is about to rise for a completely new year. Think, who should see your first happy smile of 2013. Who should be with you to bring in another happy 365!

               

Can Santa wear saffron?

Images from Christmas 2012. 

1. A huge Xmas tree in a plush Delhi mall, decorated with warmth and surrounded by gifts for children. But leaning against the tree is a placard saying 'Hare Rama Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna Hare Hare'. Next to it stand a troupe of four in saffron, singing this phrase aloud - deaf and out to deafen. To drown out the carols. The only person enjoying the "show"? Their bald-but-smiling guru on the placard. People came and wondered at the out-of-context religiosity. Petty attempt at sabotaging another's festival? 

2. Page 13 of Times of India dated 26th December, 2012. Saffron-clad Hindu devotees carrying out the daily 'aarti' at the Sangam in Allahabad, wearing Santa masks and red Santa caps. And a huge crowd of devotees joining in the celebratory prayers. Respecting and celebrating another's festival!

  

Images from the everyday life of Faith - that poor bastard child tossed between the arms of stiff Religion and flexible Tradition. Images - a reflection of our minds - contradictory and confusing.  

Can Santa wear saffron? The images have spoken and they can only say - Maybe!