Book Extract: The Bad Boy’s Guide to the Good Indian Girl
“The Singh household was, these days, rather precariously balanced on its head.
With six females in it, patriarch PP Singh had been feeling for a while that it was losing its male essence. For that is what it was: an essence. A house could be filled with a dozen women but if one man ruled over them all like a dark lord, frightening even at his most benign, the household would still smell male. There would be a faint odour of man coming off the furniture, the curtains, even the kitchen. Even the women. Like in his own childhood, all the women in the house had vaguely given off a ‘man’ essence. It was not a scent. Just a flavour.
Patriarch PP Singh had worked hard to recreate that flavour in his own family. The disappointment of not having sons had long since evaporated. And to tell the truth, he wasn’t even sure he wanted sons. Sons are trouble. If he had a teenage son now, he’d be creating a little scene everyday – today a motorcycle; tomorrow a car; then girl-trouble; or he’d be out all night, smoking and drinking. Maybe there would be police trouble.
Now look at all those boys arrested near Rakabganj. Just think. They don’t even leave the gurudwara alone. Forty of them, sitting in jail, having their bottoms reddened. Serves the monkeys right.
But just think of their fathers. The police calling up in the middle of the night: ‘Your son is in jail’. Going to the thana, paying money, doing ji-huzoori, licking the fat thanedar’s arse.
Na ji, na. Daughters were just fine. And fine daughters they were too. They had not given him one day of trouble so far. All that shit other people said – daughters are hard to manage; daughters need to be watched and god knows what else. He never had to.
People just did not know how to bring up girls. Now, his Mrs… she had needed a little managing. Not much. A few whacks now and then. But over the last five years, her will had settled into his so completely, it was hard to get her up to any decision at all. Even to go shopping at Diwali, she would just grunt at him, which could be interpreted any way he chose.
His three daughters, Gitoo, Pinky and Silky, were big girls now and they knew just what to do and what not to do. Gitoo was twenty-two, Pinky twenty and Silky nearly sixteen. But none of them asked for anything except money to go to college and a few nice clothes. These were all very reasonable demands and PP Singh was not an unreasonable man. Gitoo wasn’t top of her class but she was manageable. Next year she would either clear the MBA entrance or she would be married. For Pinky and Silky, there was time.
But even since this new girl had entered the household, PP Singh had begun to feel as if the reins were no longer so firmly in his own hands. Not that she was any trouble. She was quieter than his wife, if that was possible for anyone but the deaf and dumb, and more nervous in his presence than all the rest put together. Yet, his own pervasive essence had shrunk a little. With Teena in the house, it seemed as if the other side of the gender scale had grown heavier, as if the house had been tipped on its side.
For one, he no longer felt free to walk into any room he liked. Teena was his best friend’s daughter and she herself had asked if she could come and stay. She had taken admission in a diploma course in Delhi and had made a phone call to the Singh household before she moved. All she had needed to say was: “Uncle, I need your protection.”
PP Singh took her into the household in a heartbeat. A young girl in a new city, far away from her own family – though he had to confess to himself that he did not see why a young girl should leave her own home and move to a new city – should not remain without protection. Na ji na, he would not let her languish in hostels or paying guest accommodations.
All the same, she was twenty one years old – a young woman of marriageable age and not a member of his own family. So for the first time in his life, PP Singh was knocking on doors in his own house.
That in itself wasn’t so bad. What had really turned the household on its head had been the little rebellion about the dog.”
***
(Extracted from the chapter “Big Girls” in The Bad Boy’s Guide to the Good Indian Girl, Or the Good Indian Girl’s Guide to Living, Loving and Having Fun. To read further, you can buy the book here or here.)
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?
For ease of understanding, let’s focus on the more widely publicized karva chauth. The etymology of Karva Chauth is largely unknown, although bolstered by many possible hypotheses. One theory states that this was the time of year (on the 4th day of the dark fortnight of the month of Kartik) that travel away from home and military campaigns commenced, which led women to fast for their husband’s well-being. The festival also coincides with the beginning of the rabi crop cycle, and hence may have also been a form of prayer for a good harvest, given the transactional nature between deity and devotee in Hinduism, where striking bargains and ‘bribing’ deities is acceptable practice. While Karva Chauth is predominantly a Northern and North-western ritual, it exists in numerous variations all over India (it is less pervasive in the North-east), but always involves women fasting for male kin--specifically, spouses.
To understand the ritual, I also read about the zeitgeist in which it originated. Since we do not know when exactly women began practicing it, we can assume that it was either during the Golden Age of Hinduism—when women were officiating priests and gender-specific practices like child marriage, sati, etc. had not crept into mainstream society—or it began during a time of uncertainty and oppression for women, when their marital status was all that kept them from a life of wretchedness and societal abandonment. In either case, it appears clear that Karva Chauth was adopted and implemented for women’s own preservation, i.e. less for their husband’s well-being and more for their own, since their existence was so closely tied to their spouse’s.
In 2011, my friend’s husband is not going to war. Both she and her spouse travel with equal frequency. And while both my friend’s happiness is certainly closely linked to the well-being of her spouse, her existence and survival is not. It is even less so in the case of the friend fasting for her brother. What then, drives urban, educated women, one living in Bombay and the other in San Francisco, to go a whole day without food and water?
I turned the question over to them. “I am from UP,” one said, adding a sad emoticon to our screen conversation, “it is an important day there.” She explained that there was pressure to follow the ritual and it was hard to say no when “they connect the fast to someone you hold dear,” in this case, her brother. Both she and my other friend were a trifle apologetic about engaging in something that they understood at a cognitive level was illogical. “It does embarrass me,” the other said, “that I who talk of women’s rights and the empowerment of womanhood so frequently, undertake the fast anyway.” Would her spouse join her and abstain from food as well, I asked. “Oh no,” came the answer, “he can’t stay hungry.”
I get the power of social conditioning. If this is something you have seen female role models do and have been told it is an expression of love and concern for a dear one, you are likely to not push the envelope and err on the side of caution and tradition. What interests me is that neither woman gave much thought to what they were subjecting their bodies to (even if it is just one day—unless the doctor recommends it, is an entire day of abruptly denying your body food and water healthy?) and that there was minimal questioning of their partners’ non-opinion on the issue. I am aware that we are talking of an 18-hour time frame. Ramzan is a whole month of similar deprivation. But do remember that in the case of Ramzan fasting, both genders are expected to do it, and not for each other.
I will admit that it isn’t the fasting per se that bothers me as much as the social expectation that one gender must undertake it for another, while being provided compensation in monetary forms (jewelry, clothes, make-up, henna, etc.) Many of you may say there is no coercion and you undertake fasting of your own free will, but you may want to consider whether free will exists in a vacuum, without socialization, cultural pressures and gender-specific expectations creeping into the mix. How many of you do this only because your in-laws expect it? How many because you saw your mother do it? Because it's just the way it is and it's only one day and we may as well please "them" and be done with it?
My individual conversations with both friends were full of banter and joking about how they need to sneak in some gajar halwa and how a Parsi (I am one) must never be separated from her food, but on a more serious note, do give this action deep thought if you are undertaking it and question your reasons other than “because they say so.” There is love for your partner/brother/other male kin and then there is logic. And it IS perfectly possible for the two to co-exist. As women, let’s not do ourselves a disservice by blindly going along with what always has been. If you carefully consider your compulsions and still wish to abstain because you believe starvation on your part will help your loved one live longer and thrive, power to you. Don’t forget to tell me how you do it.
Two Poems
How to escape a Skinner box
Electronic relationships are the easiest to erase
Reject all phone calls, Blacklist the number, Block him everywhere
Just hit the ‘delete’ button and it’s all over
Go without talking to him this minute and you can
Go the next and the next and for every minute after that
As if nothing had ever happened.
If one plus one is no longer infinity
Cut him off;
Erase all memories as though you had never met or known or understood or loved
This man; Like no one had ever known or loved or understood you.
Remember how big the world is and how little you are in it,
How ephemeral your feelings and fallacious your knowledge
Remind yourself: you are just five senses and
He, seventy-two-point-six percent water;
If this river runs its course
Let it
What would remain of you but
A few photographs (delete them)
A song (change the soundtrack)
And the feelings after rosé-induced baby talk?
Ignore, ignore all stimuli and chant this like a mantra:
In a twenty-six letter world, eight are negligible
Only one is holy
‘I’
Escape.
***
Wendy Kroy
Your attempts to win her over are
The tale of Sisyphus’ life-
Her wounded eyes, the spider’s snare
When you lose yourself between her thighs, prepare
To have her endless legs crush your neck-
She’ll trap you in her web of lies
Smile when you meet her
Kiss her even; But be aware-
Of that pistol in your pocket
Never forget this: If you hesitate to kill her
She will kill you; Beware-
This is a woman to be worshipped, not loved;
Aspire to no more than being her designated fuck,
Whatever you do keep your opinions to yourself
If she wanted the truth, she’d torture it out of you;
Remember she likes her men like her drinks
Stiff, blue
Don’t try to run or hide
You may be damned if you do but
You’re dead if you don’t
For the moment, prepare
To be snuffed out like her hourly cigarettes.
***