She Towered Over Men: In Memoriam Of Benazir

The assassination of the charismatic Pakistani political leader, Benazir Bhutto, did not come as a surprise to me as it did to most people I knew. Without doubt the mindless cold blooded murder horrified me. But deep down, there had been this intuitive knowledge that Benazir would undoubtedly pay the price of being a strong, passionate and controversial Woman leader in an anarchic political milieu and an overly male dominated society.

Being a novice in politics with no interest in rectifying the lack of knowledge about the affairs of various countries across the world, I am not equipped to comment on the leader Benazir was.

But to the rank outsider that I was, Benazir Bhutto assumed larger than life dimensions the day she confidently stepped on to the center stage of world politics and assumed office as the prime minister of Pakistan. I was greatly impacted by this lovely, confident lady who looked to no man for moral support, made no apologies for her gender or even attempted to undermine her feminine charms and beauty as a concession to the hardened egos of the men around her. It was admiration that I watched Benazir adroitly,by virtue of her attitude, force the men around her to look past the surface and see the strength of the woman within.

It was with regret that I received the news of her banishment but Benazir, true to form, bounced back after 8 years. It was with a sense of pride that I followed Benazir’s path as she determinedly boarded the flight back to Pakistan, made light of her critics and detractors and refused to tuck tail and scurry for cover even after the first real attempt on her life.

Last night, as I watched the repeat telecasts and news bulletins about her last hour on this world, I could not help but wonder at the grit and strength of this lady who chose not to live in comfort in the bosom of her family with the exalted tag of a political émigré but instead returned to the land of her birth to pay her dues to her country and society. Surely Benazir, given her lineage and her tragic family background, knew the risks she ran by returning to Pakistan and throwing herself into the fight for democracy. And yet she had the moral strength to follow her heart and remain true to her cause.

To those who would dismiss her as a puppet of the west, I say that to find acceptance in this role, one would need to be suave, intelligent, a strong negotiator and capable of striking a chord with the leaders of the west. If Benazir, a woman in a society governed by the military and religious hardliners, managed to do that, then we should all doff our caps to her in salutation of her capabilities rather than disparage her.

As with most leaders of stature, there are bound to be voices to detract, to hint at profits made and coffers lined. But, what these critics need to understand is that, regardless of what the truth may have been, Benazir was a human being of integrity who did not take the easy way out even though her gender offered her the perfect reason to do so. Unlike most other woman, she opted not to live in comfort, in seclusion and in safety with her family. And the consequence: A waste of mother, wife and if I read the media reports right, a leader as well!!!...

Were I were given the choice of an epitaph for her, I would say ‘In Life, She Towered Over Men....May her soul now rest in peace.'

Homage with Filth?

In the past week, my travels took me to the fabled holy city of Varanasi where religious multitudes gather for a variety of reasons – to wash away their sins, to await their last and preempt rebirth, to buy peace for the soul of a loved one and sometimes, just to soak in the positive vibes and find peace.

I arrived in the city with much anticipation, but Banaras with its filthy streets, rough denizens and greedy priests, proved to be an assault on my senses from the very first moment. Even the boat ride on the Ganges at sunrise proved to be a highly overrated and far from tranquil experience, because of the filth bestrewn water.

If there is a river which has withstood sustained abuse and gross disrespect, then it has to be this holiest of holy rivers. As I was rowed across the length of the Ganges in the wee hours of the morning, past the crowded ghats where people performed all manner of ablutions in the purported holy waters, I could not help but wonder at the Indian psyche which is simultaneously, able to venerate and abuse.

What I mean to say is that almost every practicing hindu household has a corner for prayer and pooja, which is normally the cleanest nook in the house. We take great care to maintain the sanctity of this space. Shoes are a no-no. Flesh meant for consumption is carefully kept away. And, one enters this hallowed space only after much cleansing of one’s body.

In the hindu mind, the word 'holy' has as its handmaidens, cleanliness and deep reverence.

So in Varanasi, which is reputedly so sacred a land that death on its soil guarantees one a direct passage to heaven, it is only natural to assume it to be the very epitome of cleanliness and the recipient of much respect and reverence if not by visitors, then at least by its residents. On the contrary, one is greeted by the sight of human and animal excreta, plastic, paan and urine splattered walls, garbage of all kind and mindless littering.

A morning sail on the Ganges showcases life in India at its worst – people bathing and blithely washing their clothes, urinating, defecating, tossing overboard the remnants of their meal or the plastic bottles and bags in which they had carried their meal. We would not do this in our houses, let along in our corners of worship. So why desecrate this purportedly holy space and river which is deemed to be so many times more sacred than anything we can hope to create in our houses?

In the two days I stayed there, the only redeeming feature was the soothing sail across the Ganges in the twilight. As I bobbed about watching the Ganga Arathy, I wondered if the filth spread by the devotees and the greed of the priests had driven the gods away from the holy city. And as that thought crossed my mind, a gentle drizzle began, the arathy concluded and it occurred to me that perhaps, the Holy Ganges, like most mothers, wasn’t giving up on her children especially those who came seeking her with love, respect and hope.

The Obnoxious Indian Tourist

Imagine lolling about in an azure blue pool on a pleasantly warm day, a glass of red wine in hand listening to the soulful music of John Denver performed acoustically by local talent in the background...ah, sheer bliss!!!
That was yours truly soaking in the best of Goa.....

Suddenly, with no warning, my reverie was rudely shattered by a shrill voice intoning ' oye sweeeeettttuuu, beta aaja....'. I watched dumbfounded as a corpulent vision in pink and blue, laden plate in hand, proceeded to chase a not so little 'sweetu' around the length of the pool with entreaties to eat a calorie loaded snack. Trying hard to block out the strident tones of sweetu's mum, I took a few deep breaths, downed my wine, and tried to float to the music...But the fates willed otherwise. For, if sweetu's mum blared from across the pool, right next to me, an animated argument seemed to be in progress between a member of the hotel staff and two guests. Apparently, a family comprising of a young couple, the bride's parents and her brother wanted to dive into the pool completely dressed and, to my relief and their apparent disgust, were being restrained. And, therefore the heated debate between the host and the guest. To my amusement, the husband and father-in-law slithered into the pool in what looked like synthetic cut off pants which they vociferously insisted was appropriate swimming gear and even invited the bewildered staffer to feel to validate their claim.......
While people around me directed their dirtiest looks at them in utter disgust and instructed me to do the same, I just could not help laughing at the scene enacted in front of me. I mean, come on, just how many people would actually invite a rank stranger to feel their soaking garment just for a swim?

Later that evening, at the DJ night organised by the hotel for its guests, I sat ensconced in a corner with my wine mesmerized by the antics of a group of drunk, boisterous men who had invaded the entire dance floor. They were loud, comical and, for the want of a better word, repugnant. Much to the disgust of the other guests, these clowns had cornered the poor DJ into playing loud punjabi pop numbers. I watched open mouthed as they flapped their arms and hopped drunkenly about to the pulsating rhythms. All efforts to change the music to more popular numbers was shouted down by Twinkle Toes. One enterprising chappie even attempted to lip sync and stage a dramatic Bollywood dance routine for his demure wife, who dutifully cheered her husband on.

Things came to a head when a young nubile nymphet took the mike to belt out a Fleetwood Mac number. The truculent clowns angrily grouped to shout their protests, and were rendered speechless in the presence of this vision. In all fairness, they probably thought it was the resort's version of Bips or Mallika Sherawat performing an item number. By the time they recovered their composure, the song had ended but one particularly adventurous chappie did manage to shake and kiss the baffled nymphet's hands.

Mildly drunk, I mused over this extraordinary day which had brought three different comics my way and then, it suddenly hit me that I was actually gaining first-hand experience of an emerging breed of Indian middle class namely the Obnoxious Indian Tourist [OIT].
Talk about enlightenment striking one in the uncanniest of places!!!

As I watched the antics of my fellow compatriots, I wondered how I could have been so blind to the presence of OITs. They were all around us in Goa....in the pool, at restaurants, buying Feni in the liquor shop, cruising through the river Mandovi, on the dance floor, at the beaches....Name the place and there would be one too many OITs of all sizes, shapes and ages, crawling out of the woodwork.
Other memories flooded my mind....

On a sight seeing expedition into Old Goa, we were surprised to see a purposeful beefy man stomp into the coach clutching a dessert glass of chocolate and strawberry mousse in each hand. By way of a general explanation to those of us who were trying to conceal disdainful or baffled expressions, he blustered that there was no way he was missing out on his dessert or his sightseeing trip. Akhir paisa tho vasool karne ka hai, na?

At an Eat As Much As You Can Buffet, we were very amused to see a young female yuppie carefully carry back a laden plate of goodies from the dessert trolley, and then head back to start her meal with the soup. Considering that the F&B staff were working overtime to refill the serving platters, we just couldn't fathom out the convoluted rationale of a person who would hoard the choicest dessert pieces much in advance of the actual requirement. Again, paisa vasool but this time, with a deep rooted fear of being deprived, I guess.

But the icing on the cake was a trio of grossly obese women, outside Miramir Beach, who were blithely washing their sand encased feet with bottles of Aquafina while most of their co passengers peered out of the coach windows in utter disbelief and dismay. Apparently, they had used up the entire group's supplies of drinking water on their ablutions and were quite oblivious to the silent fuming of their co-passengers.

There were many other instances, which I shall have to refrain myself from expounding on for the fear of converting this into a novella. Different though these people may have been, they had all evolved their own little growth paths and had managed to refine being obnoxious to a fine art. As our vacation drew to an end, my OIT spotting skills were refined to perfection and my husband had begun to shake his head as he recognized the feverish gleam in my eye as my grey cells worked overtime filing these memories for future use.

The OITs added much fun to our vacation, probably because they were a novelty for us. We returned back to Chennai relaxed, rejuvenated, raring to attack the work week ahead and also, with a whole new way of viewing the irritating antics of some of our compatriots when they need not be on their best behaviour. I guess dark clouds do have silver linings after all.

Fallen Woman: A Myth?

A few days back, I chanced upon the delusional ravings of a demented soul, who had been ousted from a cyber community. Though his ramblings obviously were a product of a hyperactive imagination and a crushed ego, those incoherent vitriolitic outbursts afforded me a few hours of amusement.

However, one post titled * Lost Woman* did stand out and lingered on in my mind long after the laughs did. Quite predictably, it contained unsavory allegations of immorality against a woman. I presume the author imagined that the lady in question would be discomfited and humbled by her public embarrassment, but on the contrary,I found it pathetically funny.

The humor lay in the fact that the author, in his bid to paint his victim as the proverbial scarlet woman, went berserk in linking her with much younger boys, most being mere babes barely past their adolescence. The final effect was hilarious.

But, what rendered the writing pathetic was that it mirrored an age-old primitive thinking which shrouds a woman's morals. Laugh as I did, I also wondered how many around me shared the thought that the chink in any woman’s armour is her chastity, which is to be zealously guarded from the smallest of whispers against it?

Why is it considered a humbling prospect for a woman to be perceived as a Fallen/ Lost woman? Who decides if a woman is tainted or not?
How many people take a moment out to consider their eligibility to sit in judgment?
And how many do actually think about the victim’s plight?

It is indeed tragic that, in an age where technology & knowledge is advancing in quantum leaps, there still are self appointed guardians of morality who are all too ready to pronounce judgment without considering the human feelings involved.

We may well protest but the evidence of such judgment is seen all around us. In the media, in our lives and now, in the cyber world. It is so embedded in our psyche and the fabric of our society that one automatically lapses into a stereotyped non thinking mode of judgment, often without realizing it.

Sad but true.

It is not often that a woman is allowed the luxury of assessing her situation and determining her course of action, without pressure bearing down on her. At the end of the day, a woman like any other person is the best judge of her own situation and deserves an environment in which she can make decisions without pressure of society’s approval weighing down on her.

And, the only way we create a difference in this faceless force called society is to consciously not judge but instead, walk in the shoes of the person being judged and think how we would like to be treated if there ever was a reversal of roles.

New Shoes: Change

Change, often, is like a new shoe.

At first, the need.
To buy or not to buy? To change or not

Then, the considerations.
Is this a better shoe than the one I have? A change for the better?
At what price? How much is too much? How much am I willing to stretch?

And, then finally come the moments of truth when we wear the shoes to walk through new ways. Or perhaps on old roads.
Well, who really focuses on the scenery when one is nagged by a vague, weird feeling of discomfort from a fit which is a wee bit too snug...Or if one is nursing angry blisters.

Until the shoes are broken in or shall we say, we are reconciled to the change, one has to continously resist an overwhelming urge to shake the tightly encased feet, hoping for a little more breathing space down there. But, once you get past the blisters and the snug fit, the newness wears off and comfort levels rise the change is no longer a change, but a well worn comfortable habit.

And, how would you know when change knocks at your doors?
Just as you know when its time to trade in a well worn pair of shoes...

It is time for change when there is an ache in the soul..when the familiar no longer delights us but instead, fills our being with a sense of jaded tiredness and self loathing. Sometimes, every now and then, we come across a thought that grips our hearts and fills us with an undescribable excitement and intense yearning to make it a part of our lives.
When this happens, you know that change is beckoning.

And when change comes calling, we can either stay. Or we can choose to run as fast as we can in our old worn shoes till the threadbare soles completely give away and then, my friend, is when change is gonna catch up & bite us hard on our bumms.

Chocolat

There are no words in the English language to fully convey the experience of having one's senses stirred by a chocolate square. It is an art, a blessing which only the privileged can enjoy.
In chocolat, Robert Jacobs tries to evoke in the viewers a deeper understanding of the sensual pleasures of chocolate to which a supressed town eventually succumbs to. As one watches the various characters in the movie chomp, suck and savour chocolate in its various forms, the viewer without realising smacks his lips in anticipation, only to discover a frustrating emptiness. But movies are movies and no media can completely recapture the sensuality of a chocolate experience.
For a true chocoholic, the sensual experience begins with the selection of chocolate. I maintain that nothing but dark bitter chocolate would do do for a true coinosseur but that does not in anyway make other chocolate experiences any less sensual. It is all a matter of taste. A chocolate is a pleasure beyond description or explanation. But I digress. The selection of chocolate demands imagination for if one were not to imagine the bitter sweet taste of the chocolate melting in the mouth, how would the sensualist know which would gratify his perked up senses?
The selection done, all that is left is to find a place condusive to the indulengce at hand. What more can one want more in life that to sit by a lakeside or stand over a bridge and look down on the rolling waters as you gingerly unwrap the foil and take the first tentative bite of the chocolate. Some people argue that savouring the entire square is how chocolate is meant to be eaten. But I like to make the good things last. And am content with mouse sized bites of my chocolate square, where I can enjoy the sensation of slowly warming, thick chocolate coating the roof and insides of my mouth as it melts. Aaah. The sheer pleasure. Undescribable. As also is the sense of joy which steals over my body as the serotonin transmits messages of happiness and wellbeing to my mind...As if I have been enveloped in a great bear hug by an warm glowing outside force.