In India, a woman's body is never her own. We love stereotyping.
LIFE | Below The Belt | 5-minute read | 06-12-2014
Sreemoyee Piu Kundu @sreemoyeekundu
I don’t remember much about my gym. Considering I work out for approximately every six months, every few years. Except, this one, glaring incident. There used to be this bombshell of a woman. Late 40s.
"Kya, rap-chick figure, bidu!"
"Full item. Kya mast honth. Perfect breasts. Sexy abs. The whole health club fida over the shape of her ankles. Paisa wasool. Baby doll", the trainers sniggered amongst themselves. Taking bets on who she would beckon. Kiska number, pehle.
"Madam... c’mon some more abs… or chest. Pehle chest karte hain," they would raise their hands, as she breezed past them. Her hips swinging.
Dance Basanti.
"You must be really killing it in training," I remarked one morning, from the next treadmill, mustering up some courage. She was in a tight spandex shorts. Her arms chiseled. A tattoo just over her navel. An angel, with just one wing.
I tried to stop myself from staring.
"Issh…. who dresses like this? We are all family people. Obscene. Must be a Punjabi, husband must be home, screwing his maid… or drunk from last night… the men I’ve heard drink regularly. Party, party, party," I heard someone whisper.
"I’m 46. Thanks, I’ve always looked after myself. I have two boys. My husband is a shippie. Come home, someday. I’m in CR Park, too. Our body is our biggest source of strength," she smiled, plugging back her earphones.
"She always comes in the morning, so that she can fall all over these trainers. "Madam. Madam." As if we don’t exist. Slut! Must be then calling them home, in the afternoons, paying them. It’s a big racket in Delhi. Society people. Horny housewives, hubby in merchant navy, apparently…" another allegation, arose.
"I like your shorts. You should have been a model… an actress…" I passed her a hand towel.
"You’re good for my ego," she patted my back.
"Stay away from her. All dirty women."
Last month, it was her older son’s birthday, she was telling one of the trainers. Wanted to wear a fully backless gown. Was showing him the picture on her WhatsApp. He showed us, later. "Badi aayi Sunny Leone," a pot-bellied lady cackled, as soon as she had walked away.
"But, aunty…" I tried defending her.
The woman, sans a name.
The next week she left.
"She surely has implants… always dhakdhak… God she was one horny woman. I spoke to the manager, we, we hardly get any attention once she entered… and did you notice how she always monopolised the treadmill, cross-trainer… carried her own music… bloody angrez," another angry woman hissed.
Let’s get this straight; men are not the only enemy. And neither is any particular religion. Those, believe it or not, are the easiest to blame. So, incase you’ve been smarting after the Gauahar Khan tamacha or were violated when India’s top sportswoman, Sania Mirza, had drawn flack from Muslim religious groups for her skimpy tennis skirts, with a Muslim scholar even issuing a ruling that declared that women’s tennis attire was not suited to Islam. Or feel nauseous each time a minister, maharaj or maulawi claims that tight jeans cause rape. Take the case of right wing Akhil Bharat Hindu Mahasabha, for instance, which recently demanded that a dress code for girls be introduced in schools and colleges while banning the use of cell phones; they must also wear "dupatta," it added.
It’s easy to stereotype women, I guess. I mean how many times have you questioned a woman's character only because she was skimpily clad. Labelling her a tramp, in your own head. The kind of woman who sleeps around. With younger men. Gym trainers. Gigolos. On the side.
Or is single. Beyond a certain age. A divorce, perhaps. What if she’s queer, you ask? Pointing to someone you claim you may have seen in the newspapers today. Gay parade, Delhi? A woman who exposes too much. Is also a muffat aurat. Maybe, a feminist, you allege. Gets laid by the boss. A corporate honcho who slept her way to the top.
A woman’s body is never quite her own? Our womb our destiny in some way. Our every body part crucified for mass consumption. Objectified in umpteen films, popular ads, item numbers, porn videos, posters, ramps...? Never safe, never sacred. Always in need of a certain degree of social sanction...? Always crying out for protection. In other words, put a label, on me and tuck me away in cold storage.
The way millions of Indian mothers forewarn their desi girls to wear "dhang ke kapde," while leaving for college. A call centre. A café.
"Aise behude kapde mein nikli toh tange tod dunga…samjhe? Tumhara dupatta kahan hain? Achcha pala hai tune beti ko…" screams a father. An uncle. An older brother. A parched patriarch, of some sort. Speaking in a misogynistic mother tongue.
The one you tie rakhi to. Every year. The same man who later ties a mangal sutra around your neck. As you look towards the moon, and wait.
"Mein moti toh nahin lag rahi hoon iss mein, na?" you pause, pouting, sucking in your stomach. In a mall trial room, somewhere. Guarded by male vanity. Built on centuries of fragile feminine self-confidence. Body images. Size zero. Tall. Fair. Convented. Her janamkundli.Her first line of defence. A matrimonial ad. A marriage market. A manglik.
"Thoda kam khayakar, shaadi se pehle dus kg kam karna hain…" you remember your bestie. Shuddering at your stretch marks. After your second C-section.
A daughter again.
As your arthritic mother-in-law points fingers accusingly, hollering, "log kya kahenge? Do bacchon ki ma ho ab tum. Hamare ghar ki bahuyein aise kapde nahin pehenti… Bunty apni wife ko sikhao…"
You cover your shoulders, at once. The Kellogs, 13-day challenge clearly gone to waste. The Zumba DVD you bought online. The first you shopped on Flipkart. The neighbour's wife you can’t tolerate. The one your husband letches at in secret, playing songs as he watches her change. Her full figure, a torment, a threat. The way she can get away.
"Sarika, Mummyji thik bol rahin hain," you know the rest….
The battle has started.
LIFE | Below The Belt | 5-minute read | 06-12-2014
Sreemoyee Piu Kundu @sreemoyeekundu
I don’t remember much about my gym. Considering I work out for approximately every six months, every few years. Except, this one, glaring incident. There used to be this bombshell of a woman. Late 40s.
"Kya, rap-chick figure, bidu!"
"Full item. Kya mast honth. Perfect breasts. Sexy abs. The whole health club fida over the shape of her ankles. Paisa wasool. Baby doll", the trainers sniggered amongst themselves. Taking bets on who she would beckon. Kiska number, pehle.
"Madam... c’mon some more abs… or chest. Pehle chest karte hain," they would raise their hands, as she breezed past them. Her hips swinging.
Dance Basanti.
"You must be really killing it in training," I remarked one morning, from the next treadmill, mustering up some courage. She was in a tight spandex shorts. Her arms chiseled. A tattoo just over her navel. An angel, with just one wing.
I tried to stop myself from staring.
"Issh…. who dresses like this? We are all family people. Obscene. Must be a Punjabi, husband must be home, screwing his maid… or drunk from last night… the men I’ve heard drink regularly. Party, party, party," I heard someone whisper.
"I’m 46. Thanks, I’ve always looked after myself. I have two boys. My husband is a shippie. Come home, someday. I’m in CR Park, too. Our body is our biggest source of strength," she smiled, plugging back her earphones.
"She always comes in the morning, so that she can fall all over these trainers. "Madam. Madam." As if we don’t exist. Slut! Must be then calling them home, in the afternoons, paying them. It’s a big racket in Delhi. Society people. Horny housewives, hubby in merchant navy, apparently…" another allegation, arose.
"I like your shorts. You should have been a model… an actress…" I passed her a hand towel.
"You’re good for my ego," she patted my back.
"Stay away from her. All dirty women."
Last month, it was her older son’s birthday, she was telling one of the trainers. Wanted to wear a fully backless gown. Was showing him the picture on her WhatsApp. He showed us, later. "Badi aayi Sunny Leone," a pot-bellied lady cackled, as soon as she had walked away.
"But, aunty…" I tried defending her.
The woman, sans a name.
The next week she left.
"She surely has implants… always dhakdhak… God she was one horny woman. I spoke to the manager, we, we hardly get any attention once she entered… and did you notice how she always monopolised the treadmill, cross-trainer… carried her own music… bloody angrez," another angry woman hissed.
Let’s get this straight; men are not the only enemy. And neither is any particular religion. Those, believe it or not, are the easiest to blame. So, incase you’ve been smarting after the Gauahar Khan tamacha or were violated when India’s top sportswoman, Sania Mirza, had drawn flack from Muslim religious groups for her skimpy tennis skirts, with a Muslim scholar even issuing a ruling that declared that women’s tennis attire was not suited to Islam. Or feel nauseous each time a minister, maharaj or maulawi claims that tight jeans cause rape. Take the case of right wing Akhil Bharat Hindu Mahasabha, for instance, which recently demanded that a dress code for girls be introduced in schools and colleges while banning the use of cell phones; they must also wear "dupatta," it added.
It’s easy to stereotype women, I guess. I mean how many times have you questioned a woman's character only because she was skimpily clad. Labelling her a tramp, in your own head. The kind of woman who sleeps around. With younger men. Gym trainers. Gigolos. On the side.
Or is single. Beyond a certain age. A divorce, perhaps. What if she’s queer, you ask? Pointing to someone you claim you may have seen in the newspapers today. Gay parade, Delhi? A woman who exposes too much. Is also a muffat aurat. Maybe, a feminist, you allege. Gets laid by the boss. A corporate honcho who slept her way to the top.
A woman’s body is never quite her own? Our womb our destiny in some way. Our every body part crucified for mass consumption. Objectified in umpteen films, popular ads, item numbers, porn videos, posters, ramps...? Never safe, never sacred. Always in need of a certain degree of social sanction...? Always crying out for protection. In other words, put a label, on me and tuck me away in cold storage.
The way millions of Indian mothers forewarn their desi girls to wear "dhang ke kapde," while leaving for college. A call centre. A café.
"Aise behude kapde mein nikli toh tange tod dunga…samjhe? Tumhara dupatta kahan hain? Achcha pala hai tune beti ko…" screams a father. An uncle. An older brother. A parched patriarch, of some sort. Speaking in a misogynistic mother tongue.
The one you tie rakhi to. Every year. The same man who later ties a mangal sutra around your neck. As you look towards the moon, and wait.
"Mein moti toh nahin lag rahi hoon iss mein, na?" you pause, pouting, sucking in your stomach. In a mall trial room, somewhere. Guarded by male vanity. Built on centuries of fragile feminine self-confidence. Body images. Size zero. Tall. Fair. Convented. Her janamkundli.Her first line of defence. A matrimonial ad. A marriage market. A manglik.
"Thoda kam khayakar, shaadi se pehle dus kg kam karna hain…" you remember your bestie. Shuddering at your stretch marks. After your second C-section.
A daughter again.
As your arthritic mother-in-law points fingers accusingly, hollering, "log kya kahenge? Do bacchon ki ma ho ab tum. Hamare ghar ki bahuyein aise kapde nahin pehenti… Bunty apni wife ko sikhao…"
You cover your shoulders, at once. The Kellogs, 13-day challenge clearly gone to waste. The Zumba DVD you bought online. The first you shopped on Flipkart. The neighbour's wife you can’t tolerate. The one your husband letches at in secret, playing songs as he watches her change. Her full figure, a torment, a threat. The way she can get away.
"Sarika, Mummyji thik bol rahin hain," you know the rest….
The battle has started.
Source: dailyo
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