Of Enlightenment And Body Hair (AKA How I Got An Epiphany During A Wax Job)

Choti Mata’s Notes : Body hair is not exactly an appetizing choice of topic for anything, least of all a blog post. But hey, Choti Mata has recently been subjected to a particularly tormenting session at the local salon that threatened serious emotional damage lest she vent out her fury. Since, a hands on scuffle on the adjacent road was out of question, she has taken this less damaging (and less dangerous) method of keeping her sanity (or whatever is left of it anyway) intact. 

Disclaimer: The next 1000 or so words might contain stuff that a certain section of population may deem gross. It also contains radioactive traces of that substance called feminism. Don’t like. Don’t Read. And if you haven’t yet mastered the delicate art of navigating away from a page on your browser, feel free to close your eyes and wish it all away. It might just work.

“Arey! I can still see small hair on this finger. Do a thorough job”

It was the 10^th time this statement had been repeated in a span of less than 5 minutes. It was also the 10^th time I had reminded myself that I needed to work on my timing and stop bumping into finicky females during my salon visits. The female in question, who shall henceforth be referred to as ‘pretty woman’ (I am not being sarcastic. She really was pretty) meanwhile seemed totally unfazed and focused on her quest for perfection.

The harrowed salon girl bent further, squinting really hard to see the alleged hairs. They were evidently working very hard to remain unseen. After a few seconds, she conceded defeat in this game of hide and seek and just went on doing what she was expected to do, presumably praying that those hairs would have mercy on her and at least stop being visible in whatever hyper sensitive lens the pretty woman was using to find them.

It was several harrowing minutes later that the pretty woman was marginally satisfied and the poor salon hand could extricate herself from her clutches.  By the time she made it to my side, offering me a tired smile, I was already having a massive empathy attack and was on the verge of walking out, if only to spare her of any further torture.

I did not walk out. I could not. Because I had to be seen in public the next day and even though I had no penchant for the perfection that the pretty lady sought with admirable dedication, I still did not want to go out there looking like I could use a lawn mower.  But I was totally unable to shake off the guilt that seared me every time I told her that I could see hair on my whole goddamn arm.

I hate salon visits. I really do. They tend to make me feel strangely violated. And guilty of being a slave driver. Usually, both at the same time. It is about as disturbing a combination of emotions as it sounds.

But before I delve any further into the meat (or the follicle) of this matter, let me clarify my stand on the elephant in this post.

The body hair.

As a huge fan of body autonomy arguments, I have nothing against individuals, including women, who actively choose to not get their body hair removed.

Yay! to the hairy leg I say, as long as it is a matter of personal choice and makes the individual in question happy. I also expect the same courtesy to be extended to the individuals who choose to get their body hair removed, again strictly as a matter of personal choice.

I have been on both sides of that fence. Because, by the time I had discovered and ventured into the masochistic world of body wax, it was alarmingly late (by teenage esteem standards anyway) and I had already, albeit unintentionally militated against the convention for several years.  

However, after I did cross that fence, the choice to stay there was pretty much deliberate and intentional. Convenient as it was, I realized I just I did not subscribe to the idea of preservation of body hair—mine or anyone else’s. (Loose translation: Hairy individuals=big turn off) But as I said, I respect personal choices. Including the extreme ones—like the choice to prance around like a baboon. I am cool—as long they are not making mating calls in my vicinity.

So, I don’t like body hair. Which against the background of my absolute aversion to salon visits is a preference that ends up being a massive pain.

Still, prudence tends to score over petulance and most times, I am able to make it to a salon before things get out of hands. However, as I mentioned before, I totally lack the penchant for perfection that the pretty lady exhibited and tend to prefer my stay in the salon confines to be as short as possible. It is hence rare for me to get anything beyond the obvious out of my salon visits—least of all, a food for thought topped with an epiphany.

This time, it was different. Different because, sitting there, watching the pretty woman getting all worked up over five stray hair on her finger--it got me thinking.

It got me thinking about the sad world that the pretty woman seemed to belong to. The world where people managed to tear their eyes off her undeniably attractive face and focus on a bunch of invisible hair on her arm.

Then, a terrifying realization came crashing down on me. The realization that perhaps we belong to the same world. The world where the possibility of me being judged by the quality of my wax job was much higher than me being judged for anything remotely more substantial—what I have to say for example.

There is enough evidence around to support that particular conclusion. A thriving cosmetics industry,;an even more thriving advertisement industry that seems to find the core of all its creativity around women’s body; body image issues that seem more like an endemic and the pages of the Hindi daily that were lying open in front of me and telling me how turmeric was the only treasure that I needed in my life because it would keep my skin glowing.  

It was a terrible realization. It made me want to throw up.

I left the salon within next 15 minutes. The bright light day made me see things a little more clearly.

Then I had that epiphany.

I did not spend any more time in the salon than I had to. The pretty woman did not spend any less time in there than she wanted to.  And we were both off on our merry ways, none less or more in worth than the other.

Perhaps, my horrifying realization was true. Perhaps, our world is indeed very shallow. Perhaps, they are out there—judging us within their shallow understanding of an individual’s (especially when the individual is referred to as ‘she’) worth.

And yet, just like the body hair, this too is a matter of personal choice. My personal choice of the extent to which I allow myself to be judged. Or be judged at all. And just like body hair, neither side of the fence is wrong. Not really. Not as long as the so called choice is actually personal and not a product of external conditioning.

There shall always be judgments. It is inevitable. But, subscribing to those judgments is a choice. Being governed by those judgments is a choice.

Being judged is always a choice. Please feel free to say no!   

Women Ahoy! Say What? Say No!!!

Choti Mata had an epiphany while shaking off her post Holi stupor. She needed to blog. And so, Choti Mata is back, this time talking about pointlessness of burning bras and the importance of the idea of ‘saying no’, even when it is not about sexual advances.  

Choti Mata doesn’t advocate bra-burning feminism. Because it is a misguided epithet. And because bras are expensive. But Choti Mata is all in for reasoned feminism—you know the one that does not mindlessly label all male species of the planet as vicious, uncivilized creatures with only one properly functioning organ and a sinister, destructive, violent agenda against everything that moves and is referred to as ‘she’.  Because that too is a misguided, oversimplified generalization. Because Choti Mata hates a lot of things—and bigotry tops that list. And because it is hardly prudent to antagonize what constitutes half the population of this planet.

 

Also because Choti Mata thinks male species, at least the human one, is needed. For business. And for pleasure.

That being said, there are things that are bothersome—within and without the realms of feminism. It is unfortunate that because realms of feminism sometimes overlap with realms of reasonable expectations—it is easy to dismiss even reasonable expectations as frustrated, pointless tirades of feminist hags. Because nothing is classier than putting those people down who dare to raise their voices for their legitimate rights.

So there are things that bother us as right thinking individuals—feminist moorings notwithstanding.  Like our right to say ‘no’. Or the lack of it. And I am not even talking about advances—sexual or otherwise. I am still stuck on the decisions that pertain to our life—like what I would like to have for dinner? Of who would I like to marry and spend the rest of my life with?

An acquaintance was recently gushing about a girl he knew who was so obedient, she did not even bother meeting her ‘would be’ husband chosen by her family before marriage. Because you know, father knows the best and if he is happy, so is she.

I think this was the point of the conversation where I was supposed to say something appropriate in response. Or at least make some approving sound. I couldn’t. I was too busy trying not to gag.

Completely ignoring the fact that this scenario sounds like it had been ripped from some legendary Govinda movie of the 80s, it was downright disturbing. And distasteful. And so totally disrespectful of the times we say we are living in—the times of education and opportunities; of freedom and independence; of choices and basic rights to live. The times I am talking about of course are limited to a certain set of people belonging to a certain strata of the society—the urban, educated one. But that is hardly relevant—because the trigger for this post belongs to this very strata while still choosing to behave as if they were stuck in one of the villages Shyam Benegal used to make movies about. Or the ones that exist in the real World and think Khap is more powerful than Barak Obama. (Maybe, in their part of the Universe, it is. But that is not the point).

The ability to ‘say no’ is an inherent part of the idea of choice—the idea that is the core of all empowerment. A society that chooses to glorify ‘not saying no’ as a virtue is a society condemning itself to perpetual regression. Unfortunately, it is exactly the kind of society that largely thrives around us. The society where ‘love marriage’ is still a hush word.

This is not an arranged marriage versus love marriage debate. Marriage per se is a touchy topic. Especially for Choti Mata. She might need at least 10 other such post before she gets it entirely out of her system. But that is for later.

Both love and arranged marriage have their own merits and demerits. The arranged marriage scenario is simply an illustration for a prevalent decision making process in our lives—be it the kind of education we should have to the kind of person we should marry. This certainly doesn’t imply that families should not have a say in our decisions. Families have best intentions and our best interest in their heart (unless of course the family is dysfunctional. Or watches too many Sitcoms) and are often an asset in crucial decision making processes. But ultimately, it is our life. We should have a say. A choice. And it should be recognized as a virtue. Not vice. This is a gender neutral aspect of this idea. Because believe it or not, familial and societal pressure are actually a huge issue for men too. Maybe not as huge as women. But still huge. And considering that the idea of choice is all encompassing, it has to address everyone.

Coming back to the point of feminism and women, amidst the hue and cry about any and everything concerning women empowerment, the subtle aspects often get left behind. The aspects that play out in perfectly well meaning, educated, loving families.  Just because they are still stuck with an image of a ‘good girl’ that was hard to digest even in the 60s. The one that says a ‘good girl’ knows her house chores, keeps everyone in the family happy, is always prim, proper, appropriate and of course, is supremely obedient.

There goes my gag reflex again.

Not saying that those qualities are not desirable. Maybe they are. Maybe they are not. It is a matter of individual choice. And that is the whole point. I don’t mind being the ‘good girl’. I would just like to have a choice about whether I want to or not. Besides, who said I could not be all of the above and still not have aspects that are wild, improper, unconventional…disobedient.

Because hell we are educated. We are independent. Quite a lot of us are holding out pretty fine in what they call ‘a man’s world’. The last thing you should want us to be is to be prototypes. Of a model that had gone obsolete the year it was created. Just because you think it is appropriate. Safe.

Who is to say that simply because we do not fit in a set of prototypes, we will not be able to accomplish what ‘good girls’ traditionally do? What exactly makes everyone out there presume that just because we break stereotypes, we will not be able to build great families, great societies and everything else that we think needs to be done?

Besides, even if we don’t fulfill our traditional roles, we will at least be leading happy and productive lives—lives that may prove far more valuable to the society than our hankered, subdued, tied down versions ever could be. 

The bottom-line, however, is simple. And it is not about the society or its beliefs. It is far more intimate. It is about family. Families that glorify ‘not saying no’ as a desirable virtue for the female members. Families that don’t think being strong and smart is a worthwhile aspiration for their women.

The only answer to a regressive society is a non-regressive family. The family that can teach its women to fight and survive. To make it count. A society may not be open to change—but if families are, we will have a lot of ground covered. And have a lot of hope for the future.

Ultimately, if you preen at the idea of your obedient daughter submitting to your every command now; you better be prepared to preen when she quietly subjects herself to domestic violence, never saying a word. Or when she bears with ill-treatment and molestation without ever standing up for herself.

Because it was you who taught her never to raise a voice. Because it was you who taught her that standing up against what is wrong is unacceptable. Because it was you who taught her that staying silent is her only resort.

Because it was you who taught her that ‘saying no’ is a bad thing.   

It Is Wedding Time, Folks!!!

Choti Mata’s Note: Wedding season. Biological clock. And Choti Mata is so not married at the moment. Or planning to. Do I need to say more?

Tick Tock Tick Tock.

Hear that! That is a biological clock ticking. My biological clock.

Never mind that I am still hovering around my mid-twenties—side notwithstanding. Never mind that the general consensus is that I have very well regressed to my mid-teens. Or that I never actually left my mid teens behind. The consensus is not sure.

For some not so weird reason, the decibel levels of this ticking are raised exponentially during the wedding season. Like right now. Probably because everyone on my FB wall is getting married. And that is just a minor exaggeration.

To be honest, I feel absolutely happy for all of them. They are taking the big leap towards their ‘happily ever after’, assuming that something like that exists. Also, pigs fly.

Anyway, weddings mean good wedding food to hog on and I don’t see anything to complain about. Except of course if I am totally ignoring the comparative magnification of my single status in the season—strictly for the clock hearing crowd that is. Following the ideal of 'ignorance is bliss' is an actual art—and I am getting pretty good at it.

Just to clarify, there is nothing wrong with the idea of getting married. And since I have always been a huge critique of bigotry in every form, I think it is as inappropriate to judge people for getting married as it is to judge them for not getting married. Everyone operates within his or her own comfort zone and is totally entitled to live out their idea of a good life. And for the record, quite a few of my friends got married pretty early and seem to be doing great. The relevant point here is not the timing. It is the fact that they got married not because some stupid clock said they had to. They got married because they wanted to—were ready for it. 

Which is the bottomline that everyone seems to be totally missing.

In any case, as far as I am concerned, in my limited understanding, there is actually no reason for the clock to panic. There is still time. I guess the clock is pretty much aware of this. It is the people who can ‘hear it’ tick that seem to have a problem.

Contrary to the popular belief, I totally understand the importance of this so called clock as much as I understand the relevance of the idea of doing everything at the right time. I do realize that it is indeed a colossal stupidity to consciously 'tempt the clock' and invite health risks for yourself as well as any other poor being that you just might have been assigned to bring into the World. I understand this fact. I respect this fact.

What I don’t understand is the need to transcend all reasonableness and sense of purpose to give this clock the absolute supremacy. Especially when it concerns what I presume is the literal make or break decision of our lives. To rush into alliances or be rushed into it, just because you got a damn timeline to meet. I presumed it would be a no-brainer that one doesn’t play the stakes of life on deadlines or panic attacks.

Apparently, in this country, they do.

In this country where getting every single woman of marriageable age in the vicinity married is a national obsession. I sometimes really want to know what part of ‘my’ in ‘my marriage’ is so incomprehensible for everyone.  

You walk on two legs. You are not an ape. You are above 21. Get married.

You walk on two legs. You are not an ape. You are above 18. You have female parts. Get the hell married right now!

The fact that you might not be financially, emotionally or psychologically ready for it is irrelevant. That you may not be ready or willing to take up the challenges and responsibilities that entail marital life is pointless. That you, God forbid, may not want to marry at all is sacrilegious and inconceivable.

The point is I am not getting all moony eyed about my knight on a horse—which is obvious because (a) the chances of that much touted knight turning out to be a chauvinist jackass are quiet high—after all he is the figment of a chauvinist imagination which involves damsel in distress. Definitely not designed for damsels causing distress and (b) I am an educated, liberated woman, thank you very much. Chances are I find a man with a pen much sexier than one with the horse…or that white ginny from Honey Singh’s video. Not that I have anything against Lamborghinis…but its owner’s intellect still takes precedence in my list of preference.

So, I do not harbor impossible romantic fantasies. But I do have a fair idea of what I want from my life and from the one I intend to share it with, if at all. The marriage fanatics out there need to wrap their heads around the idea of choice and understand that if I or for that matter anyone in the marriageable age bracket is single, it is because either they are not ready to exercise this choice or they haven’t been able to find someone to exercise it for. And in doing so, they are neither being unreasonable nor immature. Even if they are, it is their life—I think they have the right to ruin it. That would any day be better than having it ruined because they married under pressure for all the wrong reasons and earned a life time of regret—all because they did not get to exercise their choice or intuition or anything else for that matter.

Biological clock is important. Trust me, it may not look like it, but most of us are trying really hard to abide by it. If for some reason we don’t, there is a good chance that it is because we are trying to avoid a disaster which at least we think is bigger than busting a clock. We may be wrong, but you must know that we have the best intentions. It is our life after all. It is better this way. Our life, our choice, our consequences.

In the end, however, reasoning is rarely an option. So my Mother, who by the way, is extremely cool and is the reason why my unmarried life so far has been happy and incident free, actually came up with an interesting strategy. A brilliant tactical masterstroke, if you ask me. So for anyone who pesters her about my marriage, she has a standard response, *ominous tone alert* “A panditji said, do not marry her early…not okay according to her Kundali!”

See, brilliant!

Because in India, a good wedding reception dinner is worth messing up with a couple of human lives. But God forbid, if those planets are involved. Humans lives, after all, are dispensable. But astrology—that is sacred. No wonder, Mother manages to shut them up every single time.

The final word however is from another really cool member of my family, my brother. This is what he has to say on the matter, “If you get married tomorrow, I support you. If you get married at 30, I support you. If you get married at 40, I support you. You plan on not getting married, I support you”

With awesome brother like that around, who cares for the clock…or for that matter, anything else!

Dear Society, watch and learn. This is how it is done!

Of Symbolisms And Sanskar; Of Kejriwal And Alok Nath!

Choti Mata’s Note: Given the enthrallingly happening weeks that rang in this New Year, there were multiple contenders for the topic of this post. But ultimately, Arvind Kejriwal and Alok Nath emerged as the top contenders. Well, them and Devyani Khobragade. But, then this is Choti Mata’s space and is all about ‘good’ life lessons—lessons that were hard to find in a diplomatic mess replete with feet stomping nations, underpaying diplomats and cavity searches. So, in the end it was a coin toss between Kejriwal and Alok Nath. Only the coin did a Sholay (Remember the one time when that wretched coin stands on its edge. Yeah! That one) and the following is what…well followed.

Arvind Kejriwal is the new Nayak of the real world. Alok Nath is the new Rajnikanth of the virtual world. This is the latest world order. And it is, quite frankly, disturbing.

A whole lot of this disturbing for me is because every single time I think Nayak, my mind automatically replays that iconic mud fighting scene from the movie. Now, it may be just me but there is something about naked men in mud that is a total turn off for me. Even when the man in the mud is John Abraham (Remember Dhoom’s Tata Young video?). Replace John Abraham with Anil Kapoor and it’s a total power grid shutdown. Replace him with Arvind Kejriwal and I’d rather switch to solar power.

But of course I know that mud fighting skills were definitely not in the list of credentials that make Arvind Kejriwal who he is. His preliminary credentials are in fact way more impressive than his fictional counterpart could ever boast of. Nayak’s hero got lucky. Kejriwal, on the other hand has actually worked pretty hard for it. Which is exactly why I find Kejriwal’s Nayak comparisons so wrong and belittling. Apart from the weirdly disturbing imagery of course.

Validity of these comparisons apart, Kejriwal was as much of a sensation online as he was offline. He had captured imaginations…and the webspace. Which was obvious and understandable.

But then something happened. Something that was neither obvious nor understandable. Something called Alok Nath.

Out of the wild, unknown blue…or sanskari saffron, as the memes would have us believe, he came. He saw. He conquered. And became an internet phenomenon. Everyone went for a piece of it…him…well, the phenomena I mean. The social media was flooded with memes and jokes and everything else that the netizens thought was necessary to fulfill their sacrosanct duty towards this holy internet sensation.

Kejriwal had needed strategy, hard work and genuine intentions. But Alok Nath…he needed nothing except to be his awesome ‘sanskari’ self. Well that and couple of Hindi movie channels armed with way too many Sooraj Barjatya movies than can be deemed healthy for any society.

Juxtaposition of Arvind Kejriwal and Alok Nath is, however, in fact much more than a clever blog post device. It is a telling sign of our times—times where our contemporary virtual world is characterized by the incredible co-existence of idiocy with intellect. The virtual world where Kamaal R Khan is as iconic as Shah Rukh Khan and no one as much as squirms in discomfort. No one except, I presume, Shah Rukh Khan.

Vagaries of our fickle virtual spaces aside, there is something else which ties Arvind Kejriwal and Alok Nath—something that is slightly more meaningful and in deference to the spirit of this blog, you know lesson-ish.

The thing that ties them both up—is of course Sanskar. Only that Alok Nath, ostensibly, subscribes to the kind where one is required to touch elders’ feet while Kejriwal subscribes to the version where one is required to pull the rug from under elders’ feet…if they are corrupt that is. The point is, both are high on symbolism; both stand for (different) values that we had long presumed to have been buried in books and fed off to the railway rats (Those rats practically spend their entire life-spans between the rails. They still manage to be awfully fat. There has to be a reason!); both look better with a moustache.

Okay, you can ignore the last point.

There is, however, a difference. Alok Nath doesn’t thrive on the symbolism. Kejriwal does. And so, after his sanskari image went viral, he went on record to actually claim that he had a *ahem* wild young life complete with drunk outings and crazy girlfriends. The fans of his sankar, however, chose to ignore this. Possibly because they were incredulous. Imagining Alok Nath as a wild child might need a (un)healthy dose of creativity and quite a few rewatches of Bol Radha Bol. I doubt if anyone was up for it.

But there is another possible reason. It was ignored because it was convenient—because sustaining a symbolism is easier than actually questioning it. A human socio-intellectual inertia that is bound to replicate itself in case of Arvind Kejriwal. Not that he is going to do anything to damage the symbolism that defines his position. Quite the contrary. But there are others. There are always others. The others that will be ignored…for now.

The trouble with symbolism, however, is not these others. The trouble is that it has a short shelf life, presence or absence of others notwithstanding. It needs to be backed up—with substance…plenty of substance.

Because sooner or later, people will get bored with Alok Nath. Not because they are offended by his drunken romps and anti-sanskari past life. But because that is what people do. They get bored. And go back to Rajnikanth. And CID.

Kejriwal will need to remember this.