Is Female Fasting a Covert Form of Social Violence?

 

 

I HAD INDEPENDENT CONVERSATIONS WITH two friends recently, about the same topic. Both friends fasted/will fast this week, for Sharad Purnima and Karva Chauth respectively. Since I had never heard of the former and the only knowledge I can claim to have about the latter is a sappy scene from DDLJ, I got to thinking and reading more about the subject. I wanted one question in particular answered: Is gender-selective fasting (females, in all cases I read about) a covert form of oppression, and consequently, socio-cultural violence?

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Half-year of the hausfrau

 

PLENTY OF FEMINIST WRITING is churned out by people actively engaged in an area of expertise/field of work. As a therapist, educator and social worker, I have always had plenty to say, a stand to take and debates to relish. (Note: I am NOT saying working folks are the only ones with opinions of value!) But for the past 6 months, I was none of these. I wasn’t even (hushed whisper) a working woman. I was, to put it plainly, a hausfrau, and this is an account of my experience.

It happened the usual way. Marriage, partner’s transfer and move abroad. We were going to live in the United States, a country I was very familiar with, had lived in before and was acclimatized to. I knew it was only a matter of time before I re-entered the workforce. Having worked non-stop—often two jobs/businesses simultaneously—for the past decade, I was suddenly faced with swathes of time and the freedom to stare into space if I so chose. As a part of me watched from the sidelines, the job-juggling girl I once knew threw herself headlong into home decoration, baking and the maintenance of an immaculate home.

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Hits & Missus

SO. LOOKIT WHAT WE HAVE HERE. A telly serial about a man who a) goes bazaaring, b) dons an apron and cooks the produce he buys, and c) does it all with a big smug grin, thus calling for a neat cross through his “Mister” title and the bestowal of  “Mrs.”

It launched in Mumbai on January 31st this year and the promos, featuring a neighborhood and the man’s wife dancing around his pasty, grinning self as he lugged shopping bags full of greens, had me e-hunting grind guards for my teeth.

I must admit, I never did get around to actually watching the serial since I was in the middle of a big move. I don’t get the channel where I live now, but if anyone out there has been following it, please share an update. Wheee, spiking blood pressure, such fun!

And just by the by, the next time you compliment a chef, you must say “Thank you, Lady, that was delicious.” Never mind his anatomy. Only women shop for ingredients and cook. What, you didn’t you know that? See, now that’s why we need Sab TV. Followed by trusty nebivolol tablets. And a string of meditation beads.

Amen.

Curiouser and Curiouser


 

EXCEPT,  I DON’T quite feel like Alice in Wonderland. Absurd would be a more appropriate term to describe this recent development that requires the family of a deceased Zoroastrian (Parsi/Irani) woman married to a non-Zoroastrian to file an affidavit stating she was a practicing Zoroastrian all her life in order to receive funeral rites that are the default option and birthright of all Zoroastrian men, single, gay, purple, married to Martians or otherwise.

Apparently, the earlier procedure, an affidavit filed by the woman herself in her lifetime, is inadequate. And no one is asking why women have to prove non-”desertion” by an act of marriage while it is casually assumed that men are piously practicing holy men who have no reason to adopt the religion of their partner.

Oh, did I just call it absurd? How about we add demeaning, humiliating and sickeningly offensive? There are so many reasons I am proud to be a Parsi. This, let it go on record, IS NOT ONE OF THEM.  I must state here that this is a resolution passed by the BPP, a Bombay-specific body, and does not hold true for Zoroastrians elsewhere in the world (thank heavens!) Nations the world over are proof of how little progress is made when its women are treated like second-class citizens and it is heartbreaking to see an otherwise progressive community do this to more than half its populace, sometimes with the blessing of that ill-informed second-class gender.

For an older post and some history on the subject, go here.

Wanting It

 

 

 

WERE I 17 AND A POT OF MUSH, “those three words” would mean something entirely different. But as an almost-32- year-old (ooh, how I love announcing an upcoming birthday :mrgreen: ) who has seen a bit of life and the world, the three words that get a rise out of me are these: What Women Want.

It has been the title and subject matter of a movie. Blogadda recently declared it the topic of their weekly contest. Freud pondered the question before reportedly labeling women “the dark continent”. And I have a sneaking suspicion it was part of undergraduate coursework in Aristotelian times. What Women Want 101: Enlightening souls, one confused sucker at a time.

My question is: Why?

Why have we as women participated in our own mystification and perpetuated an image of womankind as being enigmatic, conflicted and unfathomable? According special status to women’s supposedly inscrutable desires is a huge honking excuse for men unwilling to make an effort to reach a basic level of understanding about their current/potential partners. It’s offensive to be thought of as so irrational as to be the subject of such pondering. Just like it isn’t a compliment for all women to be called emotional creatures. Is this the kind of importance we need to be at the receiving end of? That my needs are supposedly so divergent from a man’s strikes a false note somewhere.

It’s puzzling. Did I miss a memo? Don’t men want the usual suspects—health, happiness and fulfillment— too? Meaningful work, a social safety net, monetary comfort, interesting experiences, solitude, overall well-being, learning and personal growth, the opportunity to contribute to the planet, perhaps a partner/family of one’s own/casual relationships? Are these really gender-specific? Correct me if I’m wrong. I’m curious to learn whether there is a gender divide when it comes to human wants, so do share in the comments section and specify your gender. Until then, this niggling feeling of sweeping generalization and gross gender stereotyping won’t go away. If there is something I do want, it is for people to realize that it is frequently okay to divorce your gender. I write this as a person. And this is what I want.

Good Girls Keep Their Legs Together

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MY PIANO TEACHER LIVED two floors below us. A large lady with a stentorian voice and glasses dangling on her ample bosom, she caressed the ivories with a passion most teenagers reserve for romps in the hay. Single and living alone, music was her life and her students her family. That she was a stellar pianist and painstaking teacher was overshadowed by how the grandmothers of the building, mine included, viewed her. Miss Printer, you see, couldn’t keep her legs together.

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It’s Not PMS, It’s Your Mother

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THAT’S NOT THE TITLE of a sitcom. (Though it could be –think I should sell the idea?) I once said that to someone. Meant it too. And I’m so proud of the way I restrained myself from going for his jugular when the oh-so-patronizing “Honey, it’s PMS” (hand pat included) was tossed my way, like a puppy receiving a biscuit.

Even as I write this, I am NOT, repeat NOT PMSing. I understand there are some women who experience physical and emotional fluctuations in the days preceding Leak Week. I, fortunately, am not one of them. I do not cramp, I do not moan and I certainly don’t have my menstrual cycle whirring my tear ducts into overdrive. Tell me I’m PMSing, though, and I’ll ask you how you’d like your eyeballs for breakfast.  (And yes, I vaguely get the self-fulfilling prophecy here.) [Read More]

Thoughts on Eve Ensler’s “I am an Emotional Creature”

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THE AUDIENCE WAS FLUSH WITH estrogen, but had a heartening dose of the Y chromosome. I wondered if the cocktail reception that preceded the event was a marketing ploy or a genuine attempt to fortify our spirits for what was to come. I found out soon enough.

The world premiere of Eve Ensler’s ‘I Am An Emotional Creature’ was some things expected and many not. It began regularly enough, with the usual spine-tingling statistics on female abuse, neglect and violations. Essayed as a relentless spiral of separate pieces without an intermission, the portrayals of women from around the world shifted from mediocre to spectacular as the play progressed. Moments of intense pain in “Free Barbie” were interspersed with a more defiant stance in “The Refusers” and stories of prostitution in Eastern Europe, military sex slaves in Ghana, bulimia in North America, child labor in China and forced cosmetic surgery in Iran tumbled out unapologetically, amidst joyous expressions of dance and womanhood. Woman cried, laughed, screamed, spoke, vented, explained, twirled and chanted their right to be emotional creatures and engage in the feminine act of dance as a form of expression.

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It’s A Bad Ad World

LATELY, WHILE CHANNEL SURFING, I came across two advertisements, prominently aired in prime time slots that went something like this:

Ad 1: A little girl whines about how her hair isn’t as long as her mother’s was in her childhood. The mother apologetically mentions that she has to work while Nani (her own mother) was “at home all day.” As she drops her daughter off to school in a car driven by her, the girl whips around and retorts in Hindi, “Then don’t go to office!”  The situation is resolved by the mother saving the day, her job and her relationship with her daughter by producing a satisfactory solution, namely a bottle of Clinic Plus shampoo.

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If You’re in Delhi…

…YOU MAY WANT TO take a look at this invite:

Zubaan invite copy

Anyone want to get me that yummy t-shirt in red?  :mrgreen:

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