Personal arse licker?

I’ve just put Mia down for her afternoon sleep. I left her with her eyes closed, a little smile playing on her lips and her favourite tee shirt sleeve stuffed in her mouth. She loves sucking herself to sleep…on good days. On not-so-good days she likes to be rocked and patted in my arms. Except that now she has decided she needs to pat me back while I am patting her. Basically it’s a lot of patting and no sleep. I’ve been doing the patting-rocking since she was born and even though it can get tough sometimes – there’s my favourite show on TV, or guests waiting, or dinner getting cold, or I’m just too tired – I love it when she falls asleep in my arms. The way she snuggles under my chin, the way her mouth stays slightly open (even with the recently developed bad breath), the way her breathing deepens along with her sleep. I feel an immense sense of peace each time I rock her to sleep. Sometimes, I also feel an immense sense of gratitude that she was born in Australia and not in India.

There, I’ve said it aloud now. You can hate me, or judge me, or label me an anglophile, or as someone commented on an earlier post “a PAL – personal ass licker”. Technically, the last bit should be ‘arse’ and not ‘ass’ since I suppose that commenter meant to call me a bottom-licker as against a donkey-licker. Neither label bothers me really, though I daresay some donkeys are cleaner than some bottoms. Perhaps a whole lot of things would not have been much different even if she had been born in India. Financially, we could have afforded the best of everything: education in any of the top private schools, a university degree, access to quality health care, availability of a full-time nanny, whatever hobby she wanted to pursue, an unlimited choice of food, exotic holidays, high-paying jobs, etc. I have friends who live that life; and so did I to a certain extent. Yes, Mia would definitely have all of that even if she were in India.

And yet I prefer she was born here. There is a fundamental freedom in this country that I find lacking in India; the freedom from certain expectations, limitations and restrictions that come with being a woman in India. A freedom from helplessness. Don’t tell me that if you have the money you can have everything in India. I know that. I’ve seen that. But if that privilege belongs to only two per cent in a country of a billion; it’s not a norm, it’s an anomaly.
I want Mia to be able to move freely without 100 men leering at her, without neighbouring aunties disproving of her or without someone else labeling her because she wears shorts. Ah, so you say you can wear whatever in India, is it? How many times then have you covered up with a dupatta or a scarf? Or worn a salwar-kameez and then changed into a skirt? Or held a notebook against your chest to stop men staring at your breasts? How many times have you carried a safety pin on a crowded bus to prevent a man rubbing his penis against you? How many times have you walked through a market and have someone grab at your breasts? Even though you have three maids at home, a driver waiting for you and are probably shopping to go back to LSE?


My first time was at Newmarket, Calcutta in 1994-1995. I was wearing a loose-fitting blue shirt, an ankle-length skirt and was shopping with my mother. We walked down the market, me carrying shopping bags, trailing behind Ma when we crossed this balloon-seller. I remember looking him in the eye, perhaps because he was on my right and he had suddenly stepped onto my path. I remember looking him in the eye right before he grinned – he had gutkha-stained teeth – and with his right index finger, he poked my right nipple. It wasn’t surreptitious, he didn’t try to run or pretend it was an accident. He looked me in the eye and poked me hard; it hurt, it humiliated me because the other vendors started laughing then. I pushed him and started shouting at him. A huge crowd gathered, some sniggered, some said really dirty stuff in Bengali, others waited to see what unfolded, none helped. My mother had walked a bit further by then; she hurried back and tried pulling me away, “Ki korcho beta, cholo ebar, pore kotha bolbo.” (What are you doing child, let’s go now, shall discuss it later). My mother was practical. She knew it would only create a scene that would not be resolved.


There is hardly any resolution in India. You’d be told you’re creating a scene, drawing unnecessary attention to yourself; you’d be labeled a trouble-maker. If the media gets hold of it and makes a heroine out of you, you’d probably find it really hard getting a job after that. No, it hardly ever gets resolved in India.


Like this lady I knew who worked for a big-time Hollywood movie distributing company. The office used to be in Connaught Place and she was part of a three-member team. There was her boss – the distribution head – she handled marketing and there was the errand boy. Every day for the one-year or so she worked there, her boss would come to work and start watching hardcore XXX pornography. He would turn the monitor to face her, put his legs up on the table and watch for hours at an end. She complained to the CEO of the company. His response? “So what if he watches porn, he’s not asking you to watch it.” She left the company and had to change her profession because that industry black-listed her. She was labeled a trouble-maker.


Then there was this girl who was a junior reporter. Her boss tried to rape her after one office party. She didn’t say anything about it because her colleagues advised her not to. “He’s too big and famous, nothing will happen to him. You’ll lose your job; why spoil your career?” I don’t know if she was raped or if the attempt was thwarted. I do know she did not say anything. In case any of you’re wondering, the girl was not me, but the incident happened at one of the media houses I worked for (I’ve worked for pretty much all of them).


I don’t want Mia to ever to feel violated like that or feel helpless she cannot do anything about it. And if at all it happens – sexual harassment does happen in Australia – I don’t ever want to be in a position where I cannot resolve it for my daughter. I don’t want to ask her to walk away. I want to be able to get that bastard arrested. To get him to jail. Personally I would prefer beating the life out of him, castrating him or cutting his arm off; but I’d settle for a more civilized solution. I want my daughter to know she will be safe or at least that she can do something about it. I don’t want my daughter to ever feel helpless…even if I am not there. I want her to know there are steps she can take, people she can approach, the police, the judiciary, a helpline, the local council member.

There is very little organized support system in India for women. Not if you’re sexually harassed, not if you’re physically abused and hardly any if you’re seeking a divorce or are caught in a marriage that’s slowly killing you. Everything pretty much conspires against you. Again, I am not talking about the two per cent who have the money, familial support or sheer balls to fight for themselves. Most women are not like that. And it’s not because people are uneducated.

Asti Shekhar, who committed suicide by hanging herself on June 2,, 2011 was not like that. She was educated. She came from an educated family. She was married to an educated man, from an educated family. She was in every way a good girl: She was obedient, she studied hard, she married the man her parents chose for her. Yet she felt trapped, she felt she could not ask anyone for help, or advice or a solution. So she killed herself.


In the biggest democracy in the world, the next alleged-superpower, the country with the richest, deepest cultural roots, the India that is shining: What was the level of helplessness a 21st century, modern, educated woman felt that led her to kill herself? Why? Who failed her?

PS: 1. The Indian Homemaker has a very good debate on the topic. Go read her.

2. (I just clicked on google.com.au and typed 'suicide', that's the screen shot, a suicide helpline comes first. Not so when you type the same on google.co.in)

Two sides to any story. On one hand, reports allege dowry deaths are rising. On the other hand, some groups claim it is to harass husbands. What do you think?