Megha Swamy

Every time I look at the poster, I want to tell Priyanka Chopra to get a grip. Have some self-respect! The ‘hero’ (a muscled Roshan look-alike) stands tall; and the meek, red haired (?) Chopra almost clings on to him. The pink teddy (???) just completes the sappy look. She could as well have screamed, “Oh, my knight in shining leather pants! Hold me, protect me!”

Indian women should be entitled to a lot more respect. Even as our society comes of age and our women are empowered, somehow there has never been a drastic change in the notion that the woman is weaker, needs to be a certain way, quiet and docile; and yes, needs a man by her side. The scary part is that even women don’t seem to respect themselves or consider their kin as being at par with males.

It is the quintessential middle-class mentality that if a man drinks or smokes, well, that is just how men are made. If a woman does the same; comments roll out in droves. Aunties, chachis and neighbouring homemakers exclaim, “Ayyo! Look, look at that girl!”. “Shee! Must be such a loose character.” And there have been other theories, that the woman in question must be from a broken family or a lover might have spurned her, leading to the amorous state of affairs. So essentially, if a woman does exactly what a man does, she is a lesser and somehow promiscuous human.

The skimpy outfits of the cheerleaders during the IPL created a furor. Ministers objected and the girls were told to cover-up. Their dresses were deemed against ‘Indian culture’. Anybody who had attended one of the earlier matches at the Wankhede Stadium in Mumbai would have heard incessant vulgar chants from the crowds directed towards the cheerleaders. “Item, Item, I love you!” screamed the perverts. Was such behaviour in tune with our esteemed culture? Then why weren’t those men booked, or even told to shut up!?

It is simply because the middle-class thinks that the women called it upon themselves. They are, after all, enticing the men, aren’t they? The woman is to be blamed. And therefore, considering the larger picture, a rape victim would have in some way, called it upon herself to be raped. And in a divorce, it must have been the fault of the woman, for not listening to her man and ‘sacrificing’. Such thinking justifies rape and indeed all other crimes against women.

Men rape because they can. And divorces happen because two people are not compatible.

I am not endorsing smoking, drinking and skimpy outfits among women which is a personal choice. But a woman should be able to do what she wants. Wear what she wants and not be stared, leered at or taped by some pervert on his mobile phone.

We need to assert that even if a woman walks naked on a street, a man cannot–just cannot–touch her. Simply because it is a crime. And women, in whatever state they may be, are not commodities to be vandalized.

Once while waiting at a bus-stop, a man stared incessantly and blatantly at me. I asked him why he was doing so. “Well, it’s your fault, you’re in the middle of my sight”, he leered, showing a sick smile. I replied, “Well, why don’t I slap you and pretend your face was in the way of my hand.” He seemed dumbstruck for a second and simply walked away. It seemed that the new-to-the-big-city pervert had never encountered a woman who could stand up to a man.

Women need to stand up and start respecting themselves as equal to men. The men will follow accordingly.

And hence, contrary to what the Priyanka Chopra poster might suggest, we are not crystal show pieces to be taken care of by the ‘all powerful’ male.

Megha Swamy

Africa; I’ve heard many call it ‘a beautiful land’. These are people who’ve lived there for years; and yet don’t have a single black friend. It would be apt to brand them as hypocrites, maybe even racist. They dissociate the land from it’s people. “The safaris are amazing!”, one swooned. And in the same conversation added, “These blacks are all thugs. Refuse to work hard and then go around begging: look, we’re poor, give us aid.” His view was wholly echoed by many of the Indian expats I met.

I was in Tanzania, East Africa. My introduction to the country was disastrous. The airport customs crook wanted a bribe of 40 USD to let go of our baggage. It wasn’t clear on what ‘grounds’ was he asking for a bribe. After a lot of haggling we made it out at a cost of 25 USD. I kept telling myself not to be judgmental. Afterall, this happens everyday in India.

My host was an Indian living in the city of Dar-es-Salaam for about a decade now. He has a little kid, who I’ve come to pity immensely. The little boy is not allowed to venture out and play. He would stand near the windows and pine for the outside. His only outing is when his dad drives him around in a car; with windows rolled up.

My host explained that the security situation is extremely perilous. “These blacks are dangerous. Always out to rob and assault you. I can’t put my kid at risk.”

I fear the kid will be physically stunted. Isn’t it necessary for children to get a healthy dose of Vitamin D?

The host’s wife then began her laments. The milk is substandard. The shopkeepers are crooks. All of them. The tap water smells funny. The electricity supply is errant. The black doctors are incompetent. Hospitals are filthy. Their public transport is horrendous. The list goes on.

I wanted to yell at them to just come back to India. But wait; they can’t. That is because my diploma-holder-in-Chemistry Host would never be paid 6000 USD per month in India. Nor would he be given a palatial four bedroom apartment and a luxury sedan at his disposal. Tanzania’s given him a lifestyle. And so, I wanted to scream, “Just be grateful to the Africans, you insular beings.”

The family has a maid who’s a local African. She’s paid a paltry sum. She’s been given a separate set of utensils to eat and drink in. They’re plastic; the kind that kids play with. The maid’s not allowed to touch the little boy. And the little boy’s been brainwashed that the maid’s some kind of monster.

Now, I’m going to be judgmental. This is untouchability revisited. Their despicable behavior even seems to justify Idi Amin.

It is therefore no wonder that when you walk down the streets, none of the natives smile at you. Many refuse to even look you in the eye, and some mock. If you smile at them, they give back a blank expression. The maximum my smile managed to evoke was mild surprise; but nothing even remotely close to anything friendly.

I then travelled to Arusha, a quaint little town near Mt. Kilimanjaro. We were the only Indians on the bus. The woman sitting in the front seat was in her mid-twenties. She was beautiful with a voluptuous body, wearing a tight, semi-transparent pink top; with no bra underneath. I was a few feet away and I could still see her nipples.

But no one else seemed shocked. None of the other passengers even gave her a second glance. She flirted with the driver. He flirted back and then got back to his business. I wanted to tell Mr. Host, that if I walked around semi-naked back home, I would have been ravaged by now. I get pinched and harassed even when I’m in a salwar-kameez. In this matter, I envy Tanzanian women.

In Arusha, I tried some of the local food. Something my hosts warned me against. I’m glad I didn’t listen to them. The food was heavenly.

And then ofcourse there is the famed African safari. The safari guide was reticent at first. But when my mother asked him about his family, he lightened up. He has a lovely daughter, a wife and his mother stays with him. He dreams of owning his own house someday and wants his daughter to become a doctor who’ll serve the poor. He’s saving for her further studies and juggles two jobs. We insisted he have lunch with us. He was surprised and refused at first but then agreed. It’s no wonder that he refused to take a customary tip from us later. “I had much fun with you’ll, Maaegha”, he smiled.

We then visited a Goan woman, who’s been living there for many decades now and runs a flourishing travel agency. She has four daughters, all of who were born in Tanzania. The eldest daughter is 17, and speaks Hindi with a delightful Tanzanian accent.

As I roamed around the flea markets with her, she asked me about college life in India. She explained that her mother wants her to do her graduation in India and then settle down in Mumbai. It’s nice in Mumbai, I assured her. She replied, “But this is home Megha; this is home.”

As we strolled, she said things like, “You hear that; that’s our local music”, and “that’s our latest fashion.” She chatted with the vendors and hawkers and called them her friends. It was the most beautiful thing I saw in Africa.

She suggested I braid my hair like the African women do. I agreed. And with four women working on my hair and two hours later, I had a fully braided head with colourful clips on. It was a bit itchy, and it felt like the blood circulation to my scalp has ceased. But atleast now I know how my skull is shaped like. The parlour girls giggled and remarked in broken English, “You’re now Indian-African girl.”I loved it.

A few days later, I was at the airport for my flight back to India. At the immigration clearance, I handed over my passport and greeted the officer with ‘Jambo’, ‘Hello’ in Swahili. The officer was young, handsome and tall. The quintessential African man. He scanned me; looked at my braided hair and the Tanzanian style wrap-around skirt I was wearing; and started speaking in Swahili.

I interrupted him and denied knowing any Swahili. He smiled and replied, “If only you spoke Swahili. Men here would be lining up to date you.” He winked. Incredible. I don’t care if he was joking. An African man didn’t just smile at me, he even flirted! I couldn’t help but flirt back. Could I have asked for a better end to a trip?

Africa is incredible. Sure, the security situation is bad, even dangerous. And yes, armed robberies and rapes are frequent. But that is no excuse to deride an entire people, Mr. Host. Tanzanians are fun-loving, friendly people who love to talk to you. If only you could take a chance Mr. Host, for your child’s sake. Have some local food and ask your maid about her family. You could then make your life there a lot more pleasant.

And now if someone asks me about my trip, I reply, “Africa is a beautiful land; with even more beautiful people.”