Sisters look out for each other

The United Nations International Day of Women is just a few days away and predictably the debate is divided into two distinct factions. While the first faction asks women to stop treating themselves as a special interest group, the second says feminism is not only relevant but also necessary even in this day and age. One cannot deny that rights of women are violated with impunity across the world every day. Therefore, even as empowered and educated women climb out of gender-defined silos, there are millions of women whose self esteem has been crushed by either cultural conditioning or outright persecution.

This is why feminists today find themselves grappling with questions that threaten to divide them along race, colour, sexuality and caste lines. These distinctions add newer layers to an already complicated debate. Often women who are privileged on account of skin colour, wealth or caste feel alienated by those less privileged. It is true that black, dalit, lesbian and poor women face the brunt of sexual discrimination in more extreme ways. But if the underprivileged lot bands together and blocks out the so-called privileged lot, feminism loses. This is because privileged and empowered women are more likely to help their less fortunate sisters.

Take the case of 51 year old Rathi* who works as a domestic help. She was born into a land owning family of middle-income agriculturists in a village in Andhra Pradesh. She had to stop schooling after 5^th standard as the school in her village did not offer education beyond that grade. Some village boys would cycle almost two hours each way to go to another school, but Rathi’s parents were vary of sending their daughter that far away. “Mere bhai log ko iskool nahi jaane ka tha. Abhi main akele kaise jaun?”, she explained. She took to agriculture and later started a day care facility for children of agricultural labourers in her village. A few years later she entered into an arranged marriage with a man who claimed to drive cars for rich people and even had a flat in Mumbai.

When Rathi came to Mumbai after marriage nearly three decades ago, she realized her husband was a taxi driver and did not own either his vehicle or his home, a shabby shanty in a smelly slum. Rathi started working as a domestic help. Gradually she started taking up jobs as a baby sitter or care giver to old people. She learnt how to give body massages to women. She started turning the family’s financial health around. She encouraged her husband to move out of the slum and into a pucca house with its own toilet. They bought a TV, a fridge and even started eating out once a month. And then Rathi got pregnant. She had to cut back on work hours.

Her husband started blaming her for mounting expenses. He took to alcohol and gambling. Rathi hoped the baby would change everything. But fatherhood did not make her husband more responsible. By the time Rathi had delivered her second child her husband had sold of most of her share of her ancestral property in the village. He had falsified her thumb impression.

That shook her. She grabbed what remained of her savings, sold off her meager jewellery, took her little sons and moved to Thane where accommodation was cheaper than Mumbai. She once again started juggling jobs as a domestic help, baby sitter and masseur. When her sons were old enough she got them enrolled at the local school. She spent carefully and saved well.

A few years later she purchased some land in her village. She hired daily wagers to work her fields, hiring only women. She did not discriminate against women from castes lower than hers. She ran an informal aangan wadi for the children of not just her labourers, but also all other working women in the village. She personally took charge of the financial accounts of her agricultural business and made sure all her employees were paid on time.

And then one day, out of the blue, her husband returned and begged Rathi to take him back. “Usne sorry bola, roya bhi,” she explains. Rathi sold a part of her land and moved back to Thane where she comfortably slipped back into her role as the principal breadwinner for the family even as her husband struggled to hold on to odd jobs.

A few years later, Rathi brought her 12 year old niece Archana* from the village and enrolled the girl in school. But Archana dropped out after three years. But luckily by then she had picked up enough English to be able to work in the homes of expats. She started as her aunt’s assistant and today at 19, she works as a housekeeper and baby sitter. “Foreigner log jyada paise dete hain toh 6-7 jagah ki bajaaye, 2-3 kaam pakad sakte hain,” she shares. Archana contributes to household expenses, sends some of her income to her parents and is also saving money to buy agricultural land just like her aunt.

Rathi helped change the lives of other women because she was empowered and to an extent more privileged than them. Now imagine, would this success story be possible had Rathi been alienated on account of her privilege? We sisters have to stick together and help each other.  We cannot fight amongst ourselves. We cannot find a problem for each solution. It works the other way round. Modern feminists must strive for unity even as we understand and accept greater diversity.

**((Names changed on request. Both Rathi and Archana refused to be photographed for this story))

Fifty shades of aunty

Neelam was twenty three when she got married to her childhood sweetheart and moved in to our housing society. A year later she was blessed with a bouncing baby and everyone under the age of eighteen in the neighbourhood dutifully started referring to her as Neelam aunty. I’m 33 and unmarried. My children are cats. Yet everyone from toddlers to the building watchman, call me didi. Baffled, I asked the most talkative kid in the building to explain to me why he called someone a decade younger “aunty” and me “didi”. His mother, who was riding the elevator with us offered the explanation, “It is not about age, but about marriage” she said. “When you get married everybody will have to call you aunty out of respect,” she continued.

I wondered if “didi” was therefore to be construed as disrespectful. Also, was a woman’s respect linked to her marital status even in this day and age in a posh neighbourhood such as mine?

This wasn’t a one off thing. I teach a journalism course to post graduate students and some of the girls in my class are married. As many of us live within walking distance of each other’s homes, we often carpool or take the same bus. Whenever we alight at the bus stop and the girls introduce me to their children, their first instinct is to call me aunty. Given how I’m often a decade older than their moms, it makes sense. But often someone’s mother-in-law would ask me what my husband did and when I said I didn’t have one, they would dutifully ask the children, “Didi ko hello bolo”.

Back when I was in school there was this hair dye advertisement where a woman feels traumatized after being called aunty by a young man in her neighbourhood, even as her husband is called “Bhaiyya”. She gets herself some hair dye and proceeds to colour her premature grays. When she steps out with jet black locks, the same man calls her by her first name! This somehow heals her shattered self esteem.

My client, a friend’s mother and veteran theater actress, recently made her movie debut. I went to the premier and hugged and congratulated her, “You made it aunty”, I said. A film maker standing next to us looked at me in disbelief, unable to utter anything more than, “Aunty???” My client, one of the most confident and secure women I’ve ever met replied, “What else do you expect her to call me? She is my daughter’s colleague!” The film maker countered, “But you don’t look that old,” now establishing the link between age and the word “aunty”. Interestingly, her daughter who is five years younger than I, magically went from didi to aunty overnight as she got married, while I am still didi.

I reckoned I needed some alcohol in my system to process this. A cameraman friend joined me at the bar. I decided it was time to get a man’s perspective on the subject. He threw me a sly smile, men reserve for locker room conversations with other men and said, “Deborah madam, I’m surprised you don’t know what aunty really means.” An almost evil glint appeared in his eye at the end of the sentence suggesting a strong sexual dimension to my aunty conundrum. He explained how it was not polite to call someone aunty in public because that word was reserved for “Bhabhi type” women. I distinctly remember being reprimanded by my male friends when I called their wives Bhabhi. I did it to assure these women that I had no designs on their husbands and thought of them as brothers. This would prevent them from suspecting anything inappropriate when I met their husbands even if the wives were not around. But a friend had told me that the word Bhabhi was a throwback to Savita Bhabhi and was therefore inappropriate. I asked my cameraman friend if that was the case. He gave me an evil wink and disappeared into the crowd with his drink. My head ready to explode with the multiple layers of sexism I had just discovered, I ordered my second dirty martini for the evening.

This was odd. I grew up in a generation where all of us kids called each other’s mothers aunty. My mom was an exception because she taught at our school. She was always Rita Miss. At 59, she is still a “Miss”. Somehow, despite being a teacher, I never got to be “Miss”. I have always been Deborah Ma’am. Sometimes when a faculty member doesn’t know me and comes across my name in the schedule, they ask for Mr. Grey. This is probably because Deborah is not a very common name in India. As someone who doesn’t give a rat’s left testicle about the gender binary, I don’t mind being called Grey Sir as an office boy called me just last week when he came to the staff room to deliver a message from another faculty member. My three year old niece still calls me Uncle or Bhaiyya as do all her friends. It might have something to do with my short hair. My dream is to be knighted by the Queen of England as Sir Deborah, Knight of the Rainbows! And don’t tell me I can’t be Sir or Lord Deborah because I have a baby bar, a baby bag and a baby door (breasts, uterus and vagina respectively). I don’t have a single maternal bone in my body and have no desire to procreate (unless is it an alien, meta-human or a ninja-turtle).

I read The Telegraph’s headline and while it was a play on the word Anti-National, you’ve got to admit… it backfired and how! Calling Smriti Irani “aunty” is unacceptable for the same reasons as calling Hillary Clinton a “witch”. You want to take down somebody, use facts, reason and logic to blow holes into their arguments. Taking potshots at one’s age and gender just go one to show how your artillery is ineffective and that you are basically a sexist douchebag! Meanwhile, we in India, need to start calling women something more appropriate like “ji” or “madam”. Also, please stop diluting my brand value by calling me didi. I’m way too cool and sexy for didi. My last name’s Grey (Thanks to EL James, that sentence is now a pick-up line). Call me Grey, just Grey.

Leftover Women

Sheng Nu is Chinese for Leftover Women, a derisive term used to describe unmarried women over a certain age. They are frowned upon for missing out on marital bliss on account of being ‘too ambitious’ and ‘career oriented’. It is almost like saying a woman's self esteem is a cock-blocker!

I first came across the term in Leta Hong Fincher's brilliant account of the dramatic roleback of women's rights in post-socialist China in her critically acclaimed 2014 bestseller Leftover Women: The Resurgence of Gender Inequality in China. I wondered if this could happen in a country where none other that Chairman Mao had once proclaimed "women hold up half the sky" what hope was there for the rest of us?

As someone who does not believe in organized relationships or bureaucratic exercises designed to create and perpetuate property rights, I have zero interest in getting married. But I do want to find love. Good old fashioned love. I want dinner and a movie on Saturday night and pancakes for breakfast on Sunday morning. I want to make him coffee. I want him to buy me flowers. I want to read newspapers as he plays the guitar. I want sweet kisses and epic sex. I want us to support each other’s professional goals and personal dreams. But I want all of this with a guy who respects me and stays faithful. Am I asking for too much?

According to author Jon Birger’s new book Date-onomics: How Dating Became a Lopsided Numbers Game, educated women outnumber educated men in several US cities. This demand supply imbalance is leading to a ‘hook up’ culture and many highly educated women, looking for traditional long term committed relationships and marriage, are left single. As a 33 year old communications professional studying for my second post graduate degree, this scares me a little.

The author's findings suggest that the men know that there are plenty of fish in the sea and that they can just move on to another woman if the present one becomes ‘demanding’. The proliferation of dating apps has led to what could possibly be the beginning of the end of romance and wooing. Conversations are becoming optional in a world where an exchange of emoticons on messaging platforms leads to easy, baggage free, no strings attached sex. 

The book appears to suggest that if highly educated women were looking for their happily ever after with a man who was their intellectual and financial match, they were deluding themselves.  Their only option is a mixed collar relationship.  But in what universe can you see a lawyer marrying a daily wage earning construction worker? Would a bio-technologist be satisfied by the musings of a gas station attendant? What would a communications professional and a security guard talk about at the dinner table? Don’t get me wrong. I believe in the dignity of labour, but I can’t date the milk man!

I know friends who have been through the whole 'meet-the-parents' charade that precedes arranged marriages in India. Even the most progressive families insist that family and children take priority over the woman's career. Nothing wrong in that, except the implication, that if a choice were to be made between home and career, the husband would remain the bread-winner as the wife tended to home and hearth.

And it's not just home and family. I've been to job interviews where the coversation went something like this:

"So, are you married?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Why? What's wrong with the question?"

"Well, my personal life is private."

"You mean you are hiding something?"

"No. I just don't see how my marital status plays a role in determining my productivity."

"Priorities change after marriage."

"Of course they do. But they do for men too. Do you ask male candidates about their marital status?"

"Of course we do. We need to know how many people he is providing for and if he is the sole bread winner."

"Would you pay a married man more that an equally qualified single woman if he is the sole bread winner with multiple mouths to feed?"

This question usually catches them off guard and their bewildered looks are my cue to make a graceful exit from a job interview at a possibly toxic workplace.

But the challenges for unmarried women are greater. Look at how easy it is to get insurance or loans if you are married as opposed to single. Sport some sindoor or a wedding band and you are less likely to get unwanted attention from the opposite sex. You are presumed to be mature and intelligent if married and childish and carefree if unmarried. Married women also get preference over unmarried women when trying to adopt a child. It is almost as if women are penalised for staying unmarried.

I'm not saying life is a cakewalk for married women. The Sindoor Sisterhood has to deal with expectations of the extended family as well as the immediate neighbourhood. You will be judged for small decisions regarding the choice of your child's hobby classes, or letting your child come back home on the school bus instead of pickingthem up from school.

This is not a married vs unmarried thing. We sisters are all in this together. I only wonder if I'd find love, respect and loyalty in a world were relationships are designations and sex is as easily available as a pint of beer.

Resting Bitch Face

I came across the term Resting Bitch Face less than half an hour ago. It is what you call a woman's facial expression when she doesn't really have any expression on her face, and is therefore presumed to be angry, upset, mean or bitchy.

The term is usually used for women, because for some odd reason, it is a woman's sacred duty to smile. We are expected to smile, irrespective of whether we feel like it. I'm not against smiling. I smile when I'm happy. I smile when I want to. I smile when something good happens. A smile is an expression of happiness and peace. It shouldn't be a social obligation.

Men take it as a personal failure when your eyes don't light up at their sight. I've lost count of how many times my dates have asked me to smile. When I ask them what's funny, they wondered if they are making me feel uncomfortable. The only thing it tells me, is that these men suffer from low self esteem and need constant validation by way of a smile. Needless to say I've been labled a 'bitch' more times than I'd care to remember.

Ever since I was a little girl, I was asked to smile more. I was expected to smile at my neighbour when she prepared breakfast (our kitchen windows overlooked each other). I was expected to smile at friends of my parents. I was expected to smile at my friends' parents. Basically I was expected to smile all the time... for no reason.

As I grew older, my smile was 'corrected'. I was advised to not show my gums. I was forced to wear braces because I had 'ugly' teeth (basically, I just have an extra canine tooth). Even today when I smile for pictures, my mother chides me for not smiling 'properly'. A 'proper' smile being one where I look like I'm smelling fart while trying hard not to pee!

When I started working, well meaning colleagues often asked me why I looked disinterested. Some wondered if I was happy with my job. Some questioned my committment, simple because I didn't smile beatifically as I walked into my office every morning. Some thought I genuinely didn't care about things, while others advised me to purge negativity from my life. That was weird, because as any of my friends would tell you, I'm a happy person. I'm as happy as a bunny in a carrot garden! But that doesn't mean I have to look like I'm on an acid trip.

I've now mastered the Bitch Smile, a fake smile that surprisingly puts people at ease. I flash that smile when people talk about their babies, husband, dog or parents, their dreams, their travel plans, their car or their new clothes. It makes people think I care, when I genuinely don't give a shit. Here, take a look:

I don't know... you call that a smile, I think THAT'S a resting bitch face.

Trade and Currency

In an unintentionally funny scene from Raaz 3, Bipasha Basu takes off her shirt to reveal her enviable décolletage… looks meaningfully at Emraan Hashmi and says, “Meri aankhon mein dekho”… I want to meet the guy who wrote that scene, but I’m not sure I’d want to shake his hand…

What I want to do instead, is understand the female perspective… What do women think about their girl parts and more importantly what would a girl do to make herself feel special (apart from bringing about a legislation banning biting and chewing nipples… I mean… those are real body parts, not gummy bears!)

Breasts, boobies, puppies… whatever you call them… girls like them as much as boys like their little brother Richard. If women fret over their sagging breasts, it is not because they won’t be able to please the mister any more… it is because it makes them feel less sexy and therefore less in control of their lives. Beauty is all about power. Sex is a powerful tool of subjugation and control. The bedroom is all about politics, even more than the boardroom, a newsroom or even the famous Situation Room! For men it is always about who 'does' whom… Women are comfortable letting men be the ‘doers’… At the end of the day, it is he who is making all the ‘effort’, while the woman can lay back and enjoy (literally)! It is this power that a woman craves. When she lets a man ‘take’ her… she is actually controlling him.

Beauty fades… quickly. Also men are constantly looking for newer, more exciting options. Anti-aging creams and push up bras will only take you so far… So what does a woman do to remain interesting? She takes the next step… crosses over from sexual to sensual… See it is the brain that tells the body to send more blood to the groin. A woman retains control by playing to a man’s fantasies. She caters to his deepest desires which are often hidden in his sub-conscious… She becomes the woman of his dreams… whether it is the Sex Goddess in black lacy lingerie, the legendary (and largely imaginary) Insatiable Whore or the hand cuff wielding, bottom spanking, cuss-word spewing Dominatrix in a body hugging cat-suit and killer talons!

Now don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate men, nor do I think that they are stupid. I only know that there are two kinds of currency, monetary and sexual. Men and women routinely trade in these currencies to retain control of their traditional fiefdoms. Ever since the time of cavemen… the men have been providers and the women have been lovers (for the lack of a better word). Am I stereotyping traditional gender roles? Truth is sadly a lot of ‘modern’, ‘liberal’, ‘educated’ people (both men and women) still relate to these stereotypes. Why is it that women still want to ‘settle down’ at the ‘right time’ with the ‘right guy’? And why do job ads for 'female candidates only' have requirements like ‘good looking’, ‘pleasing personality’, ‘adaptable’, ‘open minded’, ‘modern’ and ‘right attitude’?

It’s simple… Women think of men are glorified ATMs and men think of women as whores. Harsh, ugly, gross… but true.

Now what happens if there is a mismatch between demand and supply in this age old market with well established norms? What if a man is not interested in sex or a woman is not interested in money? What happens when people are un-purchasable? I’ve met two such people. The man in question lost his wife and child in an accident. He is still in love with his dead wife and hasn’t been with another woman since. The woman in question is criminally good looking and independently wealthy (not daddy’s money, but her own money earned through hard work and competence). They are both social outcasts, but don’t seem to miss anything. They are also the only two people in the world who have never asked me, why am I still single.

A man who doesn’t want to buy and a woman who can’t be bought are the game changers. They topple the established structure… they threaten the very economy… They can’t be allowed to survive, let alone thrive! Vicious campaigns are launched to discredit such people. While the man gets saddled with the predictable ‘gay’ tag, the woman is accused of having the wrong attitude. Every effort is made to destroy their reputations and take away their independence. Sadly, what the ‘destroyers’ don’t realize… is that ‘un-purchasable’ people trade in a third kind of currency. It is a rare, but high value currency that is leveraged by something stronger than gold. They deal in competence and it is leveraged by integrity.

Me… I’m in the market for all kinds of products (including catsuits, black lacy lingerie, hand cuffs and whips!) I like the idea of being able to buy things for a fair price... See... I'm a Capitalist… the only thing I offer for free... is sex!

Feeling Naked

A few weeks ago, when I stepped out to satiate my hunger for all things held in high regard by fellow intellectual snobs, I did something out of character. I wore a saree to a Shakespeare play. I was in a festive mood as going to the theater is nothing short of an evening at the opera for me. I had to turn heads and what better way to do it than follow in the footsteps of Aishwarya Rai and drape myself in six yards of the most feminine garment ever created. 


See, this is exactly where I lost the plot! I failed to realise that if you wear a saree, it changes everything about you... from your walk (I'm told I normally walk like Salman Khan from Bodyguard), to your posture (apni hi saree ki silwaton mein simti-lipti-sehmi si main) to your entire persona (I actually looked like a woman!) 


My arm candy for the evening, my Bedardi Baalam Harrish Iyer, couldn't stop teasing me. He has composed a "Debbie is a girl!" song and also choreographed a silly little dance to go with it. 


My other friend Mantra (who was playing one of the parts in the said play) was thankfully restrained and reserved any scathing comments about what could only be truthfully described as a sex change. His generosity perhaps stems from his being an actor and therefore knowing how demoralising any kind of negativity is, especially when one is doing something out of character. 


When the first appearance worked, I got bolder and did it again! I wore a saree the following day as well! This time my nearly three dozen teeth arranging themselves into a convincing smile that successfully belied the existence of half a million fluttering butterflies in my enviably flat stomach! I found the courage to upload my aurat-type pics on BBM and FB and the complements are still pouring in. 

A few years ago, I was out covering this story in a very crowded part of the city. I ended up getting pawed and molested by a mob. Being a borderline sociopath has its perks. I remained calm and focussed and made my way out of the sticky situation without losing my cool or even shedding a tear. As I was exiting the venue, I called up and told the woman on the assignment desk about my plight, hoping she would understand. She responded with, "Deborah ji aap tai kar lijiye ki aap aurat hain ya journalist! Morning bulletin mein story chalni hai, 4am tak edit kar ke bhej dijiye!" 


I disconnected the call, took one last look at the torn buttons of my shirt and the scratch marks on my chest, took a deep breath and placed another call, this time to a male colleague from a sister channel who already had necessary footage and sound-bites requesting him to share them with me. He was co-operative. I came back to the office to find my bureau chief editing a special investigative story. I told him what happened and requested no other female reporter be sent to cover the said story the next day. I also told him what the Assignment lady told me, to which he responded saying, "Theek hi toh kaha usne. Journalists should be tough. Yeh delicate darling ban-ne se kaam nahi chalega!" 


I made my decision that day. I stopped being a woman. I became a machine, devoid of all emotion. In my seven years as a journalist I have been lathi-charged, tear-gassed, nearly crushed in stampedes, been in car accidents, received death threats (people have actually tried to kill me on two occasions). 


I have three spinal injuries and have sustained multiple fractures to my wrists and ankles. I have a broken rib and a busted knee-cap. The list is long! I'm not complaining. I've earned a lot of respect. But I had to detach myself from the woman in me to achieve all this. 


Not any more... One evening at the theatre changed it all! Six yards of chiffon and two adorable friends have made me embrace my womanhood once again.

Leap of Faith

26 year old Madhuri Pandey is your quintessential girl next door. Her bubbly laughter and sing-song voice have made her a darling of millions of women who religiously follow desi soap operas. But Madhuri is far cry from the characters she has played over the last four years. She settles down for our interview in a pair of jeans and a black and white check shirt that is a polar opposite of her onscreen avatars. 

"I hate those 10 kg ghagras and the dangling earrings. My ears used to bleed and I once gave a take with my jhumka taped to my ears!" 

Madhuri is perfectly secure with her looks and had no qualms meeting us without make up. While she is opposed to cosmetic surgery, she is honest enough to admit that she doesn't quite like her nose, "Sometimes I think it is too big," she says, her eyes comically looking at her nose. That's when you wonder if this TV diva is actually nothing but a child-woman. 

She says acting happened to her by chance. Madhuri comes from a family of doctors and academics from North India and was studying for a degree in Software Engineering in Delhi when she and her sister Anjali started modelling, just for the lark. But destiny had other things in store for Madhuri. The stylish sisters moved to Mumbai when Anjali won a talent hunt. 

Madhuri decided to pursue a career in music and started performing with other singers and artists. That's when she got noticed by casting directors and offers for TV shows started pouring in. Always eager to take up new adventures, Madhuri decided to give it a shot. She soon became a darling of the viewers for her roles in Bhabhi, Dahej, Ladli and many other shows. But there was something missing. 

“Music is my passion. I did not come to Mumbai to become an actor. I came here to follow my dreams." That was when Madhuri decided to quit TV at the peak of her career and plunged headlong into music. She is quite active on the events and live music scene. She is also seen performing stand-up comedy. "It hasn't been easy. There is a lot of competition. There is also pressure from my family who would like to see me settle down. This is my make or break year", she states matter-of-factly. 

We quizzed her about Mr. Right and Maduri says she is looking for an uncomplicated man who would understand and respect the demands of her profession. "I'm a self made woman who is open to taking risks. I have been independent so far and don't like being controlled or caged. My line of work involves odd hours. My man has to accept that." 

She accepts that it is probably her straight forward-ness and fierce independence that keeps most men away. "While some get intimidated by my success, others find it unacceptable that I like taking my own decisions and live on my own terms. But my independence is not-negotiable", she asserts. "I find it hilarious that so many men expect me to be docile and covered from head to toe like my onscreen characters. Off camera I have a mind of my own and I wear what I please. If I can respect women who like wearing sarees, why can't they respect a woman who wears cocktail dresses. I have a certain lifestyle, I do party a lot with my friends. I carry myself with a lot of dignity." 

Well, we will certainly vouch for Madhuri's style quotient as the girl hardly ever has a fashion faux pas. "I know what works for me and dress accordingly. I love my pastel one piece dresses, I love my LBDs, I like single statement pieces when it comes to jewellery rather than cluttering up my look with too many unsightly accessories." Madhuri also swears by plunging necklines, but warns "Wear it only if you have the confidence to carry it off, otherwise it comes across as cheap." 

Madhuri is currently taking life a day at a time, enjoying her transition from actor to full-time singer. She claims this is the best time to get a break in her chosen field. Her years in similar industries have helped and she is taken seriously. "Being an extrovert helps. I'm not shy and I always speak my mind, but I'm also conscious of the fact that my every move is being watched closely." She says she is very image conscious and works hard to appear composed even in the most emotionally turbulent situations. “This is a price driven industry and people love to discourage you, find the smallest fault, just so they can force you to reduce your price. It is important to act professional and stay focused in such situations, lest you get branded as a cry baby or a whiner." 


Well, we like that she is grounded, goal oriented and honest. Here's to young women like Madhuri Pandey who are not afraid of taking a huge career risk to fulfil their dreams.

The Cleanest Picture

While the uproar over I&B Ministry’s high-handedness in cancelling the telecast of The Dirty Picture still continues, few have bothered to examine what really makes the said film ‘dirty’. There are no sex scenes, just one kissing scene, no bare back scenes… just a lot of cleavage thrust ‘shamelessly’ into the viewer’s face. 

But ask yourselves… doesn’t your friendly neighbourhood Bhalla aunty show off more when she bends to pick up the morning newspaper or your very own Sakku bai when she swabs the floor? And why is it offensive for a woman to show off her décolletage? What is wrong with acknowledging the existence of breasts? Would you ever be ashamed of having knees or fingers or a nose? What’s the harm in showing off an aesthetically packaged cleavage… 

We have all aspired at some point of time to be able to carry off a plunging neckline! (Plug! Plug! Plug!)

Haven’t we seen far greater skin show by Urmila Matondkar (“Hai Rama yeh kya hua?’) in Rangeela that has been telecast at least a hundred times on TV since its release 15 years ago? And what could possibly be dirtier than the sundry characters played by Shakti Kapoor? Haven’t Juhi Chawla and Anil Kapoor gyrated to, “Main maal gaadi tu dhakka laga” and “Khada hai khada hai khada hai” from Andaaz? I clearly remember watching Mamta Kulkarni and Mithun Chakravarty’s now legendary “Button meri kurti ka” being played on DD Metro’s Superhit Mukabala (now isn’t that a Sarkari channel?) And don’t even get me started on Madhuri in Beta and Khalnayak!

The Dirty Picture is perhaps one of the cleanest movies ever made… It’s not about sex… It’s about insecurity, politics and jealousy coming together in a wild orgy of hopelessness… and one woman who used her body to pull the right strings till she too was swept away by hubris and loneliness…

Colour Coded

A few weeks ago, I saw this video on YouTube titled Riley on Marketing. It shows a little girl, about 4 years old, questioning gender stereotyping in her own way. She wonders why all toys for girls are always pink. "Why do only girls end up with Pink Princesses", she asks. She also wonders why boys get to have superhero toys in all colours? She feels girls are tricked into buying the Princess dolls by their pink packaging, so that the boys can have the Superheroes. She reasons that although even girls want Superheroes, boys would never/rarely buy anything that's pink!

Little Riley got me thinking about a deeper problem... Why is pink a 'girly' colour? What's wrong with being 'girly'? Do boys actually dislike pink? Is it wrong for a girl to like pink? Does liking pink mean she is not as strong or independent as a 'Tom-Boy'? Does linking pink mean you are a bimbo? What's wrong with pink? Have we, in our bid to correct gender stereotyping, actually reinforced it? And what's wrong with having a Barbie or a Princess doll? It makes you more loving, more caring... a nurturer.
Instead of discouraging little girls from playing with toys that augment gender stereotyping, why not encourage boys to play with 'girl' toys too? A girl who plays with cars may not necessarily be a tomboy or will grow up to be a lesbian! Neither will every boy who likes fashion, grow up to be any less a man than those who play baseball or football. Chances are that he will grow up to be a loving, protective dad and a man who doesn't physically abuse his wife/girlfriend.
No, I never enjoyed outdoor sports as a kid and yes I loved my Barbies (much to my mom's dismay), but I turned out just fine! I have fought off a mugger (taking a knife in the face in the process), broken 6 out of my 206 bones in the line of duty and been as tough and ready to get my hands dirty as any of my male colleagues. I'm not 'afraid' of bugs, I go running in the woods behind my house everyday and can change car tyres on my own. But I haven't lost touch with my 'feminine side'. I'm very observant, creative, expressive and yes I love dressing up and applying make up...
In short, there is nothing wrong with being 'girly', coz it doesn't really matter if you are a girl or a boy. What really matters is that you are caring, compassionate, well read, independent and most importantly... a good human being.

Safedi ki Chamkaar

While Julia Roberts is busy winning well deserved accolades for her evil queen act in Mirror Mirror, I'm left wondering when (in the name of the Lord!) will we, Bharatiya Naaris, stop setting such a huge store by "Who is the fairest of them all?"

A recent advertisement, offering women a fairness creme for their privates, made me almost throw up in revulsion! It appeared to say that pati dev will not love you unless you are white... down under too! Then of course there are those 'sunscreen' ads that promise to 'correct' dark spots and tanning. Er... since when does Hindustani chamdi get dark spots??? Unless you are Kareena's twin, you will not break out into freckles or 'suffer' any other 'harmful effect' of Sun exposure as long as you keep your system well hydrated! And what does tanning do exactly... make you a little browner? We have more melanin in our skin than the vilaayatees. Melanin is a pigment, the quantity of which determines the shade of your skin. Fair skinned people have less melanin, darker skinned people have more. It's not some evil curse... it's just a freakin' pigment! That's why we are brown... and brown isn't ugly!!!

In my seven years as a journalist covering crime and politics, I've spent weeks on stake-outs... Boom mic in hand, my video-journalist and I would stand outside police stations, courthouses, jails, hospitals, government offices, political party offices etc. for hours together... waiting for the crook/news-maker of the day (or his lawyer/spokesperson) to step out and give us the all important sound-bite that would be played in a loop across various television news networks. As a result, my skin has come to resemble an Apcolyte shade card (mera wala Brown!). 


My ex was a 'Safedi ki Chamkaar' (jo andhere mein bhi saaf nazar aaye!!!) and once asked me if I could lend him some sunscreen as it was way too sunny to step out without 'adequate protection'. I looked at him lovingly, slowly undressed myself till there wasn't a thread on me and asked, "Baby... What part of me looks like I'm familiar with the concept of Sunscreen?!" Before you ask... yes we spent the remainder of the day indoors ;-) And yes, my privates are as brown as the rest of me!

Sex and Politics

It's Election Day and all I can think of... is sex! Two of my dear friends are debating if the LGBT Community should start a political party or field independent candidates, who will openly speak up about and address concerns of the community. It is an interesting back and forth on Facebook. I am also a part of the marathon argument (which is technically not an argument, coz we're all saying the same thing!)
Well first, LGBT Community sounds like something from outer space. I thought we were all Mast people! (Remember the slogan at this year's Gay Pride Parade... "I'm Gay! Main Mast Hoon!"). If you want to become a part of the mainstream, shed your 'special interest group' identity.
Next, if you are serious about politics, understand that you have to work for everyone and care about the concerns of hetros too... Personally, I think both, hetros and Mast people have the same concerns. Mumbai potholes don't spare Mast spines and Mast people aren't the only victims of crime and disease.
As far as sex is concerned, it all boils down to the Right To Scr@w (RTS, if you will ;-)) Some people have it, some people don't. Do Mast people think hetros have it easy? Dig deeper into the lives of pados ke Sharma ji, Chaddha sahab, Varma aunty, Kavita Bhabhi... Do you think all is hunky-dory in our great Indian arranged marriages? All your life you are taught not to talk to strangers, then you are expected to sleep with one?! Most Pati-Patnis 'do-the-due' under family/societal pressure, just so that there's someone to carry forward the family name. Almost all pregnancies are unplanned, most kids are the by-products of failed contraception! And that is precisely why we as a society are terrified about talking about sex... coz most people don't enjoy it... It's a chore... a formality... Raat ko attendence lagaani hai!
People don't understand love, passion, pleasure... Romance ki toh waat lagi hai! We are hardwired to believe that we should live to make others happy. Low self esteem is a virtue in out collectivist society. When will people understand, ki hum ek baar jeete hain, ek baar marte hain, aur pyaar bhi sirf ek baar hota hai! When you live double lives you die everyday and you keep falling in and out of something that sure as hell ain't love! Sachchaa pyaar kabhi kurbaaniyaan nahi maangta... maangta hai toh sirf ki tum jiyo... jee bharke!
In short, straight people need to be liberated as much as Mast people! And if we need to take a political stand to sort out our sex lives, I'm all for it!

That Woman

It is only right, that I begin my blog with a piece on the woman who inspired its name. Silk Smita made plunging necklines fashionable… she immortalised them… Silk used plunging necklines to wield a power that many before her, had failed to even comprehend. 


She wasn’t the first woman to use her sexuality to get attention, but she was certainly one of the most memorable… for she was fully aware of its raw power and she used it unabashedly. The intent was always there… her eyes were always more naked than her bosom… Every bust-thrust was deliberate, every gyration pre-meditated. 


I remember first watching her in Sadma, wondering what was someone like her doing in a ‘serious’ movie. As I grew older and watched many of her other gems, usually on late night cable TV, I understood where her real power came from. It was her unique ability to be an enigma even when she was stark naked. They don’t make them like that anymore. 

I hope Vidya Balan doesn’t let her down. The promos of The Dirty Picture look promising, but I’m going to reserve comments till I see the film. Meanwhile, I hope this blog does justice to the memory of Silk Smita… Plunging Necklines will be as wholesome, as lust-inducing and as stark as one of the most powerful women of our times. Here’s to a gutsy gal. 


May you rest in peace.