Desperately Seeking: Bad Indian Girls

Just read The Bad Boys’ Guide to the Good Indian Girl from my stash from India. There’s a review on Women’s Web which covers most of my thoughts so I won’t go into them. The website ran a contest asking readers to tell them something interesting about the Good Indian Girl (GIG) today and the comments on that post are interesting too.

I think the book’s overall point on how the GIG has to essentially maintain a façade of virtue while finding ways to express herself and satisfy her own desires is a valid one. The stories in the book are mostly set in smaller towns in India and I grew up in a much more liberal environment in Mumbai. But still many of insights rang through.

I began to think not so much about the GIG, an ideal which all of us to a greater or lesser extent were schooled to aspire to, but her alter ego the Bad Indian Girl (BIG). Even in the supposedly liberal environment I grew up in, some girls had been tainted with the generally unspoken but nevertheless sensed “Bad” label.

So who were the BIGs? BIGs turned into BIGs from being just girls around the teenage years. They had a “reputation”, or as we called it a “bad rep”. This rep had something to do with the fact that they hung around with boys… a lot. By the time they were 14, they had had a boyfriend or two. And the suggestion was that they had “done things” with them. Their uniforms were generally short. They bunked school to go to discos. None of them were particularly academically inclined. Many of them were well blessed in the bosom area.

One of the interesting facts mentioned in the book is that those girls with big breasts or who developed breasts early were always in danger of being seen as Bigs. One might counter this impression by being jocular and as non-womanly as possible or by being dour and trying to blend into the wallpaper. But something, consciously or subconsciously, had to be done.

See, none of these things individually qualified one for the Big label. My uniform tended to be on the short side but I don’t think I was ever considered a Big. Many girls, especially those with elder brothers, hung around with boys but it was how you hung around that mattered. What were you wearing? Were you a tomboy or one of the sati savitri two-oily-plaits kind? Did you laugh a lot around them? Was one of them your boyfriend?

On the flip side, there were lots of girls who didn’t do well at exams (some bluntly referred to as “failures” if they failed a year). They weren’t necessarily considered BIGs. Neither were the ones constantly pulled up by teachers for some infraction or the other. They were just naughty.

Badness was something else.

Badness, if one gets to the heart of it, had to with sex. And the innate Indian fear of a girl having sex, or engaging in activities that might lead her to have sex. So why was hanging around boys and simpering a problem? Because it might lead you to “like” one of them and vice versa. And why was that a problem? Because you might acquire a boyfriend? And why was that a problem? Because you might “do stuff” with him? And that’s a bad thing because? One thing might lead to another and you might (gasp, Holy Mother of God, etc.) have sex.

There you have it – an Indian parent’s worse nightmare. Even my own mother subscribed to this logic and once burst out at me – when I suppose I could no longer be considered a GIG though I never quite acquired the BIG label (I think) thanks to the unwitting spadework in my schooldays of being academically gifted and not attracting much male attention (not from want of longing though): “So you think you can keep kissing different boys? Chee!”

The fact of kissing (and the unmentioned activities to follow) subsequent boyfriends was her major problem with her daughters having boyfriends. The reason, of course, one must not have sex was not so much the more practical possibility of getting pregnant but “noone will marry you”. One lived in the vestigal fear that ones youthful reputation might prove disastrous in the marriage stakes because even if one did acquire a husband, imagine the moment of truth on one’s wedding night when the man discovers you’re not a virgin and all hell breaks lose. A physical fact that there would be no repudiating.

It never occurred to mothers – and to me for more than half my life – that one might not want to be married to men who hold virginity in such high esteem. That people who are obsessed with virgins are also obsessed with a lot of other virtuous behaviour that doesn’t make life much fun for women. And that there might actually be men who couldn’t care two hoots about one’s hymen.

When I think about where many of the Bigs I knew in school are now, they seem to be plodding along normally like everyone else. Many have acquired husbands and babies too. Some are divorced but so are many of the Gigs I know. Being a Big in their early teens doesn’t seem to have been the death of any opportunities for them. If anything, they can say they had some fun in their youth.

Being a Big in one’s 30s is a different thing. People seem a lot more accepting of a lot of behaviour in your 30s. Not so easy to identify a Big when everyone seems to look and dress like one. Remember, what makes a Gig or Big is not actual behaviour but the façade of suggested behaviour. So who would the Bigs among us be?

I’m quite possibly considered a Big in some circles because at dinner parties I don’t stick to the group of women but go and not only talk to the men but even stand on the balcony and smoke with them. Plus I don’t cook, which makes a lot of people uncomfortable. And I once asked why Celina Jaitley should be considered a call girl just because she may have slept with a couple of men. On the other hand, I got married at 25 and had two babies in quick succession. That should count for something. One of my friends even told me I couldn’t possibly be a feminist because of such boringly conventional behaviour. Anyway.

Were you a Gig or a Big? If you were a Big, did you know then? Were you aware that people thought you were a Big and how did that make you feel? What are you now?

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CSA Awareness Month April 2012 – Grey Areas

I’m late doing this because frankly after seeing the prelaunch teaser on a blog, I never saw anything else, until a real life event jolted me into searching for a link.

And here it is, the CSA Awareness Month initiative, is back this year with… Okay, I’m still going through the site so I can’t say exactly what’s on it, but go check it out yourself.

And the reason I think all of us parents need to educate ourselves on this topic is that it’s more common than we think. If the testimonies and sharing from last year’s initiative weren’t enough, a chat I had with a friend galvanized me.

There is a scandal brewing in a friend’s building in Mumbai because it was discovered that two boys, aged 8 or 9, had been asking the other children to pull down their pants and touching their private parts. The first reaction of the parents, after they got over the shock of this happening to their children, seemed to be to divide the children into aggressor and victim, the ones who “did it” and the ones “to whom it was done”. Two boys were identified as the main instigators and among them, one who was more rowdy and generally disliked, as more “to blame” while the other it was surmised had been initiated into “all this” by the more rowdy kid.

I pointed out that “this” was more common than she thought. That it was natural and quite common for kids of that age to explore and it’s quite possible that those participating enjoyed it. So it might not necessarily be an aggressor and victim. This does not make the kids bad. What is definitely wrong is forcing someone who doesn’t want to participate to do it.

It was then discovered that one of the boys had inserted a stick into another boy’s rectum. My friend said that even if one accepts that it is natural for kids to explore, inserting something like this could be physically harmful. As kids, they don’t know how far to go. A fair point, I conceded.

Finally, it turned out that one of the boys singled out as an instigator had himself been abused by a young man in the building. I use the term abuse here because it is clear to me than an adult indulging in this behaviour with a child is abuse, because the power dynamics between an adult and a child are too stilted in the favour of one. The boy’s father, who is not around a lot, knows about it and used this to try and excuse his son inserting a stick into another boy’s rectum. Moreover, his son has been seen going alone to the young man, his abuser’s, house in the evenings.

Confession time. I am clear that it is natural for young kids to explore their own and each other’s bodies sexually. I myself participated in such activities when I was around 8 or 9. The only negativity associated with those experiences is the guilt and shame about something I’m not sure I needed to be ashamed about. I am also clear that it is wrong to force someone who doesn’t want to participate to do so.

But my question is about the grey areas:

1. While it is natural for kids to do this, how should a parent react when faced with two children who engaged in sexual acts voluntarily with each other? The traditional answer would be that it’s wrong and should be forbidden. My question, though, is why? I’m not completely on board with the idea of allowing children to have a free-for-all sexually but I’m not sure why. I agree that certain acts can be physically dangerous and should be prohibited. But apart from that, is there any other reason why children should be discouraged from this kind of behaviour.

2. One of the parents mentioned that when growing up, one of their playmates, an 11-year-old boy “raped” a girl from the slums nearby and was sent to a juvenile centre. If a 11-year-old himself sexually on another child, can it be considered rape? I’m confused because of the age of consent. Statutory rape is when an adult has sex with a minor. But when it’s between two children, even if one is the aggressor, is it still called rape?

I’m not sure if these issues have been explored on the blog. But if they haven’t, maybe it’s fodder for a post by an expert?

Just Read

Curfewed Night by Basharat Peer

I almost didn’t order this book because I thought it might be too morbid and serious for my currently frothy mood. But I’m so glad I did.

Every Indian should read this book. Because the author is not just a Kashmiri but one who grew up in a village and thus had a very grassroots experience of the conflict, it reads as a very true account of what life in Kashmir has been like for the past decade. Peer is very entrenched in Kashmir – it remains home for him – and yet able to distance himself from it, having gone to Delhi to study and work as a journalist so there is room for reflection even if the events are clearly very close to his heart.

I am aware that there are many truths in Kashmir. There is the truth of the Indian state and the army. There is the truth of the militant who chooses to defy the state. (Peer makes a distinction between Kashimiri miltants and Pakistani militants). And there is the truth of the ordinary Kashmiri and I think it’s the latter perspective that Peer represents, a perspective that I’ve always wondered about. Again, I’m aware that there would be variations even within the category of ‘ordinary Kashmiri’ but I think a good cross-section of experiences is represented in the book.

I also think that we, as Indians, need to take responsibility for such horrors as young Kashmiri boys being forced by the army to approach houses in which militants are holed in with grenades in their hands, ending in being blown up themselves while their mothers look on, or hospitals full of young men who have had electric shocks delivered to their penises. We have to take responsibility for generations of Kashmiris being forced to flash identity cards as a reflex or to get off public transport and walk a mile with their hands in the air before alighting again. We have to take responsibility because we are mostly silent, we consume news of crackdowns and encounters and even maps that lie without being moved.

I think all of us need to read this book and acknowledge to ourselves that this is what we are sanctioning with our silence.

Kashmir a lesson in what happens when one chooses to defy the state. It reminds me why India is so very much like China, the Other we are so fond of congratulating ourselves that we are not. It is fine to live in India if you don’t question the foundations of the state. If you do, you’re not so safe.

One of the questions Peer asks is what would have happened had the Indian state chosen to let the Kashmiris peacefully protest instead of cracking down on these demonstrations. The critical event, in his mind, that hardened what had earlier been more of a sense of distance and distaste towards the Indian state into hatred was the massacre of peaceful protester at Gowkadal Bridge in 1990. Such a simple solution – let people express their displeasure, talk to them, don’t shoot them dead.

Breastfeeding sucks

Some time ago while trying to google for the kinds of sucking a baby does while breastfeeding – yes, there are different kinds which you can watch for to know if the baby is actually drinking or just playing – the automatic search suggestion that got came up was “breastfeeding sucks”. Clearly enough people think so for this to come up as the first suggested search term. So much for breastfeeding being presented as this natural, warm, glowy time for mom and baby.

I’m sure it is for some people. Even most people.

But everyone I know struggled with breastfeeding. At the very best, with sore cracked nipples. And anxieties about milk production. And problems with the baby latching on. And problems with the milk coming too fast. Or too slow. Yes, I mean “best”, not “worst”. The worst is worse than mere pain. This is apart, of course, from the usual sleep deprivation from the baby waking up every three or four hours to feed at best. Again, the worst case scenario would be baby waking every hour or two. Rendering the mother basically on permanent milk booth duty. I’m sure the breastfeeding brigade has helpful solutions to each of these problems. Whatever. I know from experience that these solutions are on paper and are not so easily implemented or just do not work. Blessed are those for whom they work.

Consider my own possible woes, which have been repeated for both babies, who are extremely gassy:

1. Baby won’t get a good latch because I have – excuse the gross revelation but I am beyond being coy – have large nipples. Lactation consultants tend to repeat the same stuff – get baby to open wide, if doesn’t relatch blah blah. But if they stuck around long enough, they would see that this just doesn’t happen. The baby just doesn’t want such a large thing in it’s mouth. Even if they latch properly, they adjust in a couple of minutes and I would spend hours latching and relatching. Thus baby feeds with a bad latch resulting in:

a. Swallowing gas and therefore gassy and fussy baby.

b. Not being able to access fatty hindmilk (I think – not sure)

c. Sore nipples (though mine seemed to have just given up and toughened up).

2. Fast letdown with baby gasping and pulling on nipple. But one cannot be actually sure if it is fast let down. If breast physically feels full, it probably is. But when it doesn’t, does it mean let down is not fast and actually baby is irritated because not enough milk? No way of knowing because breasts are not transparent. Unfortunately.

3.  Foremilk/hindmilk imbalance. Because breaetmilk is not breastmilk. The supposedly wonderful thing about it is its versatility. The milk that comes out first – fast because baby is hungry and thirsty – is light and sugar filled to quench thirst. A baby like mine who for various uncomfirmed and uncomfirmable reasons drinks for 10 minutes and then comes off the breast – due to a cramp, a burp, milk coming back up due to reflux, or if lucky just not hungry – is possibly only getting the foremilk and this can cause gas.

I wrote all this a while ago. Since then my problems with breastfeeding have changed. From suspected fast letdown and too much milk, I am now at too little milk and baby pulling on nipples impatiently. From avoiding bottle feeding like the plague so baby does not get nipple confusion to then despairing trying to get the baby to take the bottle I am now struggling with a baby who prefers the bottle to my boob but I need her to suckle at the breast so that my supply does not decline. Alas. There is no winning.

Breastfeeding, like giving birth, is another of those things that is spoken about with this romantic glow as a great bonding experience. I’m sure it is so for some women. When Benji was really little and for the couple of weeks when he was breastfeeding peacefully it was. Ditto with Mimi.

But overall, if I’m honest, it’s just a pain in the boob. There was a thread on the baby forum I frequent asking mothers to post on why they love breastfeeding to encourage new mums to breastfeed. I agree with the sentiment of encouraging new mums to breastfeed. But the thread got a surprisingly few entries.

And I suspect it might be because many mums who breastfeed, like me, are not so warm and fuzzy about it. Like natural labour, we opt for it because we believe it’s best for our babies. That doesn’t mean we have to like it.

 

 

 

Mommy guilt

Some time ago, R’s Mom had tagged me to do a post on mommy guilt. At that time I had felt that I hadn’t really experienced it because although I did a lot of things that would make other women feel guilty, I was clear in my head that I didn’t. Feel guilty that is.

But over the weekend, talking to my friend and keeping my eye on the clock and when I should head home to my babies, I realised I had been fooling myself. Of course, I was a victim of mommy guilt. That’s why I went back to work.*

Going back to work freed me because it allowed me to have socially-sanctioned me-time. If I choose not to work, I’d have 11 hours a day more with my kids and out of those 11 hours I could quite easily take 5 or 6 hours a day out just for myself because if my kids could do fine for 11 hours without me, they would more than manage for 5.

But I know that I would not take 5 hours of me time because I would feel guilty. I suspect I would feel like I should be maximizing that time with my kids and that time away was time not well spent. It might even work in a deviously circuitous way – since I am not working to be with my kids, be with them I must.

Is this how you feel, SAHMs? Or do you get over it at some point, when the fact that you have 24/7 ad infinitum to be with your kids sinks in and you actually able to take time off them without feeling like you’re cheating somewhat? Do I feel like I should be rushing back because I am aware that I don’t have unlimited time?

I’m not sure. Even when I was on maternity leave and knew I had weeks on end to devote to the baby, I would feel the clock ticking on me when I was away. Part of it was breastfeeding of course and the alarm in your head that’s always buzzing, telling you your baby might start crying for food anytime now, which is one more reason why breastfeeding is such a stress. But it’s more than that because I sense mums who feed their babies formula feel this baby-clock too.

Now that it has become socially acceptable for women to leave their kids at home and go to work, so much so that a reverse tide is turning against women who stay at home accusing them of wasting their talent and education, it’s just easier to go back to work. I never thought of myself as being that susceptible to What Society Says, but if I’m honest the balm of social sanction was the only one to calm the pulsating guilt in my head and that’s why work is the only form of extended me-time I could allow myself to have.

*Okay, the money and financial independence helps. And I like my work. But still.

Just read

And finally I managed to order some books on Flipkart, which V brought back from Bangalore for me. So exciting. But even more exciting was that among them was Mayil Will Not Be Quiet by our very own GB. (Ooh just realised she had switched her blog to WordPress like half the world seems to be doing and there was a new post waiting, yay!). I have been trying to get my hands on it for a while unsuccessfully so was totally joyful when I finally did.

And.

I loved it. GB, I’m not just saying this because you wrote it and I’m being polite because the extent of my politeness is to not talk about things associated with people I like if I don’t like the things they created. So if I didn’t like the book, I’d just shut up and not mention it at all and you’d be none the wiser.

Except I loved it. Okay I said that before. I don’t think I can properly articulate why in the same way that I can’t articulate why I love Bridget Jones’s Diary – and to be mentioned in the same sentence as BJD by me is a high compliment. The tone, I think, of the narrative voice. The likeableness of the people in the little family. And of course, the way it brings up and tackles a host of gender issues in a realistic and non-preachy way, weaving them seamlessly into the story.

I did wonder whether it was too wordy or grown-up for a 10-year-old but then I realised I have no idea because I know absolutely no 10 years old. I’m fairly sure I was reading Enid Blyton when I was 10 and they are pretty full-on wordy and I suspect 10 year olds now are a bit more advanced not so much in reading capabilities but the issues they are exposed to. In fact, now I can recall giggling and looking up the word “breast” in the dictionary with my partner in school and I can still remember the definition “a gland that produces milk”, boring and yet tainted with the hint of forbidden fruit.

So yeah, I think 10 years old is about right and this one is going to be saved for Mimi, the perfect book for the daughter I always wanted and the perfect entry into all those things I want to tell her about. My only regret is that I didn’t take GB up on her offer to courier a copy to my place in Bombay because I would dearly love to have an autographed copy but my impatience got the better of me.

And also I’m glad I bought the book because that’s one more royalty check for GB (is that how it works?) and hopefully Tulika will commission her to write Part Deux (Tulika are you listening?). I’d love Part Deux to continue Mayil’s adventures and self-discovery but I’d also love for there to be a Part Trois featuring Thamarai and his angst so that Benji can have a bible too. Hint hint.

The Weekend From Hell

So even though V was buzzing off to Bangalore for the long weekend in the way only men can do when their babies are little, I was looking forward to the four day Easter weekend. A very close friend of mine from Sydney was coming to town and I planned to spend lots of time with her, loads of time bonding with my babies and breastfeeding to buck my supply up, paying a short visit to my best friend in HK who is terribly unwell and if there was time left over, getting a long-overdue haircut.

Instead here’s what happened.

On Thursday night, I ate some yummy Thai curry which unfortunately my helper had cooked using old lemongrass and basil leaves. I spent the night alternating between puking, crapping and getting out of bed to feed and rock Mimi. See, when you’re a new mother and you’re sick, you don’t get an off. You are still the milk booth. You still need to wake up in the night, multiple times, and do the needful.

Friday morning I caved and went to see the doctor who gave me something for the queasiness but advised me to let the diarrhea run its course. In my excitement to meet my friend, I had made dinner reservations at not one, not two but three spicy Sichuan restaurants. Needless to say, many cancellations were made and I didn’t meet her after all.

Instead, just when the nausea was easing off, tragedy 2 struck. Both my helper and I were not on our game, since even she had a slightly upset tummy, so we were resorting to using the iPad a lot to entertain Benji. However, in the one second that we both took our eyes off him, he managed to drop the iPad on his foot, which when he wouldn’t stop crying we realised had turned blue and swollen. It was 9 pm and we had just missed the doctor. I iced it and when he still wouldn’t stop crying resorted to paracetamol. Benji continued howling. Finally, my helper managed to put him to sleep. But he’d wake every couple of hours screaming in pain. I began to panic, thinking he might have fractured his toe, remembering a similar episode with my sister. I took Benji into bed with me and he had just fallen asleep when Mimi woke up. And so on till daybreak. We managed to hold off Benji till the doctor came in in the morning and to my relief, it turned out his toe wasn’t broken. We got some pain relief cream for him and he seemed vastly better by afternoon.

I was able to slip out and see my friend for a couple of hours and it was really great catching up and getting to know her husband better. Came back home and turned out Benji had acquired a cold and cough.

Sunday morning dawned bright and clear with Benji sneezing and whooping the house down, and gamely passing the germs on to Mimi who followed suit. My friends came to visit on Sunday and we had another nice round of catching up and me alternating between telling them how exhausting babies are and trying to convince them that it’s still worth it to have some of their own. They weren’t too convinced though. Hmmm.

Monday V came back. Everyone was better then though. Typical.

The Dark Ones

So, I have a long weekend coming up and so hoping to read much more. The most exciting thing to happen in the last bit I read was the appearance of Draupadi. Honestly, compared to Palace of Illusions which tells the story from Draupadi’s perspective, the whole thing is quite truncated here. If I hadn’t read Palace of Illusions first, the motivations in this bit would have been pretty fuzzy.

For example, King Drupada arranges a swayamvara but secretly wants Arjuna to win. In fact, this versions says that he specifically did a pooja (forgot what the ritual was called) asking for a son to avenge himself on Drona and a daughter to marry Arjuna. Considering Arjuna routed him in battle before, and is supposed to be dead, I find this hard to believe. It’s much more plausible that Arjuna won and then when he revealed who he was, the king realised that it wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

I also thought CB Divakurni’s version of Draupadi’s birth was more convicing. It’s an image that remains  with me – of the warrior brother stepping out of the fire, to everyone’s amazement, and then yanking, behind him, the unexpected daughter. It is also interesting that much is made of Draupadi’s beauty as also her dark skin. Her complexion is fetishised and seems to add to her beauty not detract from it.

The Other Dark One – Lord Krishna – also makes his appearance at that point and again, I am reminded of Divakurni’s telling which explores the link between Krishna and Draupadi. In this much more male version of the story, the bond between Krishna and the Pandavas – Yudhistira and Arjun in particular. Again, I wouldn’t have found it very convincing if I hadn’t read Palace of Illusions where the motivations are explored more. Though I guess this is not so much an interpretation of the Mahabharat as a telling of it, and therefore possibly these motivations were not there in the original text.

 

 

 

Alternatives

For once, I have a job that makes me happy to get to work every day because it doesn’t stress me out. It is far from my dream job but I’ve realised my dream job – writing features of a newspaper or magazine – is too stressful. This one keeps me sane and happy.

I’ve always wanted to be a journalist and I was. And I can go back to being one anytime. I like being an editor and working with words.

But here are some alternative careers:

1. Doing a PhD and teaching English Lit. at university: I always thought I’d be a bad teacher. I definitely won’t make a good schoolteacher. But I realised I could be better than many university teachers. Because teaching and university requires a mix of research focus and teaching, both of which interest me, it’s sometime I could give a go. And it’s so feasible inHong Kongwhere university jobs pay well. Apart from the fact that I already work for a university so I’m already in the know.

2. Going back to uni, majoring in psychology and becoming a counselor: If I wanted to completely change tracks, this would be my option. My one regret is ditching the English Lit-Psychology-Anthropology combination which was offered to me for the English Lit- Sociology-Politics option. What a waste of time sociology and politics turned out to be. Had I gone with the first option, I’d have needed to go back and do only one year of Pyschology to get a Bachelor’s degree. Oh well. I’ve realised that understanding how the mind works and listening to and getting people through their shit is something I’d like to do. This is an option only if I make enough money to be able to indulge a whim because there is no stable career path with this.

3. Becoming a librarian: I interviewed our university librarian last year and I realised this would be one of my dream jobs. What could be better than working with book? Particularly sourcing. Not sure if there would be any career prospects for this inIndiathough. Librarians inIndiaseem to be a dour and clerky bunch.

4. Working in the art administration as a curator or something behind-the-scenes. Definitely not sales though. This is also a huge developing field in Hong Kong with the West Kowloon Cultural District coming up and the art field seems to be booming inIndiaas well.

5. Becoming a vet or working with animals in a zoo. I can’t be 100% sure I’d be suited to it because I’m not that great with stamina but I definitely have the passion. I can take any amount of shit from animals – literally. However, it involved studying science and I just couldn’t be bothered. Also the vet colleges inIndiaare government-run and dismal-sounding. So not something that I could get into now, just a dream.

What are your dream job alternatives?