No Crying, Please! You're Boys!

The public message on television says it all too clearly! The camera pans on a little boy's face, a little boy who has tears running down bis cheeks. The reasons may be galore - either he has been bullied by somebody, or he has fallen and hurt himself. Maybe his friends didn't want him to play with them! Or it could be a deeper hurt - his father has walked out on him and his mother. Or his pet has just died and his tender heart is breaking!

Whatever the reason, the message is, 99 times out of a 100, the same. "Don't cry! You're not a girl!" and "What's wrong with you? Don't you know that only girls cry?" "How dare you be a namby-pamby?" Parents repeat this like a litany, classmates enforce it, and the world turns into a war zone, with emotions battling it out with attitudes, that refuse to ever change.

So little boys grow up, ashamed to cry and to show their emotions. However miserable they feel, they maintain a stoic exterior, having learnt to keep their chins up and "to take it like a man", much like the British public schools of yore. "Hey, old chap, don't be a ninny! And don't let the other blokes catch you crying!"

The message goes on to show how the little boys grow into big strong men, who refuse to cry. They swagger around like heroes, not realizing how bad it is for their hearts to bottle up their emotions. For the heart is like a pressure cooker that explodes when it is subjected to too much pressure. This is why men are more prone to heart attacks than women are.

 

 

But the public message does not end there. It continues to show shots of a battered woman, her face all bruised, sitting in abject depression, finally glancing at the man who has done this to her, a strong man who knows not how to cry, a big man whose emotions are all churned up within him, a relentless man who does not know where to stop.

And the final statement says it all. "A real man is not one who does not cry, but one who does not make women cry!" 

A real man respects women, and does not abase them. A real man can be tender and loving, not harsh and judgmental. A real man is allowed to cry and show his emotions!

Now that makes sense, doesn't it?

"Maid' For Each Other!

Those were the days when every household could boast of three to four maids, to sweep and swab, cook and wash, dust and clean respectively. Today the old maids have retired and they have educated their children who obviously want nothing to do with menial jobs. The ubiquitous maid is now no longer that! Even carrying bricks at a construction site brings in more money, and the more educated folks are, the higher their aspirations, laudable indeed!

So the few rare maid specimens left behind have suddenly realized their worth. They have hiked up their prices, willing to shoulder the burdens of their predecessors only if they are paid for each separate chore. No longer are the lady of the house and her maid 'made' for each other, for even with compromises made, there lingers a strange kind of friction that causes frequent sparks!

My friend has a maid who has stuck to her for five years, but plays a cat-and-mouse game with her, despite the familiarity. Did anyone mention the word 'contempt'? The maid's ploy is simple and straightforward. She 'kills’ off one family member every time she wants leave. So first off pops one granddad, followed by a granduncle! The head count continues, with a parent here, an aunt there, a young cousin elsewhere who obligingly leaves for the Heavenly Realms, all at regular intervals. Each time, the distraught maid needs three days leave to go to a distant village and mourn with the family. Sometimes the killing is akin to the Solomon Grundy poem - not instantaneous, sickened on Thursday, worsened on Friday, died on Saturday and buried on Sunday!

Our maid is an amiable soul, rather gigantic, but a softie at heart. She seemed genuine at first sight, and I didn't realize that she was all set to develop an amazing relationship with us, a kind of affinity, you might say! For once, when I had a case of food poisoning and spent much time getting the rot out of my system, there came a phone call from Maid dear, sounding exhausted as she described similar symptoms in such graphic terms that I hastily put down the phone.

When my mother got wet in the rain and came down with a horrendous cold, misty eyed and red nosed, I could hear supportive sniffs from the kitchen as well. Our maid seemed to have got wet in the rain as well!

Came the day when I slipped on a pebble and strained my back. The doctor put me on one week of physiotherapy and traction, and when I got home, I was not in the least surprised when my maid walked in, clasping her vast expanse of a back, a look of agony on her face. The doctor had apparently asked her to 'put current' on her back and take bed rest. That was when I vowed that no member in our family would fall sick, at least not noticeably! 

And so it goes! No longer do medicines lie, strewn around on the dining table. My mother applies her balm on aching muscles only after the door closes on our maid. My husband hurriedly covers his mouth to stop a stray cough from emerging and I keep a wide sunny smile on whenever she is around to assure her that all's right with the world! Needless to say, our maid has been hale and hearty for the last few months, even as I send a silent prayer up in support! Along with a fervent plea that no one in our family dare break a bone!

Literature! Are you serious?

How does one go to a new school in the ninth standard, only to be told that one has to study parts of the eighth standard portions as well? Not very happily, I must confess, because that was the situation I walked into a school in Kerala to complete my ninth and tenth.

Since the text books were all new, a couple of tuition teachers were arranged for me, so that they could try and knock some sense into my head. Which is exactly what happened! I had an amazingly strict master to teach me Maths and Physics, and a holy terror he was too, because he was slated to be the next Headmaster of a boys’ school. He would come at the dot of six in the evening, spend exactly two hours with me, and leave me feeling quite knowledgeable, for a change. Not surprisingly, my highest marks were in Physics, followed by Mathematics, a fact that made my parents quite swoon!

On the other hand, my Biology Master would come at nine in the night after a gruelling day at school, at a time when I had also eaten a sumptuous dinner, and we would sit in the study. His son was also in my class and both of us would study together. The first bout would start with our Master yawning deeply while he opened the text book, to point out the portion he wanted us to follow.

 We would peer at him in the dimness, as he read out bits that he wanted to explain, and by the time he had finished para one, I would be nodding away. Suddenly, he would put out a meaty hand and knock me on the head so hard that sleep would take to its heels, and keep a safe distance. The next bout would be a knock on my companion’s head, an even harder one, as maybe, he had a rounder and harder nut.

When the results came, my masters were ecstatic, as all the knocks and the swotting had ensured that I got really good marks.

“Now it is time for you to take your first step towards Medicine!” said my Physics Master, twirling his moustache proudly. Had I not topped my class in Physics? My Biology Master followed suit. “You will find the PCM (Physics-Chemistry-Mathematics) Group a cakewalk!” he said.

That is when I shocked them out of their wits! “But I do not want to take the Second Group!” I proclaimed boldly. “And I will never take up Medicine!”

“Don’t you want to be a doctor?” quavered my Biology Master, quite certain that his frequent knocks had quite addled my brain.

My decision was final. I would take the Humanities Group, and then take up Literature for my Graduation! The expression on both their faces was ludicrous. For a moment there was total silence, and then they started a tirade that would have swayed anyone who had even the slightest inkling towards Science.

Unfortunately for them, I was made of stronger mettle. Literature it would be!

“Literature!” the disgust in my Physics Master’s tone was palpable. “What will you do with Literature? There is no future in it? You will not even get a job!”

“Besides, only duds and failures take up Literature!” came the other Master’s voice. “Or girls whose parents want to get them married off early!”

That was when I realized that this was the refrain I would hear for years to come. There were classmates, who had taken up Math and Science, who would walk up to me and ask, “Literature? Are you serious?” They meant, “Are you crazy?”

My aunts and uncles, who were doctors, tried their luck with me, but to no avail. I had nightmares in which I saw myself in a giant operating theatre, with a scalpel in my hand. I would try and make a tentative cut on the patient before me, but before I could do so, he would rise, bandaged and bleeding, and come towards me like one of those monsters in a horror movie.

Finally my parents put their foot down.

 “Let her do what she wants to do!” they said to all those who raised objections. “No, she is not crazy! Nor are we!” I could hear them over the phone.

Did I ever regret my decision? Not for one moment! “To be or not to be” was never a dilemma with me.

 I drowned myself in the History of Language, and deciphered the strange tongue of Chaucer; my heart skipped a beat as I unravelled the characters of Mr. Darcy, Heathcliff and even Atticus Finch, and walked along the pastoral greens of Wordsworth and Keats, the moors of Emily Bronte and the England of Dickens.

I rolled my tongue around the accents of the Welsh bards, and dived into the voices of Twain and Hemingway, loving every luxurious moment. I loved Oscar Wilde and Oliver Goldsmith, and when unwilling fellow litterateurs found tragedy in the comedies of Shakespeare, and were caught in the rimes of Milton, I sympathized with them, for they would never find the deep spring of joy that ran within the world of Literature.

Years after, I completed my post graduation in Literature, my B.Ed in English and finally, did a course in Journalism. When I began writing articles and stories in earnest, and published my first book in 2002, people around me finally realized that I had been on the right track all along.

When my daughter also took up Humanities, life had come round full circle. Luckily, by then, the world had moved on, and there was no one around to ask, “Literature? Are you serious?”

Kick Her Out! Period!

It was a telling post that I saw on Facebook that helped me make up my mind on the topic I should write on today. When I was younger, advertisements would pop up in magazines, talking about “those four days” when women “were down”. Women used to discuss the topic, covering up the actual event, (for it was one!) with substitute phrases like “chums” and “my Aunty”. God alone knows what the poor Aunty had to do with it, anyway!

Women would be “Carefree” and “Stay free”, even as they “Whispered” about their condition. It was as if having a period was a taboo subject, not to be mentioned, much like the villain in Harry Potter books. (I don’t dare mention his name, you see!)

Of course there is a reason why men were not inflicted with "the curse", which is yet another imaginative way of referring to the subject.

Only a woman undergoing PMS knows the agonies she goes through. She feels out of sorts and often her temper goes through the roof.

                                                                                

                  

The situation was worse, in the past, in big draughty houses in Kerala, when there were cavernous rooms and tiny bathrooms, often located outside. This was highly inconvenient, especially for women, but much safer than it is for women these days, who have to go to the fields, which double up as open bathrooms. 

Going back to the big draughty houses, there would be one small room, dark and dingy, which was specially for women having their periods. They would be sequestered within for the four or five days when they were “unclean”, and even their food would be brought to them. They would have to wash their own sheets, and stay within, so that they would not pollute any of the other inmates in the house by touching them. I shudder to think what they went through, crouching in the dark, doubled over with cramps and back aches! 

  

I recall my mother telling me how she and her family would go down to their ancestral home from Bombay (that was the name in those days!) for their summer vacations. Once, she had invited some friends along with her. There was a special function at the Devi temple, and unfortunately, one of her close friends came down with her periods. My mother’s grandmother was a petite woman with a will of iron. She forbade the girl from taking part in any of the activities. Wasn't cleanliness next to Godliness? Obviously not in a temple!

 My mother, who was equally strong willed tried to change the old lady’s mind, but she was obdurate. “She cannot come into the temple! Not when she is unclean!”

Unconvinced, my mother stood her ground. “But, Ammamma (Grandmother), what is unclean about her having her periods? Isn’t the Devi in the temple also a woman? Doesn’t She have Her periods as well?”

Her grandmother was speechless, and for once, she did not have any justification. Suffice it to say that my mother’s friend was allowed to watch from a safe distance, which was a big concession on the part of my great grandmother.

Today women are coming out and speaking about having their periods openly, with the chums and Aunties having made a graceful exit.

 Temples still do not allow menstruating women in the premises. The mindset is to firmly entrenched against the concept, and the combination of grandma’s tales, old customs and taboos will ensure that this concept of being “unclean’ is here to stay.

And finally, let me hark back to the one post that put this idea into my head. Maybe it will open up not only a discussion, but also put to rest the more ludicrous aspects of menstruation. Period!

Jokes Apart, I'm Responsible!

I am a firstborn, the first of three girls. There are advantages galore in being a firstborn, it is said. "Oh, she'll grow up to be responsible!"  said a fond aunt with stars in her eyes. Boy, did I grow up responsible! I can still hear the comments that assailed my ears when I was growing up. "That girl is responsible for having broken that new lampshade. She thought it was a hat and tried it on, but it slipped down over her eyes, and she bumped into a wall!"

The shade had cracked, the wall bore a brave scratch, but my poor head was given the royal ignore.After all, I was responsible.

My grandparents doted on me, as I was the first born of their first born, which made all the difference. My grandmother thought I was the perfect little cherub (and mind you, I did look like one with my rolls of fat and triple chins, when I was about two). She fed me pure white butter made from the creamy milk that was procured straight from the cows in our stables. Delicious, no doubt, but I turned into more of a cherub than before, and my classmates, all thinner than me, would point me out as 'that fat girl'. 

One day, Grandpa came home early to hunt for some vital files concerning the house. He turned the whole place upside down, shouting at anyone unlucky enough to come before him. The servants, the grown ups, the other children and even the dog went round in circles, but the papers seemed to have disappeared into thin air.  I sat on top of the dining table, looking as though butter wouldn't melt in my mouth.

Mom did not trust that look. "She is up to something!" she whispered to Dad. The papers were found in the wastepaper basket, torn to shreds. No one had the guts to tell Grandpa, but he found out soon enough, and roared,"Who is responsible for this?" Of course, I was, and when Grandpa realized that it was his little cherub, he bit back his anger and never referred to the matter again, much to the relief of his family.

First borns know exactly what they are doing. When I was seven, my little sister was born. It took me rather long to accept that the attention that I had enjoyed for so long was going to be shared with the tiny interloper.

One day, Mom came into the room, and there I was, sitting on the baby, while she howled lustily. A horrified Mom grabbed hold of me and gave me one tight whack.The little one stopped howling the moment the lard of flesh was taken off her. 

In school, I was not just a leader, but a ring leader, with a gang of acolytes who followed my lead. We made paper planes and flew them around the classroom, we ate food from the more delicious lunch boxes, and talked in class incessantly till we were sent out of class. My report card had a line which proclaimed, "She has leadership qualities." My teachers hinted that I was like Hitler or Mussolini, and would probably end up like them, which did not thrill my parents one bit. 

My littlest sister was born when I was ten, and by then I had realized that these two little creatures were in my life to stay. We had our scraps, they got me into trouble, one bit me on my stomach, the other refused to obey my orders. 

Then, one day, I got responsible, instead of being responsible for everything. Love burgeoned in all our hearts and the two little creatures wound themselves around my heart. There they have remained over the years, and there they will remain for the rest of our lives! 

If Only... Dear Desdemona

Brabantio was simmering. The Moor, Othello, had charmed his beautiful daughter, Desdemona, and the two had eloped in the darkest hours of the night. What could have got into his gentle daughter, he wondered sullenly. The man was not even good looking. He was dark and unimpressive, but it was his silver tongue that had won over her impressionable heart.

He remembered how the dark General had regaled them with his tales of battle and valour.  Desdemona had sat, entranced, her large eyes on their guest, scarcely breathing, as his stories continued well past midnight. She had found it difficult to tear her eyes away from his face.

Iago, an Ensign, and Othello's friend, met Brabantio along with Roderigo, a former suitor of Desdemona's, and broke the news of the elopement, and the subsequent marriage of Othello and Desdemona.

Brabantio hastened to the Duke of Venice, and accused Othello of seducing his daughter with witchcraft. The couple were summoned, but all charges were dropped when Desdemona, who loved her father dearly, averred that she loved Othello as much, and had married him of her own free will.

                                          An Image of the painting 'Othello' by Edouard Frederic Wilhelm Richter

If only, matters had been settled there, life would have been a grand sweet song. Othello and his beloved Desdemona would have lived happily ever after.

However, life is never that simple. Iago proved to be a treacherous snake in the grass. He was a master plotter, playing each character against the other, like a puppeteer who knew exactly how far to pull the strings.

He resented Cassio who had been promoted over him; he hated Othello for having promoted Cassio, but he also had deep rooted prejudices against the Moor. He would refer to him as "an old black ram" or "an erring Barbarian". His insecurity also stemmed from the untrue rumour that Othello had seduced his own wife, Emilia.

If only, matters had been contained and not allowed to progress beyond this point, the tragedy could still have been averted. Yet, Iago's amoral nature would not allow it. He continued to pull the strings.

Iago involved a drunk Cassio in a fight, as a result of which Cassio lost his rank. Cassio, who was repentent, was only too willing to listen as the wily Iago asked him to approach the beautiful Desdemona to ask her to plead with Othello on his behalf.

     The beautiful Desdemona - Original steel engraving drawn by J. Hayter, engraved by H. Robinson, 1845

Cassio and Desdemona played their parts guilelessly, and she pleaded with her husband to give Cassio another chance. This was where Iago played a master stroke.

One handkerchief was all it took to convince a complexed husband to suspect his wife of infidelity. It was all so subtle, so simple; with Emilia's help, Iago laid hands on a prized handkerchief that Othello had given Desdemona, and he gave it to Cassio. One insidious whisper in Othello's ears, a staged conversation between Cassio and Desdemona, and the sight of the handkerchief in Cassio's grasp, and the deluded Othello fell into the trap set cleverly by his false friend.

If only, Othello had stopped to think! If only, he had not been guilty of a giant sized inferiority complex about his looks! If only Emilia had suspected that her husband was up to no good! If only, Iago had not been such a master plotter... if only!

The tragedy continued to unfold. Iago was to kill Cassio, while Othello steeled his heart against his wife. Roderigo, who believed that Desdemona would be his one day, agreed to kill Cassio, but the fight went wrong, and he got hurt instead. Iago, who had been hiding in the shadows, darted out and stabbed Cassio in the leg. Cassio cried out for help, and Othello assumed that Iago had kept his part of the bargain and murdered Cassio.

If only, Othello had gone into the bed chamber, and on seeing his innocent wife  lying in bed, calmed his turbulent heart and asked her for an explanation, matters would have ended there. For he loved Desdemona with all the intensity within his heart. Instead, he bade her pray, as he had no wish to kill her soul.

                                                                                            Ellen Terry as Desdemona

Desdemona looked at him with her large, gentle eyes, and begged him to let her live a little longer. Her innocence streamed forth from her eyes, but Othello was blind with rage and suspicion. He picked up a pillow and smothered her to death, killing the only tenderness in his heart forever.

Emilia raised the alarm when she discovered the murder, berating Othello for having believed in her husband's goodness. She explained how deceitfully Iago had orchestrated the actions, and turned them to suit his own will. Iago stabbed her even as she was telling her tale.

Othello, though distraught, held on to his honour till the very end. Realizing that he had thrown his own life away, he repented, even as he lamented, 

                                                           Toby Stephens in movie 'Orlando' (1992)

"Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,

When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,

Nor set down aught in malice: then must you speak

Of one that loved not wisely but too well;

Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought

Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand,

Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away

Richer than all his tribe."