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Journalism of Courage
She is the original feminist and her brand variants are endless.
It is that time of the year again when the road that I live on in Mumbai is chock-a-block,24215;7. It has three places of worship: the temples of shopping,the Mahalakshmi shrine and the Haji Ali dargah,and Id and Dussehra-Diwali season often overlap. The 10 days of Dussehra see a 2-km-long queue of women outside the Mahalakshmi temple,waiting for a glimpse of Her. Not for us the debate of whether God is a Him or a Her. As we say,it is his his,whose whose.
She is the original feminist. I was reading a version of the Devi Purana,written in 6 CE in Bengal. And one of the flunkeys of Mahishasura,the buffalo demon,tells her that her beautiful hands should not be holding such ugly weapons; and that she should be on a soft downy mattress with her legs around his masters neck yes,it actually says so in the translation that I am reading!. Her reply is hilariously dismissive. She asks him to tell his master that she is way out of his league and he is better off finding a she-buffalo to cohabit with! My favourite temple is the Durga temple at Varanasi which I describe to my women friends as having a certain F you quality to it. And they instantly get the meaning. She stands resplendent and tall and seems to be saying,Here I stand,gorgeous,graceful and gracious; my identity is defined by who I am and not by who comes to visit me; come and touch your forehead to my floor if you wish,if not,really no problem at all.
My mother has her own definition of feminism though,and so does my daughter. My mother is the original feminist of her day,very well educated for her times,utterly mentally emancipated and totally socially conformist. Like many south Indian women of her generation,she hasnt learnt the fine art of matching her blouses and saris,and so will go anywhere in vibrantly coloured Kanjeevaram saris,worn with white or black blouses. On the day of my brothers wedding,I begged her to please make the effort to match her blouse and sari. She looked at me pityingly and said,I really feel sorry for you. Despite all your success,you dont have the social confidence to go out with an unmatched blouse. Ouch. To this day it rankles. Do all my achievements not give me the social confidence and mental freedom to wear a white blouse with a purple sari,especially given the amount of time and effort it takes to have a matched wardrobe? She also never fails to tell me often,Its easy to practise womens lib when you are earning. Look at me. Despite being under your fathers thumb financially,I was still my own person. There we go again! My sense of self is rapidly diminishing. When my daughter was six,she said to her dad in a sad,knowing tone,I dont know why you married her. All she does is watch Bold and the Beautiful,talk on the phone and go to meetings. So it does appear that I havent managed either the mahishasura mardini demon slayer or the madhusudana kamini his beloved bit right. But for these nine days at least,who cares!
The women waiting in the queue for the temple are variegated,and capture all the shades and grades of Indian women. Shiny saris,black beads,jeans and T-shirts,salwar kameez,bindi foreheads for some,sindoor maangs for others,nothing but lipstick on others,modern and jazzy handbags and colourful cloth bags mingle,and the chappals and sandals are high-heeled,low-heeled,plastic,rubber. There is a universal air of freedom and partying! Where are the problem husbands,the harassing mothers-in-law,the wailing brats? It does seem like a nine-day reprieve from the cares of gender,courtesy of Shakti.
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