The Woman and the Idea of the Safe City

It has often been repeated by noted intellectuals in the West that the institution of patriarchy as it exists today is a function of pre-capitalist economical structures that the society has absorbed. In India, notably, pre-capitalist ideologies existed in the form of feudal, caste and class systems. Unlike developed countries, India is still to rid itself of these structures that merit patriarchy with so much gusto. The khap panchayats, the moral policing of the neighbors, the whispers- they all in some way form a part of the imposition of the patriarchal hand on the woman.
Where on the one hand, there is certainly some merit to the argument that these pre-capitalistic structures lead to mystification of the woman's role in society. On the other hand, it will be unfair to entirely blame ONLY the pre-capitalistic structures for the same. The idea of capitalism, at its very core, engenders the role of the reproducer to the woman and in effect enslaves her. In the division of labour, it has been assumed that the reproductive role shall be assigned to the woman. This role is inclusive of not only the actual act of birthing, but also the other activities widely regarded as "women's work." The further mystification of the woman's role in the society and the many moral walls built around her are a deliberate attempt in justifying the false assumption of her as the reproductive branch of the society.
Carrying with her the additional burden of morality, a woman conforms to societal do's and don'ts from the moment she's born. If she's at all allowed to do that. The magic of this conformity is such, that even the woman finds herself at times lost. Her role in the society, just like every other good, has been assigned by the alpha male. It is after all a matter of exchange between the men. The value of a woman, in their words, is calculated carefully by her reproductive ability and her conformity to the moral code imposed on her since birth. Luce Irigaray in her essay When The Goods Get Together explores the inter-related layers between patriarchy and capitalism. At its very core, our society as it exists today, is in every way just as primitive as from the times of the cave men. When the value of a woman was gauged carefully from her waist to hip ratio (hence her birthing capacity.) Even developed nations today, even the ones that offer state welfare programs to assist working mothers do so with the underlined principle that it is women's work after all. Female sexuality is viewed through the biased glasses of the male gaze. It is either reproductive or for the pleasure of the phallus.
While this is how the state perceives the woman, in recent times (especially the last decade) there has been a growing unrest among the urban women of India. To them, the engenderment of the public space is of primary importance. The globalization and fast-developing city infrastructure have created public spaces that have rendered the the society vulnerable. The city is where the many layers of the society intersect, the public space expose itself raw to the many conflicts of class, caste and gender. And like every other story in history, this change will also be written on the body of the woman.
The idea of the Safe City is a utopian ideal, one that is much cherished. It is not to be confused with its falsely disguised counterpart that begs the "protection" of the woman. The woman in the public space constantly hears advice, wringing in her ears. It comes from a father, a concerned grandparent, a brother, a mother. It is sometimes a reprimand, sometimes an excuse to justify an already occurred incident. "Don't be out too late!" "What was she doing alone with that boy?" "This is no place for a woman." " This is not time for stroll in the park with a cigarette." "Don't jog in the park, your breasts move too much."
This counterpart is a product of denial, of concern, of some panic, and lastly (and most importantly) reinforced patriarchy. The idea of Safe City explores a public space where defense is not the first strategy. Where the woman isn't an object of some pre-defined value, but a fellow human. It is a world where women smile at strangers, drive autos, work late.
Activist Jasmeen Patheja has commented on the same with a series of social experiments where she makes an attempt at dissolving the engendered boundaries of our society. Her project Blank Noise seeks to record the testimonies of sexual harassment in public spaces and seek to form the idea of the Safe City. The Pink Chaddi campaign also made strong remarks on the Mangalore pub-incident and the continuing sphere of moral policing.
The 16th December, 2012 gang-rape of a 23-year-old medical student sent chills down the spines of the young Indian. This was not the first time they had heard of savage rapes- the Suryanelli rape case, Manorama rape, Bhanwari Devi allegations and many more had already created furore. But this time the matter landed close to heart, because the victim was what one might call one of us. The complexities of the caste and class struggle were not valid here. So the urbanite could not come to terms with it. This decade has seen the city come together to uphold a form of social justice. Candle light marches, protests at Jantar Mantar, blocked roads- are the norm. The passivity of the news coverage given to repeated reportage of news stories was opposed. But the hard question we still need to ask ourselves is- how much has the public space changed? how much have WE changed the idea of the Safe City?

The day after yesterday

I live in New Delhi.
Notorious (more conspicuously so since December last year) for its violence against women, the city space is one that is increasingly intimidating to the single woman. Like any regular girl, I've had experiences in the past. Public masturbation, 'eve-teasing', the sudden swerve of a tinted car etc etc; most of my friends have shared similar stories of horror with me. We speak with a sense of resignation, to the affairs of the world. We've always been told; "This is how the system works", "Let it go, it's useless to fight, " "Just keep your head down", "Are you sure you didn't say anything?" There is of course the occasional burst of indignation, but nothing substantial. Yes. The public space is not mine anymore. Perhaps it never was, perhaps it was an illusion. MUST NOT RETALIATE- we've been told.
Conditioned to think of the city as not mine to roam freely in, I've always had this subconscious defensive streak. Don't trust anyone, they say. Don't get into arguments, don't roll down your windows. It's all a little overwhelming to be honest. We all have preconceived notions of each other in this city; somehow all of us seem bound by this external identity. We behave a certain way, like we are expected to.
I feel compelled to blog about this particular thought because of an incident that happened yesterday. At around 3:30pm, in Shahpur Jat I was trying to find myself a parking space, when while reversing my car bumped another. Now, I am not the best driver in the world, but yes I get around without hitting people's bumpers. The man driving the other car got out, and walked towards my car. He said something loudly which completely escaped me. I was still checking out the damage, there was none. Not a scratch. Relieved, I got out too. It is obviously not a big deal, I thought. The man muttered something about women not being good drivers or something or the other. He started to get inside my car, probably wanted to reverse it. I told him I am very much capable of doing it on my own. He continue shouting, now pointing a finger at me. I realized this was unnecessary, I wanted to get out of it. At the same time, I wanted to stand up. People were gathering around us. They seemed to all know who he was. This seemed to egg him on, he was encouraged to shout louder. He called me a 'kutiya", and the regular ma-behen galis.
This had snowballed. I was digesting it, trying to shout him down. I told him to lower his finger and maintain distance as I started towards my car. He pulled me back and pushed me. Grabbed my clothes. This was getting out of hand. I looked around for help. There was a crowd now. Boys were whispering to each other and laughing. He slapped me. He told me that everyone was mocking me, and that's what happens to girls of 'my kind.' I pleaded with a few old men, asked for help. Everyone told me to move my car, everyone was in a hurry to leave. "hume toh jaane do." I tried to explain that the moment I move my car, the man would also be able to drive off. I did not want that. I had called the cops, so naturally wanted him to be there when the PCR van reached the scene. I stood in front of his car, refusing to let him go. He continued using bad language, showed me the finger. He announced that his father is a DIG, and calling the cops won't help. He moved his car, moving me along with it. It stuck me he won't stop short of running me over. I was in tears. I felt utterly alone. And then I had a breakdown in the middle of the road.
It's the worst feeling in a public space. It's when you're utterly helpless that even an open space and broad daylight don't come to rescue. There were smiling faces, some concerned. Not one helping hand. I felt vulnerable as an individual. It's that feeling of being an outsider, that finally does you in. I reversed my car, shaking. Crying. I was ashamed, I don't know why. Reason didn't exist anymore. There was no sense of right.
My folks reached there soon, shocked at my appearance. Must have been a sight; tear-streaked face, disheveled hair, visibly shaking, angry, passers-by stopping to check out the damsel in distress.
The cops were helpful, commenting on how the crowds that gathered with candles to protest never really came to rescue. It was a matter-of-fact statement. The enormity of it made me sad, but it also made me stop crying. My folks tracked down the guy. He was a resident of Shahpur Jat, a Pawan Pawar. It made sense that he behaved a certain way in a public space. He probably had a reputation to keep. His father is powerful, I wondered what he himself did. Does he have a family, a child? A woman in the house?
The cops asked me to go with them to his place to identify him. In the commotion, I didn't realize that his presence should have been made available to me in a police station and not his own house. Anyway. He had a very old father, retired DIG. They're Jats. My aunt told him so are we. I protested that it didn't matter, that I just needed to see the son and leave. The man wasn't around, and his father refused to get him there in the first place. He used the classic "You're like my daughter" argument. I burst out. Then, I wasn't anyone's daughter, or sister, or a woman. I was an individual with integrity, I wanted my rights. I wanted to get out of this nightmare. The father, he carried a walking stick, kept on apologizing and calling me adamant and a liar. In the same breath. I noticed the double-speak but I was beyond indignation. I told him upon his insistence, that an apology would suffice. My aunt agreed. The son finally came, refused to apologize. Glared at me, and upon more emotional blackmail by his father said, "sorry, okay?"
I couldn't help but laugh. They must have thought I was mad. Maybe I was. And I was getting madder by the minute. I told the cops that I didn't want to be in that space anymore. I wanted to file an FIR. I succumbed to the process. I called my father, used the contacts. The SHO was called, the IO was instructed. I called up people at work, helpful souls (particularly Soni) immediately came forward. Influential voices were raised. In times like these, an inexperienced mind like mine might not understand the due process that is attached at the hip to our legal system. It's when you most need your people, emotionally and otherwise, no? Mind your words with the cops, the IO (a lady named Rita) was indulging in diplomatic speech. It seemed clear that nothing less than a powerful intervention would be accepted. The poor old father of the man followed us to the police station, with the egoistic son in tow. Tapping his walking stick up and down the stairs, he kept on apologizing. I was overwhelmed with emotions. My family from Jaipur kept on calling, friends' mothers were calling.

Hours later I lie in bed, drafting this. This is my space, this is my city. I've lived here for 7 years, a young girl learning my ways. The city had always left me with that tiny ray of hope, of being able to see the goodness in the corners. Never before has it exposed itself so blatantly. I've never felt more powerless as a citizen. I don't want to depend on the politics of the process. I ask, how easy is it for us to see each other as just human beings? Not men/women, or belonging to a particular caste, or a certain area. More importantly, how easy is it for us to break free from the prejudice that walks ahead of us. I do not know this man. The crowds only seemed to aggravate the matter. He was fitting into a stereotypical figure that was crafted for him, by us a society. Maybe I was too. I am trying to resolve the emotions I am feeling, trying to make sense.
All logic escapes me.

A prison Diary: Review

“They write better in prison”- Picasso

International best-selling author and British MP, Jeffery Archer was convicted for perjury on the morning of July 19, 2001. As prisoner FF8282, Archer spent three weeks in the infamous HMP Belmarsh. A high security prison in the south of London, Belmarsh is notorious as the most dangerous prison, home to hard-core criminals, high-profile terrorists and violent gangsters. During these three weeks Britain most-loved billionaire author maintained an hour-by-hour diary, documented with a certain brush of drama the goings-on on the insides of those barbed wires. With his usual flair, he rather unusually displayed a stern contempt for the British stiff upper lip and was frowned upon by many. Locked in a cell with a murderer and a drug baron carefully selected by Her Majesty, Archer displayed literally brilliance previously unseen from him, although not much of a feat in the world of literature as such. Surpassing his previous works, Archer managed to place himself in enough discomfort to give him a first-hand account of jail-time. While many debated this account was accurate, in my opinion it is the account of an outsider, one who has the option of privilege and the perks of freedom. While seemingly able to document the life inside a cell, Archer is incapable of ridding himself of the outside world. Occasionally slipping a wonderment, he seems also to be concerned with things that are possessions of the free. He paints a wonderful picture (paints being the operative word) of the concept of freedom inside the prison walls: the first rare ray of sunlight, the scarcely exchanged laughs, the companionship of the hopeless, the darkness of the night cell. ‘Doing time’ always inspires minds to do something constructive. Gandhi sat in his cell writing, and his followers read. Archer similarly attempts to learn the routines of a life unknown, as if learning a foreign tongue. As he frets about the mundane and the risky, he irritates the reader. But simultaneously also manages to provide a beautiful story of friendship in closed quarters, his encounters with rapists and crud murderers. Undoubtedly his best work yet, Archer..wait.. Prisoner FF8282 gets an unexpected favour from the authority he so despises. His jail time seems to have armed him with an expertise, which although resting much too heavily on journalistic virtue still manages to enthrall the reader. Almost bordering on the banal at quite a few places, Archer just stops short of truly accounting what happens. His favourite topic of discussion being himself, there is not enough space left for much else. Highly personal, Archer sits there as he writes about wishing to add a Botero to his art museum. Hardly an account of the hard-core. While losing due to the dramatic, Archer gains points for his honesty. He is not intimidated by Justice Potts and his fairly transparent about his loathsome feeling towards the fellow. Having done him a favour, Mr Potts should expect nothing but gratitude from Archer, for bringing out the writer in him. Or maybe not. Conclusively Picasso was right. Jeffrey has indeed surpassed himself.

New seasons and Finales

I am living in the virtual world, a world which is much more exciting. There are tragic twists and comic turns, but none that I cannot handle. The scene takes a melancholy mood every once in a while, but the overall theme stays positive. The Virtual World- its predictable, but it also never fails to surprise us.

So every time a Season finale threatens this happy existence of mine, I feel rather unsettled. Entourage's final season was in every sense- just mind-boggling and I think it would be unfair to say it did not feed viewers' neverending hunger for drama. But I still miss it, we all lost the BOYS too early.

One of the many comforting elements that helped me cope was an exciting line-up of Dexter- Season 6 and always-there Family Guy! Both the shows promised enough heart-thumping entertainment for the next few months to come. But the rumour mill has it that this could very well be the last season of Dexter.

I see the end coming- with the first three episodes' rather final theme. Dex is now talking about religion, mortality, things he wants to pass on to Harrison. I don't to believe it, but the rumour might very well be true.

It's strange how much we can get connected to these on-screen characters. A little part of us, is a little part of them. I might not agree with my favourite serial killer all the time, but his endearing existence- however virtual- is important to me.

I am braced for the end this time. "All good things must come to an end." Seven years back I remember coping with a sinking feeling of loss when my dear F.R.I.E.N.D.S went away. And not so long back, the four wonderful boys. Hope it'll be easier this time. Long live the Dark Defender!

Raindrops On My Head

It is the 9th of September- just any normal day. I lay in bed, trying hard to open my eyes, when suddenly i am struck by a sudden inspirtion to get up. I think it is the fear of being detained, but i rarely admit that. I figure, now that I'm already up- much rather take a bath.

So the waterdrops are falling rythmically on my head, in beat with the music playing on my phone. Weirdly enough, I'm still half sleeping. And is it something else i hear? Yes, it's RAINING! I don't know whether to rejoice or lament under the showerhead- isn't that the normal filmi way to show despair?

Anyway, so the raindrops are falling hard and fast. And now they seem to me, in my groggy state- to be dancing in beat with the music too. Fun is in store; but not so fast my friend. I don't know what makes me wear grey pants. Taking an unbrella (yes i found it without having to look for it), i move fast toward the main gate of my dingy South Ex house. To my utter dismay- it IS raining cats and dogs in Delhi, like it is the last time it will ever rain.

I call up Ketaki, hoping we could drive to college together. She doesn't answer, and so i find myself taking up the challege with renewed energy- I Shall Reach College. A godsend Autowalla stands right in front of my house, as if affirming and reinstatin my confidence. His name is Sunil- as i will later find out.

NO, i don't normally care to ask every man who drives me in an auto his name. But it is the Delhi rain and the wonderful warmth it induces in Dilliwallas, leaving us all cold and wet. Bringing out the best and the worst in everyone, and even the city as a whole.

Th trees have a brighter green shining out of them, i see it through the crystal waterdrops. Thank God i wore lenses, i see everything. The first rather amusing sight i see: two girls standing under a tree, turning back with utter shock to look at me. I notice briefly envious glances and then a questioning glance- why do i get an auto and they don't. HAHA, i think. Right now, i am unaware of the fact that this could at once be the most normal and most exciting ride of my life.

The scene on the main road is utter CHAOS. People are clustering under covered spots, like ants displaced from their sand domes. The otherise daunting flyovers come to rescue, and the bus stops are overflowing with people- people of all shapes and sizes, all colours. All carrying even colourful umbrellas. It's like a Yash Johar movie, only here the beauty lies in the ugly.

The roads are full of wheels moving at a snail's pace. Some travel in a hurry, some enjoy the water delightfully. Sunil asks me if he should take the underpass, i tell him OF COURSE. Not realising, just how full of water might that be.

As i emerge victorious, i feel a strange thrill through my body. I get a feeling this ride is going to be fun! I guess it was being part of a crowd, or just the faint ecstacy one feels everytime they defeat death ( from drowning)- but i am ready and raving for more. :)

I see a vegetable walla, running for shade under a tree and another small kid forgetting HIS vegetables and dancing in the rain- keep his vegetables fresh in his own way. Then there is the skinny sardar, careful to keep his blue pag dry. And the shapely woman wearing white, horrified it might turn transparent.

There are people everywhere. Some fighting, some saying thank you. Some stranded, with a broken car. Some not caring if they zoom away splashing water on some one else. I suddenly get an overwhelming feeling of insecurity, the kind that comes with a sudden realisation. I have just realised, that Delhi indeed is the city of its people. The good and the bad. The city is from its people, and the people from the city. And just like it's people, Delhi is most beauiiful and ugliest in the rainy season.

The puddles are ugly to the driver, while thrilling to the new boy. The keechad, er...is not beautiful to any one. The green leaves and the drenched rooftops standing tall. The flooded routes try to win over the indomitable spirit of the Dilli wallas. Fail.

I am repeatedly splashed with water, my derriere now wet enough to not be ignored, oho!

But do i mind? NO, not today. I see the world in a different zone right now, everyone on the edge. People sitting it out in their cars, agitated and happy. It's making me laugh, but i want to cry. I want it to dry up, but i enjoy the wetness. It's the strangest i have felt in a long time.

I reach college, wanting to go back only to take the rollercoaster ride once again. Maybe it's the tremendous feeling similar to survivng a bull-fight, but i feel like i need to pen it all down- The Experience That Is The Delhi Rain.

Chasing Amy!

Routine!!

The crazy thing about routine? That it can get depressing and strangely soothing whenever it chooses to.

Right after a life-altering moment or a drastic event, it can be the only thing you yearn for. After all the problems, the turmoil, the constant struggle and the day that seemed never-ending- all you need is the comfort of your pillow and the dent on your side of the bed.

In other cases, when you have been feeling the lack of excitement in your life- routine and the loops you are caught in might just drive you crazy. If you have absolutely NOTHING to do for a week, you'll know what i am talking about. Chances are, you already do.

Some people take to writing books to save their sanity. They produce great works of literature, some write autobiographies. We, today, BLOG!

PS- I am BORED!!!!!