Suncatcher (Photo courtesy by Anasua Mitter Basu)
Things have changed, at least for me. I know more women now who I can trust to stand by me than I did before.
But in the corridors of pain, there are corridos of betrayal, of absence, of us, the sisters. Continue reading
The Tejpal sexual assault incident has shaken me up badly. And I wondered why. It is not that I held him as a man of high character. Enough has been written about him in recent times.
Then I realized why. You see, as a feminist one has this vision of an emancipated woman—who is strong, who can speak her mind, who can decisions, who is not afraid—an invincible woman. And in that vision, one creates in the mind, a safe space for oneself and for one’s community. And that safe space went crumbling last night.
I am not a journalist. I turned towards communication. But in the last 13 yrs, I have known and taught several journalists. For me, journalism has been that one profession where women had to learn to speak and have courage, it is like a pathway to emancipation. So I have tremendous pride in both erstwhile as well as current women students in this area. Many fight against odds at home and amongst peers. Journalism, unlike many other fields is often a well-thought out choice and for me, a feminist act in itself.
And so, although I have not taught core Journalism subjects, I enter into the classroom hoping to infuse within my female students with spirit, courage, clarity of mind, ability to make quick decision, to walk towards that vision of the strong vocal woman.
Within moments of Tejpal’s “recuse” from his editorship, other women journalists were pouring in stories of their abuse and their inability to speak up. Sucheta Dalal tweeted “If women jurnos speak, like the legal intern, many top names will be dented!” Another woman journalist (TheRestlessQuill) tweeted: “seriously, look around. I don’t know a single journalist who doesn’t have her own sordid story to tell.”
Delhi gangrape case had created furor in the country. Activists of all kinds had vocalized issues and solutions. There were death chants for rapists. The incident and verdict was thoroughly covered and debated in the media. That included Tehelka. If anyone was in the know of what rape/sexual assault/workplace sexual harassment/public sexual harassment is, with all its social and legal connotations, then it is the Editor of a media group like Tehelka.
And even that intimate a knowledge, even being in the eye of storm did not deter him from sexually assaulting his colleague, a colleague who covered violence against women issues in her stories. What hope do we have for others?
I realize now that there was never a need for us to be emancipated. There was never a need to transform and change and become this and that. It was not us but men who need emancipation.
Man, you need emancipation. It is time you stopped rationalizing rape and sexual assault, stopped rationalizing why society should maintain status quo with you at the helm, stopped believing you have god-given or nature-driven superior values to run organizations and countries, stopped believing the way you do things is the way it should be done. It is time you started to question yourself. Stop taking rape and sexual assault easy. Stop believing you can manipulate women into silence. Stop believing your public posture is going to eternally hide the skeletons in your cupboard. It is time for fathers to teach their sons, for brothers to reign in their brothers, for teachers to transform their male students. Because several of you irrespective of your education, profession and public posturing, are depraved and a blight on life on Earth.
I await your Ashoka moment—when you will be finally consumed by remorse seeing the pain you have inflicted. Man, I await your emancipation.
It is never about movies per se– few have truly affected me. Mostly it is about watching it—how, when, with whom and my thoughts in those moments that make movies special. Watching movie is like a social experience for me. Continue reading
I am not crazy about Diwali anymore. Perhaps age breeds a certain kind of wariness and weariness around celebrations. But somehow, this time, I want to be in a large terrace with a huge plate of earthen diyas—oil and wick-ready and I wish all of you were here with me, helping light these diyas, one flame to another, and line them in close bunches through the edges of this terrace, this terrace called Earth.
Come, let us line these diyas through the lush fields where rice and wheat and pulses sway in laughter, through fields now overwhelmed with floods, up into a farmer’s house and light one in her broken heart, and then run towards parched soils and desert spirits and light one for hope, and climb up the mountains to light a bunch for the mules of Uttarakhand who were forgotten and left starving, down through homes with no roofs and sometimes no walls.
Then let us run over marbled floors and up the staircases of our political leader’s homes and light one in their living room for wisdom and land into corporate leaders’ balconies and light some for compassion.
Let us now make our way to the trembling sea waters, now with an oil slick, now with some chemical residues, and now with plastic garbage and set afloat a million lamps on his waters.
Finally let us return to the centre of this Earth, to this terrace, to our own hearts and light a bunch inside for clarity. Celebrating with you now in spirit. Happy Diwali!
We never stood in queues to buy movie tickets. You see, dad worked in a film distribution firm. He always knew cinema hall owners. My childhood was full of eavesdropped info on which movies had the right combination to be a hit and which did not and if it would do well in city or rural parts, Bengal or Bihar and interspersed with few eye-popping stories such as this:
“Appa, you went to see Sridevi?”
“Yes, a producer and me, we went to her house.”
“What did she give you to eat?”
“Oh, she fed us a big masala dosa. It was very tasty.”
The thought of Sridevi serving my dad masala dosa somehow made me like her more.
As I grew up, I learnt the art of dropping in at dad’s office with my best smile, asking to see a movie. He would call and check with a hall manager and soon I would be trotting away happily. I would rush up the stairs, into the manager’s cabin and get ushered to a seat set up hastily in between sections. I never bought drinks or popcorn. The manager would inevitably send me a Thumbs Up and popcorn while the rest of the folks would be staring at me if perchance I was a celebrity. I loved the attention as always. After the movie, I would skip down the stairs back to the cabin to give my review of the movie (in dad’s style): what was the audience reaction, how long can we expect it to run, should we edit out any section.
When dad and I went for “dad n I” trip to north-east, we stayed with and met mostly cinema hall owners and distributors. I learnt about Assam and ULFA kidnappings through the stories in the movie business community. When we pushed further into Manipur, we stayed in a room above a cinema hall and enjoyed dinner with a local owner. Any trip that we took in my childhood inevitably led us to other members of this community. It had seemed a forever community then.
Today, as I book my movie tickets online (I still like watching movies alone), I know things are different. No one will know me in the hall, at the gate I will be searched, and I will have buy my own popcorn and make my way to my seat-L-5, as the ticket says.
Dad has stopped watching movies in theatre. An era has passed.