Coupling

This is inspired from a friend’s own verbal account of his arranged marriage. Just for fun.

Amit was a happy young man and he knew it. The degree from IIT Delhi hung on his office wall right next to the one from Harvard, like some sort of prize jewel (which in Amit’s eyes, it was). And what an office! The interior design would cause competitors to turn red, then green, faster than a set of traffic lights. The landscaping was out of the world. His office lawn had almost been sabotaged twice by those same competitors. Losers.  Amit was minting money and everyone knew it. Today, he was going back to a place he was familiar with but wasn’t. The market. The marriage market.

Amit loved markets. That’s where he made his money, after all. But marriage? Now there was a thought that was scary, breathtaking. Women had never really entered his picture of life. They were sort of unimportant. No, no, he wasn’t sexist, far from it. He was too sophisticated and driven for sexism, racism or any of those unwashed -isms. He respected only human ability and he really didn’t give a damn what package that ability came in. He met women at work, respected the ones who were good at their job and came home. He just didn’t see them as, well, women.

Romance? Meh. Scary stuff. Kind of like his first job interview. He remembered every goddamned minute of it. Murder, it was. Real murder. But he got through and did well and all that jazz. Maybe his love life would work well too, through some foggy logic of it’s own. Over to mom and pop. He was a good son, Amit.

And that’s how he found himself in a room with Amrita and a bunch of older people looking at the two of them like they were a newly discovered alien species.

Amrita. Now there was a corking young woman. Spiffing. By the time she was 26, she’d slaved through one of the most competitive exams in the world, received a free ride scholarship, done a PhD in the US and landed a job that paid her more per month than what her father used to make in a couple of years. Reviews? Killer. Like rave. Both looks wise and performance wise. Yeah, she was a corking woman. But then, she was unmarried. Not for long, her parents decided. This sort of a girl couldn’t be allowed to stay unmarried for too long, they thought. It was just not respectable. They wanted to find her a nice guy and then head off to Haridwar. For a vacation, of course, not to die.

And that’s how SHE found herself with a clueless Amit in his best suit, with his best perfume on and a bunch of older people staring at them. Conversation was spotty. They were quiet aliens.

“Hey”, said Amit

“Hey”, said Amrita

Then they sipped their colas. Nice and cool. Much easier than convo with a stranger who they’d probably have to spend the rest of their lives with.

“Aww, they click so well!”, said Amrita’s wise old father’s sister’s cousin’s brother’s wife.

Amit’s wise old father’s brother’s cousin’s sister’s husband nodded his agreement.

Amrita opened her mouth to say something but was cut short by Amit’s mother. Cooking was the topic. Could Amrita cook?

Amrita, of course, was far more used to stewing errant executives than innocent vegetables. But yes, she could. Although, yeah, she did prefer home delivery pizza. Mediterranean cuisine. Very healthy.

Amit resisted the temptation to snort. Amateur, he thought. He was, after all, the cook extraordinaire. The guy to beat. His Harvard buddies used to call him Pizza man, because Pizza Hut would taste like toxic waste once anyone got the taste of Amit’s pizzas in their mouth. Yep, that good. But then again, what kind of mother was going to mention that her only son was a good cook? Such a girly thing. Embarrassing, really. A nice wifey would make a man out of him.

And just like that, the marriage was sealed. Time to bring in the astrologers.

Amit was a bit bewildered by the speed of the process but decided not to worry about it. Better concentrate on the upcoming board meeting. At least it was something he knew about.

Amrita was bewildered too and did worry about it. But then, her parents had given her so much freedom, such a great education, such luxuries. Better be a good daughter now and obey them. Parents know best after all.

The astrologers decided, in their wisdom, that the marriage HAD to be held on a Sunday night. This piece of auspiciousness almost ended the relationship, because both Amit and Amrita had mental heart attacks. “My board meeting!”, he thought. “My performance appraisal!”, she thought. With a few phone calls and emails and white lies, disaster was averted.

They were wedded in pomp and style, booked on a flight to Timbuktu (for the honeymoon) and left with the simple task of living together happily ever after.

Timbuktu was fun, but returning “home” was murder. Gender roles were clearly delineated. Amit was in charge of the kitchen and the garden and if Amrita didn’t like it, she could suck her thumb. It turned out that she did like it and Pizza Hut lost a valuable customer. Amit was happy to be able to cook again. Amrita was happy to be able to not cook. Did they live happily ever after?

Get real.

Sometimes they fought. Like really loud. Over trivial stuff. Sometimes the in-laws would come over and it would be bedlam. Sometimes Amrita would push the toothpaste tube from the top and Amit’s mood would be soured for the rest of the day. Or sometimes, Amit would spoil her neatly laid out cupboard and she’d have a bad day. But on the whole, they became like old slippers. Maybe a bit worn around the edges. Maybe a bit beat-up. But nicely complementary. Not a real fairytale, but then you can’t have everything. Can you?

 

 

The Prisoner

She’s up at the crack of dawn, and she knows it’s over. There’s too much to be done. Too many people to be satisfied. Too many expectations to be met.

The morning chill lays low upon the house. The draught is bitter, but she is used to bitterness. After all, it is the dominant flavor of her life, the one emotion she knows best. There used to be other emotions. She used to love and hate. Laugh and cry. Experience beauty and disgust. Feel pride and shame. 

But that was a long, long time ago. Another universe, another time. She was human then. A person. A girl, with hopes and dreams. But no longer. She is now a Wife and a Daughter-in-Law. Nothing more and nothing less. The girl is gone and the emotions as well, numbed by the bitter winds of her own private winter. He hates the sight of her. They don’t want her back. They just want her to adjust.

The first rays of light hit the house. Weak and cold. The warmth is elusive. A metaphor for her own life. The light is harsh to her eyes. She, the prisoner in the dark.

She, who is her own jailer. A gilded prison it is not, occasioned as it is by drudgery and abuse. These prison bars were forged long ago, by the very people who wished the best for her. Those who brought her in this world. Those who paid for this prison. Those who thought the prison was the best place for her to live her life in. 

And now she cries out. The bars are too strong and the prison too bleak. The fatigue is overwhelming. All she wants is that rope… and everything is peaceful. Forever.

———

This “drabble” is inspired from Sweety’s story (IHM did an excellent post on it here ). This story in particular really saddened me and shook me up, but it must be remembered that Sweety is not the only one. There are thousands of Indian women (and men) who are stuck in bad marriages but are unable to leave, thanks to their social conditioning and the stigma of divorce.

It is high time that we stopped looking at divorce as though it is a cardinal sin. When people decide to separate, they USUALLY have a good reason for it. If divorce was a respectable option in Indian society today, Sweety may still have been alive and well. It was the mental block that really killed her; the rope was just an agent. 

The problem with Section 375

This post started out as a comment by PT on IHM’s blog. However, as he only touched on the topic, I’ve decided to convert it into a full length post.

Right. So what is this Section 375 and what’s wrong with it?

Well in brief, Section 375 is the part of the Indian Penal Code which deals with the definition and classification of rape for legal purposes. The problem with it is that it’s an archaic piece of legislation which, in my opinion and that of some others, denies justice to a significant number of rape victims.  The full text of it is as follows:

Rape.– A man is said to commit” rape” who, except in the case hereinafter excepted, has sexual intercourse with a woman under circumstances falling under any of the six following descriptions:- First.- Against her will. Secondly.- Without her consent. Thirdly.- With her consent, when her consent has been obtained by putting her or any person in whom she is interested in fear of death or of hurt. Fourthly.- With her consent, when the man knows that he is not her husband, and that her consent is given because she believes that he is another man to whom she is or believes herself to be lawfully married. Fifthly.- With her consent, when, at the time of giving such consent, by reason of unsoundness of mind or intoxication or the administration by him personally or through another of any stupefying or unwholesome substance, she is unable to understand the nature and consequences of that to which she gives consent. Sixthly.- With or without her consent, when she is under sixteen years of age. Explanation.- Penetration is sufficient to constitute the sexual intercourse necessary to the offence of rape. Exception.- Sexual intercourse by a man with his own wife, the wife not being under fifteen years of age, is not rape.

If you didn’t quite get that, fear not. The Indian Penal Code is notorious for it’s complicated phrasing which is awkward even by legal standards. Here’s what it means, in essence:

If a man has sexual intercourse with a woman either against her will, or without her consent, he is deemed to be a rapist. If either of these are proved, he goes straight to jail, no questions asked. Nothing else needs to be proven.

However, consent is not enough. If the guy used some kind of sneaky trick to gain that consent, he’ll still be in the dock. In particular, if the consent was gained by threatening hurt or death to someone the woman is interested in, or as a result of mental instability or some kind of intoxication which makes her unable to understand what’s going on, then the consent loses it’s meaning and the guy can’t use it as a valid defense anymore. Also, if the woman is under sixteen years of age, and the man is not, then having intercourse with the woman is rape regardless of whether or  not she agreed to it.

The law explains that penetration is the degree of sexual contact necessary to constitute rape.

Finally, it makes an exception in the case of marriage. According to the law, sexual intercourse by a man with his adult wife is not rape under any circumstances.

So what’s wrong with this? I have three major objections to it.

First, the law assumes that the perpetrator must be male, and the victim female.

A lot of people actually don’t see a problem here. I was surprised to see even a few feminist groups stating that rape laws should not be gender neutral.

Now, female-on-male rape may be much rarer than the other way round but it is neither impossible nor unheard of. Even if there is only one case in a million (which is, by the way, very far from the truth), the victims deserve every possible protection under law. Sexual assault of any kind is a traumatic, damaging event for a person and the psychological effect on male victims is no less than the effect on female victims. Moreover, discriminatory laws like these discourage people from reporting the crime and reduce awareness (and therefore, social sensitivity) towards it.

Second, the “exception” in the law  flies in the face of modern notions of morality and ethics.

It is monstrous to suggest that just because you are married to a woman, it’s alright to force her into intercourse. The concept smacks of Victorian-Era views of marriage and has no place in the modern world, where all woman, married and unmarried have full rights over their own bodies. Is sexual assault any less traumatic if the perpetrator is a husband? I sincerely doubt it!

Third, the law fails to recognize forms of rape other than penile/vaginal intercourse.

This is a glaring shortcoming, because the psychological trauma to the victim is NOT lesser if the intercourse is non-penile/vaginal. Then why the difference in punishment? There is no earthly reason for a law on rape to limit itself to a specific kind of assault.  

Happily, there is indeed quite a bit of hue and cry being made about it. The AIFWA has proposed these amendments to Section 375. The Law Commission has also laid down some excellent recommendations, although it still stops short of recognizing marital rape as rape.

Still, the process drags on.

I do hope, with all my heart that we soon get rid of archaic pieces of legislation like Section 375 and thereby move another step closer to a society where everyone is truly and equally protected under the law.

Someone Cares

October 2010

5 AM

I wake up with a snap, and my mind immediately starts churning with all the stuff to be done. It’s searches yield two conclusions –

1. It’s going to be a horribly busy day at work.

2. It’s my birthday.

Typical.

Okay, first things first. My brain slips into gear and starts passing clear, specific instructions to my limbs. Their mission? Get me out of bed and get rid of that half-dead zombie feeling. I was in office till like 1:30 AM this morning, working on a contract so I feel a bit like a zombie. Bloody contracts.

My legs propel me towards the bathroom and then towards a sachet of instant coffee poking tantalizingly out of a drawer. This is good stuff. I love instant coffee because it’s so easy to make. I still can’t do it in my sleep though, which sucks because I would’ve loved to pull off something like that right now. Bleh.

For some reason I can’t seem to fathom, I feel like a sack of dirt. On paper, everything’s fantastic. Life’s good. I love my boss. I love my husband. I like this home, this city, the culture. And surely, I’m not so immature that growing a year older would spoil my mood so bad? No it won’t, I say to myself. That’s not how I tick.

So what is it? I think I know, but it’s hard to be honest with myself. It’s…well…it’s just that…oh, Bugger it. I want my Birthday to be a bit special this year. And I know it won’t be. It’ll be filled with meetings and contracts and all kinds of drudgery.

People seem to think that being a lawyer is an über glamorous job. It’s not, especially if you don’t actually litigate (go to court). Mostly, you mope around, push paper, fill out forms, nitpick boring paperwork, go to meetings and go home, to be rewarded with doing the same thing the next day. And the one after that. And the one after that one too.

Okay, I’m exaggerating, but you get the idea. It’s not a great way to spend a birthday. And somewhere inside me, this child has awakened, which wants this birthday to be nice. Ergo, I feel like a sack of dirt. I sigh and put down my coffee mug. It was a gift from my dad, which he gave me for…no reason in particular. He’s like that, my father. He’s a bit eccentric, but he radiates human warmth. He has always supported me…through school exams and law school and even after I got a job and got married. My goals were clear, and I worked for them. He sat up with me, motivated me, always got me going. I get a sudden urge to call him but meh.

I hear a cough and a shuffle behind me. It’s Prav.

“Morning, sweets”, he says, in an overly jovial, silly sort of way.

I roll my eyes.

“Good morn, my beloved”, I reply in a shrill, sugary sweet tone. I can play this game too.

He smiles. It’s a big, shit-eating grin. Killer stuff.

“Get dressed, we’re heading over to Chandigarh”, he says in a matter-of-fact voice.

“What-“

“It’s Sunday. You don’t have to work on Sundays”

“But I do. There’s –“

“Your boss thinks you’ve got the flu. I, uh, sent him an email about it a few minutes ago”

“But Prav-“

“Oh come on, you’re a partner, Natasha! Partner. Not an associate. Get used to it; you can take days off now. Besides, it’s your birthday”.

The same smile again. God, I love that smile.

“I…wow…you…”

“That’s all right. Just get dressed for now; our train’s early. I packed up for you”

He points to a bag I hadn’t noticed before. And then he puts two train tickets in my hand.

He actually planned this?! I’m speechless.

“Happy Birthday, Nat”

He holds me close. And suddenly, I realize that my sack-of-dirt feeling wasn’t about the birthday at all. All I wanted was to know that people cared. And now I know they do. He does. It’s not that I’m insecure, or that I want attention from people. It’s just that sometimes, you get so involved in the things in your life that you forget to be properly human. You forget to smell your coffee, forget to see how blue the sky really is. You forget to notice how warmth flows between people, how strong the mental bonds are, how a cosmic synergy makes even painful existence beautiful at times.

I hug him back and all’s right with the world.

Engineering A Death Brew

A lot has been written about education in this country. Some positive, a lot negative. There are indeed plenty of valid criticisms – it promotes rote learning, prefers form over content in language, creates an attitude of pre-professionalism, fails to deliver content in an engaging way and so on.

This post is not about that. 

What I really want to highlight here is an attitude problem.

In an incident reminiscent of a scene from the hit movie Three Idiots, an IIT Madras student hung himself from a ceiling fan minutes after he was informed that he would not graduate that year.
This is nothing very new for the IITs or Indian colleges in general. Between November 2005 and 2010 for example, IIT Kanpur alone has recorded a whopping seven undergraduate suicides. With an undergraduate strength of 2,800 in any given year, this translates to more than 57 suicides per 100,000 every year; five and a half time the national average of 10.5.

Why is the situation so bad?

Academic stress is one reason. The IITs are prestigious, premier institutions. As a result of the ridiculously low acceptance rates, their students are the creme de la creme of the high school student crowd. Naturally then, the competition within the institutions is intense and is bound to result in some amount of stress. Failure is not considered an option in Indian society and the pressure to succeed no matter what can easily break even far more battle-hardened and experienced men and women.

But there’s a second reason too – one of attitude. The attitude of the faculty.

In July 2008, students from IIT Kanpur filed an application under the RTI Act to find out what the institute had determined as the cause for the alarming number of suicides. Their answer?

The IIT stated that modernisation, social imbalance, irrational use of Internet and mobile phones are the chief reasons

IIT-Kanpur Dean Partha Chakraborty justified that cryptic response as follows

Parents can keep in touch with their sons and daughters on campus. Maybe there can be pressure from various parts of the society because you’re easily connected

But as the students pointed out, doesn’t that also mean that parents can provide much better moral and mental support? After all, communication is key to reducing suicides and mobile phones help immensely in that direction. With all due respect to the honorable Dean, is this not flawed reasoning?

I have long felt that we do not seem to value life here in India. That may or may not be a correct perception, but  this statement really took my breath away. When asked about what the Institute in general and Guidance and Counselling Unit (GCU) in particular was doing to address the situation and to improve the response against such incidents, IIT Madras dean of students Govardhan M said (emphasis mine),

Why are you always reporting negative news about IIT Madras? We also have the maximum number of patents but you didn’t report that. But you would want to report the death of 3 out of 5000 students which is statistically not important. Why don’t you go to other engineering institutes and find out how many died there. Why only IIT?

Er…what? “Statistically not important”? Since when are reporters only to report on statistically “important” events? Is it not shameful that entirely avoidable deaths of some of our best and brightest students are thought to be offset by the fact that the college has a high number of patents? Can patents be equated to human lives?

Parents aren’t entirely blameless either. Indian parents routinely push their kids too far, and too hard. Here in Delhi, I’ve seen kids from class VII already dreaming of getting into specific engineering colleges! Is a twelve year old kid really old enough to even decide what career s/he wants to pursue? It’s good to be driven and focused, but this is ridiculous! 

So what’s really killing our students?

In my view, it is a deadly combination of parental over-ambition, official insensitivity and immense academic stress that are working like a cancer in our society. These factors form a vicious circle that are wrecking the mental health of our future generations.

This must change, sooner rather than later