tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-81828800737281116972024-03-13T16:22:43.499-07:00Why LoiterWhy loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.comBlogger64125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-72805869404561862862022-11-03T23:31:00.000-07:002022-11-03T23:31:32.674-07:00Antakshari In The Metro- Singing Songs for Safe Spaces<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF71Li21tQ8yTN9Rc2eQVSOVDaFzCwlJ4K9yCbJyb8VXGY52YrpPqu_uc76XpDiK2EjpohKN2iIWbJb7boS4axo6mu4qRrAU7n8oN_KxNf5bqjY6hfKvZsYZXZm55H1UCHeUuoVx1giZ0XTvqef4aUhgCpy1y4AkU-q05NE7NF4LZ7rTO044uuhXya/s1599/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1599" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF71Li21tQ8yTN9Rc2eQVSOVDaFzCwlJ4K9yCbJyb8VXGY52YrpPqu_uc76XpDiK2EjpohKN2iIWbJb7boS4axo6mu4qRrAU7n8oN_KxNf5bqjY6hfKvZsYZXZm55H1UCHeUuoVx1giZ0XTvqef4aUhgCpy1y4AkU-q05NE7NF4LZ7rTO044uuhXya/w529-h640/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(1).jpg" width="529" /></a></div><br />We had played Antakshari in the metro before the lockdowns, but since we were going out and playing again after a gap of two years, there was a sense of nervousness, excitement, butterflies in the stomach. Almost like the kind you get before a stage show. This was kind of like a show- wasn't it? Where we were the actors, the metro was our stage, the commuters our audience, and the game of antakshari our chosen script for the show. But unlike most shows, there was going to be great scope for improvisations, for audience interactions and for all kinds of unforeseen setbacks!<p></p><p>What if the commuters didnt sing with us? What if they asked us to 'keep it low'? Or worse, what if someone shouted at us and said they were having an important conversation on the phone?</p><p>With excitement, nervousness and hope for the best, I picked up my ukelele and my scarf. I was wearing a noodle strap dress you see. And it was only natural to carry a scarf 'just in case'. But I thought about it and kept the scarf at home and proudly wore my noodle strap dress and ventured out. My neighbour Charu joined me, it was going to be her first time. </p><p>We reached the Versova Metro Station and met with our co-conspirators- Heena, Bharati. Deepesh, Vipin, Nishant, Satchit and Bhushan. Satchit has been a vociferous cheerleader, participant and ambassador for loitering. So it was great to have him again. We bought return tickets for Ghatkopar and got on the next metro train. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_-cO-SxIt3JfbYXPuWSW_ZfYXTRMBXzbaN9ekzrLVoGWbJm9tOx85-_lWBfb5abV6eKx25DI0BBolye75ahLjRAqvfoWExjiUCGM7LjdpDBbKTyk2E3Ea54GABm-TZGYcFCae0B5CShsCadSlKEq-jl0v4tYdqESFrYIX5eju9MQRNLtagj3qks8/s1600/antakshari%20in%20metro.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT_-cO-SxIt3JfbYXPuWSW_ZfYXTRMBXzbaN9ekzrLVoGWbJm9tOx85-_lWBfb5abV6eKx25DI0BBolye75ahLjRAqvfoWExjiUCGM7LjdpDBbKTyk2E3Ea54GABm-TZGYcFCae0B5CShsCadSlKEq-jl0v4tYdqESFrYIX5eju9MQRNLtagj3qks8/w400-h300/antakshari%20in%20metro.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">There were about 40-50 people sitting in the compartment that we got on. As we had planned, the men went on one side and the women on the other, and we began playing amongst ourselves, quite loudly though. Some curious commuters looked up from their phones- yes, almost all the commuters either had their eyes glued to their phones screens or had headphones on. I think they wanted to be sure that what they saw and heard was actually true- that a bunch of people were playing antakshari in the metro!</span></div><p>What followed were shy smiles, a few toothy smiles and some hums. Thats the power of antakshari- nostalgia, bollywood, childhood, play- it can be a heady mix and quite irresistible!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghBhi4fJDI2bToEsGqi74njNgY3UGC6VZ1djgSwz2VMhpxvHXNgihjYiC6y0_Uilubes36hjSnbmpBRKovEq5zivOsuKBmwsbG8pz7duDVjcclaqnwDMhye8S5c6bGDSwqyqqUBQL_dHVkA93T_Y51K0H47egMG3IyMYRgeTjdk6xBnMjJmPWIYcgh/s1599/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(6).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1599" data-original-width="899" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghBhi4fJDI2bToEsGqi74njNgY3UGC6VZ1djgSwz2VMhpxvHXNgihjYiC6y0_Uilubes36hjSnbmpBRKovEq5zivOsuKBmwsbG8pz7duDVjcclaqnwDMhye8S5c6bGDSwqyqqUBQL_dHVkA93T_Y51K0H47egMG3IyMYRgeTjdk6xBnMjJmPWIYcgh/w225-h400/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(6).jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>The next couple of hours went by in a blink of an eye- or atleast thats what it felt like. From Versova to Ghatkopar and from Ghatkopar to Versova- a commute that takes roughly one hour forty minutes. How many people joined us in the singing ? Its tough to say because so many got on, so many got off, so many joined mid song, so many just hummed softly, others whispered song names in their friends' ears because they knew a song but didnt want to sing. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjF8FDHQ--4HxCouwULTL30p7thI2ftYufsA-Xw-ewYPVGn3QChysCXez9pgt-oj3H0fNe2aM6J5VNhflyq5S4FfY7YhlS1likCuVzFB4oEoxePxag1BtzF1PrC0bhPWHhONetZwsEF4iZyZEeFuaUUP7LlFe_5RyCy6Pd7oeH1X31tonTPLEt6Vq4/s1599/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(7).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1599" data-original-width="899" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjF8FDHQ--4HxCouwULTL30p7thI2ftYufsA-Xw-ewYPVGn3QChysCXez9pgt-oj3H0fNe2aM6J5VNhflyq5S4FfY7YhlS1likCuVzFB4oEoxePxag1BtzF1PrC0bhPWHhONetZwsEF4iZyZEeFuaUUP7LlFe_5RyCy6Pd7oeH1X31tonTPLEt6Vq4/w225-h400/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(7).jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>As always, the women were more forthcoming in the singing than the men. Different Song with the same starting letter would erupt from different corners of the metro and then, without leading or directing, one would be chosen by the community and sung for atleast a minute, before passing the last letter to the other team to sing. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsEMdwOxOJ9Fit5lVcO7YtFhwyjXVmaWjcDE1ywlhHBRYt31d4gYn5k3BjbIuuM3D212MIuzKRSfPZU6rdk5w7sKx-ZnoEsqQi0zV0WyENaKGldMjRrSptXm8-AeeMneqV0HRJbyF1qjdj3K-uSrtggh6rN3WDE1YNBuAYLdCnLs89Q62MCUvKY1U/s1599/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1599" data-original-width="899" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvsEMdwOxOJ9Fit5lVcO7YtFhwyjXVmaWjcDE1ywlhHBRYt31d4gYn5k3BjbIuuM3D212MIuzKRSfPZU6rdk5w7sKx-ZnoEsqQi0zV0WyENaKGldMjRrSptXm8-AeeMneqV0HRJbyF1qjdj3K-uSrtggh6rN3WDE1YNBuAYLdCnLs89Q62MCUvKY1U/w225-h400/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(2).jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>I still remember the aged Uncle and Aunty who got on the metro, seated themselves and almost immediately started singing with us, as if they were planted actors who had just entered stage. Aunty wore a beautiful silk orange sari and knew about ten thousand songs- all old, beautiful, classical based film songs. Uncle smiled proudly each time aunty sang a new song with gusto and perfect note. I remember Disha, a young law student who got on and excitedly enquired "are we playing antakshari?" and as soon as we nodded, she joined in as a girl on a mission- coming up with new, unique songs and singing the whole chorus in her loud, beautiful voice. Disha lives in Ghatkopar but when we got off at Ghatkopar she asked "Are you all going to be singing all the way back to versova too?" and we said yes. She immediately called up her mom and said "Ma, I reached ghatkopar but a bunch of people on the train were singing and playing antakshari so I am going to join them and go to versova and then will catch the metro again to Ghatkopar". I dont know what her mom said to her, but I can only imagine the surprise and confusion she muct have felt. Disha is now on the Why Loiter group and is going to join us again. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC10D5FXvdEjQuBs3BozNdRd5oWa0HtszMyukBO-h0Z3mH90G85FrE8zyN8iTN85j3MJIA5g71kglsjopBqqsxp55lhtTCwTJUDXwJUfRxQuaJLe1NRyeUUaFECRm7xMht17XNq9mPF_PLzdQ9AonY2R7gCJN-s89seIVOXfUiY_cZs6vwV1hMdxf3/s1599/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(5).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1599" data-original-width="899" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgC10D5FXvdEjQuBs3BozNdRd5oWa0HtszMyukBO-h0Z3mH90G85FrE8zyN8iTN85j3MJIA5g71kglsjopBqqsxp55lhtTCwTJUDXwJUfRxQuaJLe1NRyeUUaFECRm7xMht17XNq9mPF_PLzdQ9AonY2R7gCJN-s89seIVOXfUiY_cZs6vwV1hMdxf3/w225-h400/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(5).jpg" width="225" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>A young man, a film school student, sang with us all the way and joined us on our ride back as well. "What you all doing when you get done with the antakshari?", he asked. "Get some chai at the tapri", we replied. "Okay, am coming along." We chatted about the beauty and miracle that is human interaction. Such a simple game had led to so many human interactions that otherwise would have been completely missed. </p><p>Our little 'show' had been a great success, with astounding audience interaction and reviews. </p><p>One middle aged lady who had been singing with us whispered in my ear- "Just for five minutes, I felt alive again."</p><p>These childhood games that were based on the pure joy of play, music and banter are slowly being overtaken by devices and gadgets. And how does playing antakshari on a metro make public spaces safe for women? Well, when people sing together, play together, smile at each other and share common joy, it brings a sense of community, chips away 'suspicion of the other' and makes us look out for each other- doesnt it? Thats exactly what the objective of our 'show' was and I think we were successful. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1IaJZxBW7cu9gL4Jv0jmSJuDBGb3ywJJzD_t_mO_GAj3mhqXuHWhO7_9v2XdIb1E3pO5O0urt8x4ua6LlgeSd7G39nllo6MQQjtmp7wuJg0XHT_349W_ui-5ULG55glfnbtmHDXD8gp1crn_MBHsnQGrb1takoc7xYs_KZ9RT_WAIxUFjBQy2gbtN/s1600/antakshari.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1IaJZxBW7cu9gL4Jv0jmSJuDBGb3ywJJzD_t_mO_GAj3mhqXuHWhO7_9v2XdIb1E3pO5O0urt8x4ua6LlgeSd7G39nllo6MQQjtmp7wuJg0XHT_349W_ui-5ULG55glfnbtmHDXD8gp1crn_MBHsnQGrb1takoc7xYs_KZ9RT_WAIxUFjBQy2gbtN/w300-h400/antakshari.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Our antakshari videos went viral, several media houses reshared them and the next time I was getting on the metro with my ukelele the gaurd asked me "Hope you are not planning to sing on the metro. There have been people getting on, singing and creating utter chaos!"</p><p>What scares the individualistic, capitalistic and consumerist culture more than anything?- people getting together to create a community that finds joy in games that are free of cost!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvGyr7P9xSQ86eoLyvYJuWMRGFQNeA0GV4Ekvv5r5ER1YqHr78W1WUs9qQi5t9O4Q9-AtWv7M_ya5Ix5KfTl6DtICicBhOpnSupbwKRks21gYkkYTXMBtMUo-pWPI2Koz4G2PSsdSdauXBORU1fcNK_k8wX43zlguDJ8NmElbay8KE8Wk9yygIONK/s1599/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(3).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="899" data-original-width="1599" height="358" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrvGyr7P9xSQ86eoLyvYJuWMRGFQNeA0GV4Ekvv5r5ER1YqHr78W1WUs9qQi5t9O4Q9-AtWv7M_ya5Ix5KfTl6DtICicBhOpnSupbwKRks21gYkkYTXMBtMUo-pWPI2Koz4G2PSsdSdauXBORU1fcNK_k8wX43zlguDJ8NmElbay8KE8Wk9yygIONK/w640-h358/Photo%20from%20neha%20singh%20(3).jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p><br /></p>Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-15032431185308348292022-05-27T03:48:00.000-07:002022-05-27T03:48:05.376-07:00Films, Feminism, a travelling festival part 2- a rebellious mural in Jaisalmer<p> This is part 2 of a fifteen days experience that I am sharing here. This experience was made possible by the crazy, bright and extremely hard working team at Hers is Ours, who had organised an almost-three month long travelling feminist film and art festival called 'The Outsider'. I was part of their super-ambitious and enthralling plan for a span of fifteen days, where we met and watched films and worked with women, men and children in Jodhpur, Setrawa, Jaisalmer and Moolsagar (I know! Lucky me. )</p><p>The first part of this experience has been covered in the previous post on this blog. This post covers mine (and our) experience in two places Jaisalmer and Moolsagar. The reason I have made two posts instead of one is because our experiences in Jaisalmer and Moolsagar were quite different and more complex than in Jodhpur and Setrawa, or maybe we were able to observe certain dynamics more here than in the previous two places. </p><p>For this week, we were stationed in a beautiful, rustic home stay created by world renowned algoza player Tagaram Bhil. His family comprised of his lovely wife Premi ji, his sons and daughters in law, his grandchildren. Tagaram Ji was the perfect host anyone could have asked for, interested in our work, making sure we were comfortable, jamming with us and even drinking with us and offering us his beedis. It was definitely a delightful place. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrhhlja1j4NoScrdblck3V1W6e0kYiul-ELHrOKecwnLYFDVG4WSiaQwrzNtcD0vMqccps2YH2QEKhrNapJ3ThWzRQcYqDVXRT4q2fSuHgKAkbK973aFbGc-UweuVV6R-quZWHPtFl8RZQPL_vSvmKwbKZKLvvALW5S90WQ7xolAlf6VgcTZ1T8IH/s1280/IMG-20211111-WA0009%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="949" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNrhhlja1j4NoScrdblck3V1W6e0kYiul-ELHrOKecwnLYFDVG4WSiaQwrzNtcD0vMqccps2YH2QEKhrNapJ3ThWzRQcYqDVXRT4q2fSuHgKAkbK973aFbGc-UweuVV6R-quZWHPtFl8RZQPL_vSvmKwbKZKLvvALW5S90WQ7xolAlf6VgcTZ1T8IH/s320/IMG-20211111-WA0009%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="237" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sitting in Tagaram Ji's aangan and giving beat on the ukelele while he played the algoza</td></tr></tbody></table> <div> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJ0luBitRyXLcOkQ0hpMRuDOF8IocufYc7EnB6v-FKz6C2YPzULQy7-JDtQRZzB3LMrdZg2qnwyv6CbjbLThx_ESdubnfxxP44qu5nbfeZn2RTANFGu4leqJDlLuj41_7FJs5fZWgDWeF5je7NwM0iWC0j7sx19sNnuF9w4a1zJwGQfiH3X3726HY/s4608/IMG_20211110_110616%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2304" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLJ0luBitRyXLcOkQ0hpMRuDOF8IocufYc7EnB6v-FKz6C2YPzULQy7-JDtQRZzB3LMrdZg2qnwyv6CbjbLThx_ESdubnfxxP44qu5nbfeZn2RTANFGu4leqJDlLuj41_7FJs5fZWgDWeF5je7NwM0iWC0j7sx19sNnuF9w4a1zJwGQfiH3X3726HY/w200-h400/IMG_20211110_110616%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oishorjyo smoking a beedi with her morning cup of tea.</td></tr></tbody></table><br />The first couple of days we worked with the mangniyar community in Jaisalmer. The community is essentially a performing arts community where the men and the boys earn their living through singing, playing the harmonium, dholak and various other instruments. They usually sing Sufi, Kabir and Rajasthani folk music. We were welcomed at their centre with marigold garlands and a wonderful musical performance by the men and boys of the community. <p>What slowly started bothering all of us was the complete absence of women and girls in the performance pit. As we looked around at the many laminated banners of musicians and singers from the community that adorned the walls, we couldnt find even one banner that had a photo of a girl. A young girl wearing the traditional kalbeliya costume sat on one edge of the stairs that led up to the all-male musicians. As the music gained speed, some of us women got up and invited the girl sitting at the staircase to dance with us. Soon a few other mangniyar women started dancing with us. </p><p>Once the performance was over we expressed our desire to meet the girls and the women of the community. For reasons so far unknown to us, the women and the girls couldn't come to the community centre and if we wished to meet them, we would have to go to the place where they lived. We immediately agreed and walked a short distance to the place where the community lives in minimalist, almost make shift homes, in a ghettoized space. </p><p>The place was brimming with women, young girls and children. We had already seen all the men at the community centre, most of them had performed for us, but we were pleasantly surprised to see so many women and girls at the homes. The reasons for why they were not performing and why they weren't even allowed to be at the community centre slowly became clearer to us. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTkoWT5nCI0z4BjGEQv_aWixsD7upqKsc9z_4jxmcxULJh-L2JHmvfRHc9MxPLOgtFZl1gADu6kHPsCtxy8zlbjuUF5u2J4EsjeJAh4YhQ833ZPl5MqUz4Z4lrVgp_Rn_qI2VaFbvuPR8JZTo-_2qYps_NCXqwJP4I2lTsl85FkPtMIsI_3U3pUcz1/s1280/IMG-20211109-WA0041%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTkoWT5nCI0z4BjGEQv_aWixsD7upqKsc9z_4jxmcxULJh-L2JHmvfRHc9MxPLOgtFZl1gADu6kHPsCtxy8zlbjuUF5u2J4EsjeJAh4YhQ833ZPl5MqUz4Z4lrVgp_Rn_qI2VaFbvuPR8JZTo-_2qYps_NCXqwJP4I2lTsl85FkPtMIsI_3U3pUcz1/s320/IMG-20211109-WA0041%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Naomi showing a film to the women and girls since they were not allowed to come for the public screening</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8mceL5GK0LcyCjtnHnovM-ghAlBc09Vh6-DMFKKujNXCvxSmYF0ti4-EH2hJcqcqZvxh9hXuo2HkNe-QVUTnWvf9fY1gsfxhpZ7cmxv0X7eNpcVoaZXsEUr-hSuA50-PV_msqJIUIAtskWXlW0sNP95xkDqPltF-_Daeok55NBirxe6KtJRVnc_m/s1280/IMG-20211109-WA0023%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA8mceL5GK0LcyCjtnHnovM-ghAlBc09Vh6-DMFKKujNXCvxSmYF0ti4-EH2hJcqcqZvxh9hXuo2HkNe-QVUTnWvf9fY1gsfxhpZ7cmxv0X7eNpcVoaZXsEUr-hSuA50-PV_msqJIUIAtskWXlW0sNP95xkDqPltF-_Daeok55NBirxe6KtJRVnc_m/s320/IMG-20211109-WA0023%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Trina and Oish hanging with the Mangniyar women and children</td></tr></tbody></table><p>The mangniyar community survives and thrives on its musical talents and knowledge that has been passed down over several generations. Their music and dance is their primary and in most cases, their only source of livelihood. Most of them have travelled internationally, played in several prestigious venues across the country and are even revered by students from across the world who come and stay for years in Jaisalmer to learn the music. It is clear then, that whoever has control over the music has control over the community. The men therefore, do not even let the girls touch their musical instruments. The knowledge and the skills are duly and diligently passed on to the boys from a very young age but the girls are completely discouraged from singing or even touching the musical instruments. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwQWM4D3QnJGNSOdT8U0w1EYaRBn4t4ge8McCwTWPUUb6Yw5I21UJFkxlr-n0KsAlUZzv0PmVj0sNZ2-laGEQ' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Singing with the Mangniyar musicians. Women from the 'outside' are allowed to learn from and sing with them. </div><br /><p><br /></p><p>The girls are conditioned from a very young age to only learn cooking, cleaning, child bearing and rearing and how to be a perfect wife. The restriction on their movement is so heavy that they are not allowed to even go to the market to buy milk!</p><p>We were in a conundrum of sorts, since true to the name of the festival, we were 'The outsiders'. The dynamics of gender, caste and tradition ran so deep and strong that our intervention of any sort could go horribly wrong. </p><p>Although we did manage to have a few moments of success where we showed a deeply feminist film 'Gulaabi Gang' by Nishtha Jain in the Jaisalmer Fort premises and had a large and curious local audience. We managed to conduct a beautiful arts based workshop with Tagaram Bhil ji's own family and those in his neighbourhood. We even got to play songs and tell feminist stories to another group in Jaisalmer and distribute and speak about menstrual hygiene with the women. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfitcwwbrsX1tvj23Ty3ShdmG7gYMTRC3WgLisucL-UcUNIs7aHeNSuICojN3BPCoieHK6aeAEMyOxE0C4-Mr4JBux5ei1N-FfgL4uv1OPqx-fJqkMbwT5UfvUtWYMhXa-hK0pE5lNWjzwdWFtHWrBGN26uAndSRAxKfKD79ncEjzcSTISLNYOb7e/s1040/IMG-20211109-WA0009%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1040" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKfitcwwbrsX1tvj23Ty3ShdmG7gYMTRC3WgLisucL-UcUNIs7aHeNSuICojN3BPCoieHK6aeAEMyOxE0C4-Mr4JBux5ei1N-FfgL4uv1OPqx-fJqkMbwT5UfvUtWYMhXa-hK0pE5lNWjzwdWFtHWrBGN26uAndSRAxKfKD79ncEjzcSTISLNYOb7e/s320/IMG-20211109-WA0009%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Distributing sanitary pads and menstrual cups to women in Jaisalmer</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJiOmLm3cmkvpPJHTyyZB77sLLRimz-dfvbhc3t6Vxt6om2k_pIAYjq8UdKnYyDEjfZvmC9gG-EhcvkHiuH9cPDJAdeuW6-f64Idpj84LzlNNi22fcLUa3369qWbxIy2pmUmQtAXgWcShuz96EXv9rRudYAAhH5Frzp1XN3BpQ-17Es4j0bdP09Gv1/s1280/IMG-20211112-WA0009.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJiOmLm3cmkvpPJHTyyZB77sLLRimz-dfvbhc3t6Vxt6om2k_pIAYjq8UdKnYyDEjfZvmC9gG-EhcvkHiuH9cPDJAdeuW6-f64Idpj84LzlNNi22fcLUa3369qWbxIy2pmUmQtAXgWcShuz96EXv9rRudYAAhH5Frzp1XN3BpQ-17Es4j0bdP09Gv1/s320/IMG-20211112-WA0009.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Showing animation films and documentaries on feminism to villagers at and around Tagaramji's house in Moolsagar</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUVZLB6U6C2lV609xxamPhTRPbFvq3yEgr7xYGnGHXq18Xs-WC9jXHxU8nJGtqhZHwZmu5V9635b6xkDXqgJnKnUGrD9AqQhsReWXLl4pWyTLaMI4-RGcP9nIXTxwLepyB5WKHGzDOjpmyfZraBeDIHZMoEFF_ubcHyHuxgFXklokrojOMjiu7zPb/s1280/IMG-20211112-WA0003.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhUVZLB6U6C2lV609xxamPhTRPbFvq3yEgr7xYGnGHXq18Xs-WC9jXHxU8nJGtqhZHwZmu5V9635b6xkDXqgJnKnUGrD9AqQhsReWXLl4pWyTLaMI4-RGcP9nIXTxwLepyB5WKHGzDOjpmyfZraBeDIHZMoEFF_ubcHyHuxgFXklokrojOMjiu7zPb/s320/IMG-20211112-WA0003.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Public screening of Nishtha Jain's Gulabi Gang inside the Jaisalmer fort</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>But the gender gap in the Mangniyar community and also in the Bhil community remained a point of disappointment and despair for us all. </p><p>Whenever it was possible, we went and just hung out with the women and the girls in their ghetto and encouraged them to speak, sing and come up with their own lyrics to popular children's songs. </p><p>There are a few interesting conversations that we did have with the men in the community that may or may not result in any narrative change. </p><p>I am sharing some of these conversations here.</p><p>Once, when the men were singing the Kabir bhajans that spoke about how God/the supreme being did not make any difference among human beings then who are we to create those differences. </p><p>We jumped at the lyrics of the song as a great conversation starter on discrimination. </p><p>"How come you sing about God making any differences among human beings and that we must follow the same path, but in your own home you differentiate among your boys and girls? Didnt God make men and women the same as well?", we asked.</p><p>The men listened, went silent, smoked a few beedis and then went on playing some more music.</p><p>In another instance, one of the older men asked me to read out a message that had been sent to him by an American student who had not paid the entire amount to this man who had taught him his music for an entire year. I read the message and told him what he was saying. I continued the conversation with speaking to the man about educating his girls who all looked so bright. If they could read and write they could have translated the message for him too, and the payment would have been on time. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEcJr-WjYaJh_OXfmCg61xdkXr_Rwy1rlYof9oA5ylH4nC2xQ6W9kmrgaShRkGXfOK09mSzWR8aBg_PklHnJyvSXJpUuH6wKCkDxHBdQbE5j5_G_jxL0d_GyHMP3bkN5kxv_wq2460EXkAzV40Rvz35JFcMrgX-Xh57SeTHQkh9vhs4a5Z9_S2yn-/s1052/IMG-20211109-WA0071%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1052" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzEcJr-WjYaJh_OXfmCg61xdkXr_Rwy1rlYof9oA5ylH4nC2xQ6W9kmrgaShRkGXfOK09mSzWR8aBg_PklHnJyvSXJpUuH6wKCkDxHBdQbE5j5_G_jxL0d_GyHMP3bkN5kxv_wq2460EXkAzV40Rvz35JFcMrgX-Xh57SeTHQkh9vhs4a5Z9_S2yn-/s320/IMG-20211109-WA0071%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Krantinaari sharing a laugh with the Mangniyar girls</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvH8dhZuGzjSVKWg9Gr_uY_otCg-JFTjn6KKZCWPx_ZSt2fLdUxzDodxY7IF_PrSAkDL_6e6NBrv-cQpewNMgFrTE-j_mNSbrhGc3BzUEnR5prbL976YRsBVYz42dsV5O08fuQsPnSuZzCiHfCf0aQLfPGNDr6Yl6OwfX5W-Yc4GTjdwQQb6GeNLC/s1280/IMG-20211109-WA0046%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhvH8dhZuGzjSVKWg9Gr_uY_otCg-JFTjn6KKZCWPx_ZSt2fLdUxzDodxY7IF_PrSAkDL_6e6NBrv-cQpewNMgFrTE-j_mNSbrhGc3BzUEnR5prbL976YRsBVYz42dsV5O08fuQsPnSuZzCiHfCf0aQLfPGNDr6Yl6OwfX5W-Yc4GTjdwQQb6GeNLC/s320/IMG-20211109-WA0046%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzXVZNzvTj9xHxSlX6BtxTx8o9kQKCLiQrCzImWD_EUKrTAkFoCRbYTEXPDlPQA5lFRyGVnbbCoVoTCPiOQzGTc9evgng0GQQeg5vfWigHNqF3Woexx9UWkasl3VSK8Z2FMQyJygpMu0W9FFOKk_xmE5VfUKE8wagesLDsE8XVSt8oMHPninzqepgo/s1040/IMG-20211109-WA0033%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1040" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzXVZNzvTj9xHxSlX6BtxTx8o9kQKCLiQrCzImWD_EUKrTAkFoCRbYTEXPDlPQA5lFRyGVnbbCoVoTCPiOQzGTc9evgng0GQQeg5vfWigHNqF3Woexx9UWkasl3VSK8Z2FMQyJygpMu0W9FFOKk_xmE5VfUKE8wagesLDsE8XVSt8oMHPninzqepgo/s320/IMG-20211109-WA0033%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Several such conversations took place all the while that we were there, without much reception or reciprocation. We met the women separately and they told us that most of them get married when they are still minors and have babies by the time they are eighteen or nineteen.</p><p>A young daughter-in-law who was making tea for us had recently had a miscarriage, and was expecting again. She was all of nineteen. A young daughter who was about fifteen could speak English, which she had picked up from her father's students over the years. She was bright and intelligent but had never been to school and will be married off by the time she is sixteen or seventeen.</p><p>When we spoke to her father he said, "Well, what can we do? We have so many children and she is another mouth to feed. Once she is married its her destiny. Where ever it may lead her."</p><p>The frustration and anger among the girls was palpable. They were at the beck and call of their father and brothers. For every little thing that they needed they had to plead with their father or brother, whether it was getting some sugar from the market, or getting a needle and thread to sew their torn clothes. </p><p>As the gender discrimination was getting clearer among the Mangniyar community, it was also getting clearer at the Bhil home where we were staying.</p><p>Tagaram Ji Bhil ate with us, so did his sons and grandsons, but his wife and daughters-in-law and their daughters ate separately, after we had all eaten. Our multiple requests to let them sit with us and eat went unheard, by the men and the women.</p><p>We watched Premi ji working in the house from dawn to way after dusk, she also worked as a anganwaadi worker in the local preschool. She cooked and cleaned and mopped and looked after us, but she wasnt allowed in the shed that contained all of Tagaram Ji's musical instruments. Only the men could enter that room!</p><p>One of our tasks at the festival was to create a mural. Krantinaari, Ayushi and Oishorjyo had been creating powerful, relatable murals through our journey. </p><p>Here we were going to paint a mural on the white mud wall of one of the cottages. We racked our brains as to what should we make. And then it came- we were going to paint Premi Ji, the matriarch of the house, the silent figure who was actually the backbone of the home and also the one who had never been acknowledged for all her hardwork and warmth.</p><p>Oishorjyo and I ran the idea past the team- Anal, Naomi, Ayushi, Trina and Ashwini. Everyone was gung ho about the idea. </p><p>Oishorjyo clicked a photo of Premiji for reference, in her usual pose of sitting cutting vegetables in the kitchen. </p><p>As Oishorjyo started making the outlines of Premiji on the large, white wall, we wondered whether we should show her in her actual pose of cutting vegetables? No, was the immediate and unanimous response. Then what could we show her doing?</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL--Jk5e8pspcmobxJWCzueU70SKLT3dvVW3wuyOxmVeFASMt34llgbfHzCBOdfQUCQxDadfxWnSQc3dZMvCNxJ_EB_UAUmLGusCH3KLtBwvSJ74h6r7_zW8VjeeXo2tKMAYlG-ruqu18e-Pijn4sHGMiUFeJ5vTMmrzTS_TyveHYQ2pVg9Bxy2S7/s4608/IMG_20211112_170310.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2304" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbL--Jk5e8pspcmobxJWCzueU70SKLT3dvVW3wuyOxmVeFASMt34llgbfHzCBOdfQUCQxDadfxWnSQc3dZMvCNxJ_EB_UAUmLGusCH3KLtBwvSJ74h6r7_zW8VjeeXo2tKMAYlG-ruqu18e-Pijn4sHGMiUFeJ5vTMmrzTS_TyveHYQ2pVg9Bxy2S7/w200-h400/IMG_20211112_170310.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Oishorjyo making the mural</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p><br /></p><p>What should Premiji be shown doing in the mural?- became a question that we asked everyone around. Her kids, grandkids, neighbours, herself. Everyone.</p><p>Making rotis, someone suggested. Peeling potatoes. Cooking vegetables. </p><p>When we asked them to think out of the box we got great responses- holding a mobile phone!, holding a camera, a laptop, a radio set. The suggestions kept coming in. There was a little crowd that had gathered around her, thinking with us. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh06hJdkxP0urJm3zvi76OZp137JCRQLKljR8mj11hSzU_rurAUWD2Yl7yE7iV1C5etlbVy0-ALunqA4M2jR74sqy2MpVPhr--OVJGD4DJEI1TBytPZJeplrIVxtrVzdHDwr3Exy_IpIY-YwZudw88eOfTm1llYyvAQhliXKHmCQhhjWbHM2fGLQL9q/s4608/IMG_20211112_173726.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2304" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh06hJdkxP0urJm3zvi76OZp137JCRQLKljR8mj11hSzU_rurAUWD2Yl7yE7iV1C5etlbVy0-ALunqA4M2jR74sqy2MpVPhr--OVJGD4DJEI1TBytPZJeplrIVxtrVzdHDwr3Exy_IpIY-YwZudw88eOfTm1llYyvAQhliXKHmCQhhjWbHM2fGLQL9q/w200-h400/IMG_20211112_173726.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>And then the picture was finally complete- she should be holding a musical instrument, an algoza! </p><p>Of course, yes. What could never have been realized in reality, could atleast be painted on a white mud wall, isnt it?</p><p>While Oishorjyo started drawing the algoza in Premiji's hands, me along with several women and girls from the house started filling in the mural with different natural colours. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHmo5-1JRri38xkeOyBLXTpK6Sr7fjsG83EJxmhsVZzK9i_PUuQw2cI-YA8ldFK80lqfl5lT-o32WrQLi_I20dysep1wVw4Omp2wS5Yw2qHMJA8USWNhmriQJRyIt4VRxnlRAjnXrApdh_3udwppvlyehtEnsI9TYtiFVccJMvGWcnYMh7J0Quvv5/s1052/IMG-20211113-WA0045.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1052" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYHmo5-1JRri38xkeOyBLXTpK6Sr7fjsG83EJxmhsVZzK9i_PUuQw2cI-YA8ldFK80lqfl5lT-o32WrQLi_I20dysep1wVw4Omp2wS5Yw2qHMJA8USWNhmriQJRyIt4VRxnlRAjnXrApdh_3udwppvlyehtEnsI9TYtiFVccJMvGWcnYMh7J0Quvv5/s320/IMG-20211113-WA0045.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr></tbody></table><p>The mural was complete late at night, too dark for anyone to see what it was all about. We went to our cottage, washed the colours off our hands, gleeful in our little rebellion and nervous about what the reaction from the men, especially from Tagaram Ji would be in the morning!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_XDbgkk4Z4DqLOQ38R_CJVIc2-mMf3zH3gZaAvaAcLrqWqN9gWh4LPvWbMmyqL58_V1OOBXDzT1Kg5YCPnyd1g9r4n4R2UQDQfHMRMw5b6TJ-1gXAAfMKwRRc5XuUrxSkZHhl9dWRygJqLH7W4W3rMkZPQZoQtLAxuqCWY1r862COVZDFnzHnkTQ-/s1052/IMG-20211113-WA0046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1052" height="296" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_XDbgkk4Z4DqLOQ38R_CJVIc2-mMf3zH3gZaAvaAcLrqWqN9gWh4LPvWbMmyqL58_V1OOBXDzT1Kg5YCPnyd1g9r4n4R2UQDQfHMRMw5b6TJ-1gXAAfMKwRRc5XuUrxSkZHhl9dWRygJqLH7W4W3rMkZPQZoQtLAxuqCWY1r862COVZDFnzHnkTQ-/w400-h296/IMG-20211113-WA0046.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>In the morning the wet paints had dried up and Premiji looked at us with her dark, deep eyes, holding the black algoza with all her strength. The family huddled around us, women and girls, admiring and giggling at the politics of the mural. The giggles turned to silence as Tagaram Ji walked up to the mural, for the first time since we had started painting it.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOWQJyPYmJUvmkYRVK8UnrjZlDNSF25eYYgqSYFIj_1qhvUY2Hwv_kzt3ZnVwCGoLv_dZmoJ7Vh6Vo1_ceAxu7szABCVYhDSubI5KjKbDAUIOrNniHPKoIFcRvwrRUDbnZMbjqDGXC2_cxxClRQYvs1ZLYmQEr79WuhdG8AneU1Cd-G4mYZEzd3PA3/s4608/IMG_20211113_084515.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2304" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOWQJyPYmJUvmkYRVK8UnrjZlDNSF25eYYgqSYFIj_1qhvUY2Hwv_kzt3ZnVwCGoLv_dZmoJ7Vh6Vo1_ceAxu7szABCVYhDSubI5KjKbDAUIOrNniHPKoIFcRvwrRUDbnZMbjqDGXC2_cxxClRQYvs1ZLYmQEr79WuhdG8AneU1Cd-G4mYZEzd3PA3/w200-h400/IMG_20211113_084515.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPmZxNa-Sz74pui2l_ZLrJB7UQYLwP-Eo_JUsccFVSq6JcJBEddcno6oxQNavhXnhAjHzTnX0YlNT9TnEMZpp26XJxHWBvtZDl9ZFOpJaqwDudGfBOt2L9niqi7BYBxQ9ZHCDktL58x-bZzrdvqq9LSdvV2VXbt3FgRaGpk-cqZOeo1SfoUrcXipDO/s4608/IMG_20211113_084406.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2304" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPmZxNa-Sz74pui2l_ZLrJB7UQYLwP-Eo_JUsccFVSq6JcJBEddcno6oxQNavhXnhAjHzTnX0YlNT9TnEMZpp26XJxHWBvtZDl9ZFOpJaqwDudGfBOt2L9niqi7BYBxQ9ZHCDktL58x-bZzrdvqq9LSdvV2VXbt3FgRaGpk-cqZOeo1SfoUrcXipDO/w200-h400/IMG_20211113_084406.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgHHx3-sNa1izz80aNe6qcfWhxlR8YZOwQ_NbgxXmsnKW903QOxhbT0PdClQdtP3l3BfIquO8S4QVhI0B25YlMgMFRY6DPBUms9lMgJQSwnHWht4jDOJv6yfu96gFxdD5YG8Nbanj1SevNWznqYe32R8D5AvFq3hhAB0cBXVR9_-e3eo-O3x6o1Q2/s1052/IMG-20211113-WA0071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="780" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkgHHx3-sNa1izz80aNe6qcfWhxlR8YZOwQ_NbgxXmsnKW903QOxhbT0PdClQdtP3l3BfIquO8S4QVhI0B25YlMgMFRY6DPBUms9lMgJQSwnHWht4jDOJv6yfu96gFxdD5YG8Nbanj1SevNWznqYe32R8D5AvFq3hhAB0cBXVR9_-e3eo-O3x6o1Q2/s320/IMG-20211113-WA0071.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>"What have you made?", he said disappointed and confused more than angry.</p><p>"Its Premiji, holding your favourite, black algoza.", we responded innocently.</p><p>"But why would you make this? She doesnt play the algoza, in fact she has never even held the algoza in her hands.", the anger was apparent.</p><p>"Well, art imagines things that dont exist in reality, isnt it? Just like your music. It takes us to the mountains and the rivers and the cool breeze of a seaside, sitting here in the desert, doesnt it?", we were being very cheeky now.</p><p>"But it would have looked more beautiful if you had made her cooking, or fetching water in an earthen pot on her head, you know?", he wasnt giving up either.</p><p>The women and the girls looked on at this battle of words, silently, their hearts hoping for us to win (or thats what we think, atleast)</p><p>"Well, we think this is also beautiful. Doesnt she look beautiful?", we asked hopefully looking at our audience. </p><p>They nodded non-committedly. </p><p>"But why have you given her my black algoza. Its my favourite, you know!", Tagaram Ji battled on, almost in a childlike manner, his conditioning not letting him appreciate what lay in front of him.</p><p>"Well, its just a painting. The real one is all yours.", we had to pacify him like a little child who refuses to share his favourite toy with his friend. </p><p>It was heartbreaking to see what patriarchy does to men, how it takes away their will to share, be happy in someone else's glory, even if it is their wife of thirty years, the mother of their many children.</p><p>Tagaram ji left, probably thinking we were mad woman who didnt understand good reason. </p><p>and the women huddled around us, laughing, giggling, talking, a strange, hopeful bright light shining in their restricted eyes. </p><p>"Why did you make this, didi?", a young girl asked us.</p><p>"So that you see this and one day grow up to know that you can also play the black algoza, or any other instrument you like, if you wish to.", we said.</p><p>As we packed to leave, as this was our last day at the village, we hoped and prayed that Tagaram Ji wouldnt get the mural painted over. We dont know if it is still there. We clicked photos of a very shy and reluctant Premi Ji with her mural. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pbu9BOHlWjNpVk7cVjFAxOJ11FMd9kLXb9QvSCUqUsvuDX72WBUcZxip5SqU_STAMjb4OcoJLWHKgoLhsOlfp1UZ2xirAqcGVWzFDs-IyNRy0e6P3t33aq8Hgr9A84iJV0jQkj8reb0AioSD5vt14yALcV0sYuJXHDiNBYoiMhNSXxyS5DfZwwwI/s903/IMG-20211113-WA0067__01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="665" data-original-width="903" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6pbu9BOHlWjNpVk7cVjFAxOJ11FMd9kLXb9QvSCUqUsvuDX72WBUcZxip5SqU_STAMjb4OcoJLWHKgoLhsOlfp1UZ2xirAqcGVWzFDs-IyNRy0e6P3t33aq8Hgr9A84iJV0jQkj8reb0AioSD5vt14yALcV0sYuJXHDiNBYoiMhNSXxyS5DfZwwwI/s320/IMG-20211113-WA0067__01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Premi ji sitting with herself :)</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuJZCAjC5Jef7Nb75TW8r9ZxuGl4o_M6hbc_zERT8zVKQMxLSehEM4DeOMIEoZIjazuPokOJwqzLNqAVidEtB9bdFjPl-O0kjTCX_6ubulWTnaX824X7QdZuKIJ8SbV2Ox6zGIqWVtWdfaHPA9cZeh3pCaIoHuLdSHH1sUq8XQ0XFjEFEfcnR-tJR/s1052/IMG-20211113-WA0040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1052" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizuJZCAjC5Jef7Nb75TW8r9ZxuGl4o_M6hbc_zERT8zVKQMxLSehEM4DeOMIEoZIjazuPokOJwqzLNqAVidEtB9bdFjPl-O0kjTCX_6ubulWTnaX824X7QdZuKIJ8SbV2Ox6zGIqWVtWdfaHPA9cZeh3pCaIoHuLdSHH1sUq8XQ0XFjEFEfcnR-tJR/s320/IMG-20211113-WA0040.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Premiji dressed Naomi in traditional Rajasthani attire</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbTuZTS1YKdVOlxDFdjwg3_MAjr4_-GBWEbVG4GVvo3y9j-WsJ5hcb-Xi1irgNQRYTgttaAsqIsc9ehMs3drzFWFkJ2GaAIQ23tT-32UbdwRhNz4D2Yy_QSsHbyx6HMaNvCwttHTNeoMWPfgH-ZWMOAWLujIue_BnpNF4woLxeN7oFmw2JpZkTlCw/s1052/IMG-20211113-WA0052.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="780" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDbTuZTS1YKdVOlxDFdjwg3_MAjr4_-GBWEbVG4GVvo3y9j-WsJ5hcb-Xi1irgNQRYTgttaAsqIsc9ehMs3drzFWFkJ2GaAIQ23tT-32UbdwRhNz4D2Yy_QSsHbyx6HMaNvCwttHTNeoMWPfgH-ZWMOAWLujIue_BnpNF4woLxeN7oFmw2JpZkTlCw/s320/IMG-20211113-WA0052.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YJ46hpEpBmrCmnyp4fv4hrMXS_AsakGzRh9CtdVj_SlKl3z8pGU17H5WA4XNwx6Y8TbNGpPV6mkaqMFkN2smfYJonBtGTywL4xMp9iW1ruLyO20wBUKYIZ1HUVMdv3LdyyDMmyypiCR3pOkN1qsVZUanu5McMNz9BSO5X6TQNH_xPoIDPT3Z86ND/s1280/IMG-20211113-WA0002.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="1280" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8YJ46hpEpBmrCmnyp4fv4hrMXS_AsakGzRh9CtdVj_SlKl3z8pGU17H5WA4XNwx6Y8TbNGpPV6mkaqMFkN2smfYJonBtGTywL4xMp9iW1ruLyO20wBUKYIZ1HUVMdv3LdyyDMmyypiCR3pOkN1qsVZUanu5McMNz9BSO5X6TQNH_xPoIDPT3Z86ND/s320/IMG-20211113-WA0002.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Tagaramji obliged us with parting photos. With the whole team. </td></tr></tbody></table><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuaD6ci9s_wyzRBboDmkDoH1-MOL8jmGNB3nJeNPQmYAOT9_4EdDtbVe67M-w9mQxmyVJjlUogwahAiRbtrcwIUUIxP0aCSLMgpAwepiYWxAld6m9xdNcYNqR3l5OYNTiCd2XzMsyfJ_2IdPAjVa1nueL_VkFRl83NdUgObF_-BDq6xtsgDXhQBpf/s1280/IMG-20211112-WA0016.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBuaD6ci9s_wyzRBboDmkDoH1-MOL8jmGNB3nJeNPQmYAOT9_4EdDtbVe67M-w9mQxmyVJjlUogwahAiRbtrcwIUUIxP0aCSLMgpAwepiYWxAld6m9xdNcYNqR3l5OYNTiCd2XzMsyfJ_2IdPAjVa1nueL_VkFRl83NdUgObF_-BDq6xtsgDXhQBpf/s320/IMG-20211112-WA0016.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>On our way to the train station we stopped by at the Mangniyars' basti.</p><p>We met with the warm women and girls from the community, had a last cup of chai with them, sang a few more songs and clicked some photos. With a promise that we will be back soon. </p><p>"When will you come back, didi?", they asked us.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEM9KpXevJJL-D18pmXjCGQ9goDZV6M7h6XOIiws_Ont8gPS94Vc1DM8xpmL7LLJhYK-1smih7gy58qf75Igs1CznyCkBOpYV0LMPSLAdAtW3ewDcT-VHBVu7DaSAu40FEvRSaEIMNxWfssuemMvtBnHJpG2MRwxKl_QS06i4wbxeZY3fkKA2JIoAu/s4608/IMG_20211113_122210.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2304" data-original-width="4608" height="160" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEM9KpXevJJL-D18pmXjCGQ9goDZV6M7h6XOIiws_Ont8gPS94Vc1DM8xpmL7LLJhYK-1smih7gy58qf75Igs1CznyCkBOpYV0LMPSLAdAtW3ewDcT-VHBVu7DaSAu40FEvRSaEIMNxWfssuemMvtBnHJpG2MRwxKl_QS06i4wbxeZY3fkKA2JIoAu/s320/IMG_20211113_122210.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCq_9Nz3rQx97AXsFWzS3DlGITnesx16c06eb-rf-LOCQ_Ei5lh0p_-cKALc2UmzSwdRnWgH_UYpIIVO-ZNiKDvr87KaQf1shTxQBhRq6HghnzThbNznLW3ZQe_3BVJVrHIsteNgus5xmOI8k18EJZhw7kpaXLfo3yzrHUpNIL5vzCX2tuRUjxxpLd/s1280/IMG-20211112-WA0039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCq_9Nz3rQx97AXsFWzS3DlGITnesx16c06eb-rf-LOCQ_Ei5lh0p_-cKALc2UmzSwdRnWgH_UYpIIVO-ZNiKDvr87KaQf1shTxQBhRq6HghnzThbNznLW3ZQe_3BVJVrHIsteNgus5xmOI8k18EJZhw7kpaXLfo3yzrHUpNIL5vzCX2tuRUjxxpLd/s320/IMG-20211112-WA0039.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Soon, hopefully.</p><p>Afterall, what is life without hope?</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRyILi6NW20RPWsUkjHo7YsCbLQIa3lWRPwKllfoRYH7AIEFgPGLcrTnGTLRWLKFdtgNnSzc3fHve0AhxHWnbJLUhPIUFtq57WyJHbNx16OkeBM0FMXO6ciZG0cmZLtjuxxGoPtSe3lsC8DzH9aiZEJF9qZbKyzeNu2u_SK273vCK6-ot7bzN4haw/s1280/IMG-20211109-WA0103.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheRyILi6NW20RPWsUkjHo7YsCbLQIa3lWRPwKllfoRYH7AIEFgPGLcrTnGTLRWLKFdtgNnSzc3fHve0AhxHWnbJLUhPIUFtq57WyJHbNx16OkeBM0FMXO6ciZG0cmZLtjuxxGoPtSe3lsC8DzH9aiZEJF9qZbKyzeNu2u_SK273vCK6-ot7bzN4haw/w300-h400/IMG-20211109-WA0103.jpg" width="300" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p></div>Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-70046717019543788002022-03-28T09:36:00.003-07:002022-03-28T09:36:42.301-07:00Films, feminism, a travelling festival- perfect reasons to loiter! <p> In October 2021 I had the marvelous opportunity to collaborate with a group of crazy people that call themselves 'Hers is Ours'. They asked me to join them for two weeks, traveling across Rajasthan in their 'Magic Van', showing feminist films, painting murals and conducting gender based workshops with the communities that we were engaging with. The film festival was aptly called 'The Outsider Travelling Feminist Film and Art Festival' . </p><p>Nothing excites me more than engaging with people from different geographical, economical and social strata. I jumped at the opportunity and sat in a train to the first destination- Jodhpur. </p><p>The very first day we all went to a community centre run by The Sambhali Trust. Around thirty five girls and women were being trained in Karate. I do not believe that teaching martial arts as a form of self defense to women and girls solves the issue of sexual or physical violence, but I do believe it is good for any person to learn a martial art form to remain physically fit and find strength. </p><p>What really attracted me to this bunch to women was the enthusiasm and joy they all exhibited. After they watched a beautiful feminist film, that was curated by the core team - Naomi, Anal, Trina and Ayushi- it was time for my workshop!</p><p>Over the years if there is one thing I have learnt about conducting workshops its this. Make as detailed a workshop plan as you can, and then be ready to throw it out of the window as quickly! I realized that this group of people were already so attuned and sensitized to gender politics, I could do a lot more than I had planned. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiV1Y9WIAXZhYR6SWcgZrNT7isAtS-vKmO9XryJORFeoSWEN1ruWHiNSG4phaZ7fYyvdzankVi34vF6tuD91PJ28h6LcKdKOqiOs_1suAEggn5b09LPaJ8BiC1CWQY1h8vzlU76xReKbfvZbqCihQPH3oAzTBKPXabv4jRyzy7v6qtF__4kxze0Jrb/s1280/IMG-20211101-WA0004%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjiV1Y9WIAXZhYR6SWcgZrNT7isAtS-vKmO9XryJORFeoSWEN1ruWHiNSG4phaZ7fYyvdzankVi34vF6tuD91PJ28h6LcKdKOqiOs_1suAEggn5b09LPaJ8BiC1CWQY1h8vzlU76xReKbfvZbqCihQPH3oAzTBKPXabv4jRyzy7v6qtF__4kxze0Jrb/s320/IMG-20211101-WA0004%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>It is always so much fun to see women loosen up their bodies and minds and become childlike. I conducting theatre exercises and created scenarios of public spaces and how different ages, different genders would behave in the same environments. It was fascinating to see that as I asked the women to depict different genders in ascending ages, the gender gap kept growing wider and wider, until the 'women' became completely subdued and helpless and the 'men' took over the public spaces as though they were their private spaces. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7tRQfVqZU7qZUVSm5vPmfphdvSlfjsV33Frpe9SQmZM0rIlHZxsxk1O2qObHHRmCg5hswN3KEvlcgoNm3K65t9KmDAn9t5nND_FLpgpZCWsCKHwvrjxOrLo6ADm4RzA5v68_1weshTvYG_ZccOIHC6QlXnADU3dJU49jnhjDe7qcf-Udij76J9gd/s1280/IMG-20211101-WA0026%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI7tRQfVqZU7qZUVSm5vPmfphdvSlfjsV33Frpe9SQmZM0rIlHZxsxk1O2qObHHRmCg5hswN3KEvlcgoNm3K65t9KmDAn9t5nND_FLpgpZCWsCKHwvrjxOrLo6ADm4RzA5v68_1weshTvYG_ZccOIHC6QlXnADU3dJU49jnhjDe7qcf-Udij76J9gd/s320/IMG-20211101-WA0026%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDp0l5Pf_nSFKIVDuSCvwkandzNaNhlNGv_RUYWt8P9R0tcSsBvvIamoywwxRIlmlrPwkZY3JQtsYfBsBGFUs2sXeV-0n0HtNUw8N4VH_TPIFz5fwx5BALun7sBeZJePUyDIGLRExK0pN0HpaRb4ujYmeLp01G5moDfcmt9gTNm7pW9z96O2wvCf8A/s1600/IMG-20211101-WA0011%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDp0l5Pf_nSFKIVDuSCvwkandzNaNhlNGv_RUYWt8P9R0tcSsBvvIamoywwxRIlmlrPwkZY3JQtsYfBsBGFUs2sXeV-0n0HtNUw8N4VH_TPIFz5fwx5BALun7sBeZJePUyDIGLRExK0pN0HpaRb4ujYmeLp01G5moDfcmt9gTNm7pW9z96O2wvCf8A/s320/IMG-20211101-WA0011%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>The reflections at the end of the workshop brought up issues of safety, familial restrictions, unfulfilled desires to access public spaces more than one is able to, and eventually, to our own judgements of other women that do not behave as is acceptable in such communities. The group did agree that even though we want to be freer and have more access and safety, we perpetually judge other women and in some ways 'pull them down' to be in situations that we find ourselves in. To break the cycle of restrictions then, we all agreed that we must stop judging other women that are breaking molds and in fact, encourage such steps of rebellion so that one day it will be normalized. </p><p>Our rapper friend, Krantinaari then put the icing on the cake by involving all the participants in a rap song that she had written and composed. </p><p>The next day, we were at another centre run by the Sambhali Trust and again, the delight to work with women who are already so aware, articulate and empowered was huge. </p><p>While Oishorjyo worked with a set of women on an art workshop on desire and sexuality, and Krantinaari got busy working with one set to create rap songs, I worked with a group of girls and women on women and public spaces.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLCmoFfQFpazDzDNgiP9UqXMbeyVgffDNGZ1LEGEsZJ3JyskSY9MRETTlCTyE5NR4mRIQq--YNeWRUNAUaJTMe47OAa51ef1Og40Mzgx8qgD3uTOMWGte3OoVJz5WwMAwEf_C1Mv4XamWozRuZT0UWSg6-EePjiEkGZMCWBKL0VyhoWKa9Dsr8G-Ak/s1600/IMG-20211102-WA0036%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1201" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLCmoFfQFpazDzDNgiP9UqXMbeyVgffDNGZ1LEGEsZJ3JyskSY9MRETTlCTyE5NR4mRIQq--YNeWRUNAUaJTMe47OAa51ef1Og40Mzgx8qgD3uTOMWGte3OoVJz5WwMAwEf_C1Mv4XamWozRuZT0UWSg6-EePjiEkGZMCWBKL0VyhoWKa9Dsr8G-Ak/s320/IMG-20211102-WA0036%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezXn1LF5etR5i2gTiObZ5ndqWsIkcIj2x30GynWpji_9VAZMkI_RKn2sIVKAAOFlMH_4hrUT0nfkrGCMUjmG3c6YLBj42zfsg1boQTc2rDyofZ1PePLlek7bgLVSBDLDi7zpOHd2CyDchhMLOKLdFtJ2MTfUjOJnh8q6sDXOF_L6U5rJwTpRIdP3h/s1600/IMG-20211102-WA0037%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1201" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiezXn1LF5etR5i2gTiObZ5ndqWsIkcIj2x30GynWpji_9VAZMkI_RKn2sIVKAAOFlMH_4hrUT0nfkrGCMUjmG3c6YLBj42zfsg1boQTc2rDyofZ1PePLlek7bgLVSBDLDi7zpOHd2CyDchhMLOKLdFtJ2MTfUjOJnh8q6sDXOF_L6U5rJwTpRIdP3h/s320/IMG-20211102-WA0037%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Apart from the exercises that I had conducted the previous day, there is one exercise that stood out for me the most. I asked one girl to walk on an imagined street late at night, while all the other women could choose either to judge her, comment on her or stare or not do anything. </p><p>I asked the 'walker' to behave in two contrasting ways while walking the lonely street at night.</p><p>In the first instance, she walked as if she was scared, in a rush and was blaming herself to have put herself in this unsafe situation.</p><p>In the second instance , she walked without a care in the world, humming a song, greeting and making eye contact with her harassers. </p><p>After the girl walked both times, I asked the 'onlooker' women about which version of the girl they liked more- the scared one or the carefree one.</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNTkxRxqv9WhdZhqUKpgm0Ljd_dos9EsPHT18cUqLvkw7J5YI4nqnFupvsD4R91y5f81HD04L3vgco6Y-i_WPGWWTzLRpOA7sz4K1hbJzvfWR-8sxDb4tuwsQlDYqXrs8IRM2a4dE3pCaw7wqpYUbLLc1ZbI-GMvccmX0ttWX9tO1BFGxgail8rGJc/s1280/IMG-20211102-WA0022%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNTkxRxqv9WhdZhqUKpgm0Ljd_dos9EsPHT18cUqLvkw7J5YI4nqnFupvsD4R91y5f81HD04L3vgco6Y-i_WPGWWTzLRpOA7sz4K1hbJzvfWR-8sxDb4tuwsQlDYqXrs8IRM2a4dE3pCaw7wqpYUbLLc1ZbI-GMvccmX0ttWX9tO1BFGxgail8rGJc/s320/IMG-20211102-WA0022%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1FIaRD8fKpZQRlTqmRWUxvYmlXUDj0m0AGTt3KuDydF0TCCi6KI7jvUlQGHphZz89_bEtROORb-g1U6uyyriqOOU3NWhSUrTBnTUsFKEN59xy5B10LGEKOLYJuHOOuVzZmZMyLyrfYIbJLzhEh0LXjn1TDr5ADgmdhBQZEB9i8qhxowcyDE1pIECB/s1600/IMG-20211102-WA0033%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1FIaRD8fKpZQRlTqmRWUxvYmlXUDj0m0AGTt3KuDydF0TCCi6KI7jvUlQGHphZz89_bEtROORb-g1U6uyyriqOOU3NWhSUrTBnTUsFKEN59xy5B10LGEKOLYJuHOOuVzZmZMyLyrfYIbJLzhEh0LXjn1TDr5ADgmdhBQZEB9i8qhxowcyDE1pIECB/s320/IMG-20211102-WA0033%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>This is where the conditioning came up, most women said they preferred the version where the girl was scared. When I probed further they did say that 'this is how women should react' but eventually they did reflect on how this is conditioning and not really about how safe or unsafe the girl was.</p><p>When I asked the girl who was walking which version of herself did she like better- without blinking an eye lid she said that she prefered walking without fear and in fact felt more empowered and safer and more in control when she walked humming a song. </p><p>We bid adieu to Jodhpur and reached our next destination - Setrawa. Unlike Jodhpur, this is a village. We pitched tents and slept soundly, all excited in anticipation of the next morning when we would engage with the local community. </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAGktQnKYgAAbcS7pJFgEeIecKMYtIzd0hV9Lg_BHGMpRaaekaT5VsPDQfFsILX2jS7-dqlkBO_aaHweGGRiMq06HEF2gFKQlnRkymZTmoP764Z0SdnOL9WTvZLe2qrBlngj6k-ehJRyKhM8gJInbwEHH7xm09vWpv0wzG9BuKI6ha6zL_B_02unv-/s1023/IMG-20211103-WA0069__01__01%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1023" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAGktQnKYgAAbcS7pJFgEeIecKMYtIzd0hV9Lg_BHGMpRaaekaT5VsPDQfFsILX2jS7-dqlkBO_aaHweGGRiMq06HEF2gFKQlnRkymZTmoP764Z0SdnOL9WTvZLe2qrBlngj6k-ehJRyKhM8gJInbwEHH7xm09vWpv0wzG9BuKI6ha6zL_B_02unv-/s320/IMG-20211103-WA0069__01__01%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0-DHptGNacjEgT3YDXw17bBbSol_Lo3KtXHpG467tvWc8khtLWCP-UBGz2Z3dfwHqJqPRIlL5R37tHVoJIzgWoVmmh2XYRx_Pyw_kabyE4lXpuVaCebDhg01enQdMnMb1CaCgWX3Pd1NKFoaZmaR5Ld74fMLjR0LuacaRYRrx7T5o6aMlEqUaOPt/s1600/IMG-20211103-WA0014%20-%20Copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW0-DHptGNacjEgT3YDXw17bBbSol_Lo3KtXHpG467tvWc8khtLWCP-UBGz2Z3dfwHqJqPRIlL5R37tHVoJIzgWoVmmh2XYRx_Pyw_kabyE4lXpuVaCebDhg01enQdMnMb1CaCgWX3Pd1NKFoaZmaR5Ld74fMLjR0LuacaRYRrx7T5o6aMlEqUaOPt/s320/IMG-20211103-WA0014%20-%20Copy.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>Much to my surprise, again, I threw the plan I had created out of the window. </p><p>Like in Jodhpur, this centre was also managed by the Sambhali Trust which is doing the most extraordinary work in Rajasthan. </p><p>We started with a song that most women knew how to sing and did sing along- an old Hindi film song called 'Ajeeb Dastan hai yeh'. </p><p>This led seamlessly into the two folk stories we told the women, one about a woman that hasnt sung or told a story in years, and the other one about a woman whose husband exhibits his wealth with the size and weight of the gold nose ring his wife wears. </p><p>These two stories led to some discussions about how women who were passionate about music or dance or painting or any other art tend to blur their passions out once they get married or even when they get their first period! Although many women in the group did say that they do pursue their passions when their 'menfolk' are not at home. </p><p>The next exercise was a rather complex one.</p><p>I asked one group of women to depict a scene at an outdoor eating joint where they are all playing men. And its late at night. The other group had to guess who they are playing, where they are and what time of day or night it is. </p><p>Immediately the women acting like men started talking loudly, backslapping each other, ordering large amounts of food and drinks and cracking silly jokes. Almost immediately, the watching women figured who they were playing, where they were and what time of night it was. </p><p>The observation here was the immediate shift in body language, language, the feeling of being free and joyous, that one could do absolutely anything without any fear of being harmed. </p><p>Next I asked the second group to depict the same scene, but as women. You can pretty well imagine how it must have gone. </p><p>Then I added a third suggestion- I asked the girls to imagine an ideal scenario, or how they would have liked their experience to be, and behave like that.</p><p>Immediately, the sense of freedom, safety and joy returned in the bodies, voices and eyes of the acting group. I asked my colleague Oishorjyo to step in the improv as a 'hooligan' and much to everyone's delight, the women put the hooligan in his place and fought for their right to be out and enjoy themselves regardless of where and when. </p><p>We left the centre with warmth in our hearts that we atleast know now what it feels to be free and not be constantly scared, even if for just an hour. Its so important to sow the seed of freedom and liberation, to get a whiff of what it could be like, to actually then take those everyday, tiny steps to lead to the realization of that dream. </p><p>The next two days we spent making a huge mural depicting a sewing machine (since thats one of the main skill thats taught in the centre) that is spewing out a dupatta of various colours on the wall of the school. Oishorjyo made a woman who is dancing, without a care in the world! Anal and Ayushi took the lead in making sure we finish the large mural within the stipulated time!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgylEBaiBLCJTjMOHl1LAp0nsy6kvZdSzkOLy1a7UCNRY8xdHA3S0p9YyRNOlJBBmI1TpQ_KyZyYAFcCkBPm6Gjv2f0kGYysosjp6X3EOf23aKdQ9DlMvTXEfoaujK1QUYKuDz9WpboJX-oMbQ9ozMV0hV27T1iJnvdORKLTe1FWBl3q52HPi2WVtdL/s1052/IMG-20211106-WA0058.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="780" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgylEBaiBLCJTjMOHl1LAp0nsy6kvZdSzkOLy1a7UCNRY8xdHA3S0p9YyRNOlJBBmI1TpQ_KyZyYAFcCkBPm6Gjv2f0kGYysosjp6X3EOf23aKdQ9DlMvTXEfoaujK1QUYKuDz9WpboJX-oMbQ9ozMV0hV27T1iJnvdORKLTe1FWBl3q52HPi2WVtdL/s320/IMG-20211106-WA0058.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKUSec0sAinjMmdmVEUdiG0vCF7lC2hzHiHWWOxLfoPLAJuD-8vZzQvWtsd7KQeuH6l2IgUkvFhkz1Jct5VDaFnzA0XvksZDeecWtQ07h9qx8zKC2Yrq_dxoKLzQbxU-1PlGxaKBTqxvCX8HF5-hu2yRNRGWB7fD6J9HHruBFTUzgKZNy9xwF6xJc/s1052/IMG-20211106-WA0056.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1052" data-original-width="780" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKKUSec0sAinjMmdmVEUdiG0vCF7lC2hzHiHWWOxLfoPLAJuD-8vZzQvWtsd7KQeuH6l2IgUkvFhkz1Jct5VDaFnzA0XvksZDeecWtQ07h9qx8zKC2Yrq_dxoKLzQbxU-1PlGxaKBTqxvCX8HF5-hu2yRNRGWB7fD6J9HHruBFTUzgKZNy9xwF6xJc/s320/IMG-20211106-WA0056.jpg" width="237" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgx3Rzba7nta4ZJQsvEZoOLe-mGuKmAPKl7s8iQTc-mgAavp9sTXnUaKyHxFExAa6Y3GjoT95M1f8aQf8QikHVjEWNMVIV68wigcAwONH4qM753rCNC1q5Aa2burLHpG6izsaD3euGd-1GKknrASCfSZ0e5b6C2o81gatIHu30tRCxBvE1QRi0HnJ/s1052/IMG-20211106-WA0050.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1052" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipgx3Rzba7nta4ZJQsvEZoOLe-mGuKmAPKl7s8iQTc-mgAavp9sTXnUaKyHxFExAa6Y3GjoT95M1f8aQf8QikHVjEWNMVIV68wigcAwONH4qM753rCNC1q5Aa2burLHpG6izsaD3euGd-1GKknrASCfSZ0e5b6C2o81gatIHu30tRCxBvE1QRi0HnJ/s320/IMG-20211106-WA0050.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5Omwk8mXyPOw9PjKJX0Tc-c47xWQysqngCAVOopC9P6eUNzdD53s0kvLeO7ohiyU8hUzWKcpDdrZxq6hQDpaD4TCOhCiuFadUzl_JgQpCt8z0WJhxl0HzKwzTrHL84UXZWCCX4DYdXzcl6UrUks0rbRinIQ6BeieCDh8yp4WeqcEVuqjbH0wTxOC/s1600/IMG-20211106-WA0021.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ5Omwk8mXyPOw9PjKJX0Tc-c47xWQysqngCAVOopC9P6eUNzdD53s0kvLeO7ohiyU8hUzWKcpDdrZxq6hQDpaD4TCOhCiuFadUzl_JgQpCt8z0WJhxl0HzKwzTrHL84UXZWCCX4DYdXzcl6UrUks0rbRinIQ6BeieCDh8yp4WeqcEVuqjbH0wTxOC/s320/IMG-20211106-WA0021.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQWdqR7A-sscryyekPTla3Q5Uf7YQP7XE8dFCh4UFLPLBOBvGoYIQwFlsdrqzQ08kEWi2f5D7eyVKib89KbvLQI2j1gHvLUm1CWOArRcefHnnj_JRl56of6V_hd7_lbHsxa83M4STwIh6IYv0-dv9RpE3AcPuuta5Pala2MSN0dwl-vkIscOWDlai/s1052/IMG-20211106-WA0048.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="780" data-original-width="1052" height="237" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNQWdqR7A-sscryyekPTla3Q5Uf7YQP7XE8dFCh4UFLPLBOBvGoYIQwFlsdrqzQ08kEWi2f5D7eyVKib89KbvLQI2j1gHvLUm1CWOArRcefHnnj_JRl56of6V_hd7_lbHsxa83M4STwIh6IYv0-dv9RpE3AcPuuta5Pala2MSN0dwl-vkIscOWDlai/s320/IMG-20211106-WA0048.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p><p>The women from the village came and saw us as we painted, some even painted with us, others generously brought us cups and cups of chai and snacks.</p><p>We left Setrawa and headed to Jaisalmer- with a lifetime of experiences and memories in our hearts. </p><p>The next blog post will talk about our experiences in Jaisalmer and Moolsagar. </p><p><br /></p>Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-5830337632714939322022-03-04T02:07:00.001-08:002022-03-04T02:07:43.531-08:00Loitering in the times of Corona - Neha Singh<p> Ever since we first started loitering in the year 2014, every year we have walked past midnight on 16th December in memory of Jyoti Singh, the victim of the Delhi gang rape. </p><p>In the year 2020 and 2021 we couldn't loiter at all due to Covid restrictions and lockdowns, so when the lockdown lifted, the first session we decided to do was our yearly 16th December Midnight walk, in memory of Jyoti Singh. </p><p>It is strange, but also not strange at all, that women walking together doing nothing is always so much fun, so filled with laughter, stories, craziness and poignancy. Women who join us the first time for a session always ask me what it is that we are going to do in the session. And I always tell them that we are just going to walk, nothing else is ever planned. This usually causes a bit of anxiety, understandably so. We are all so conditioned to have everything planned. We are always taught to 'make use of time efficiently' and never just be wasting time.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeo1OSkP2KWk9mJJDgYX3JIa3u5H5Ai12Z36bK9Zeg_BFbPNbsDzsoTKNkGlcO2NU1PaPyxAA-_XMnyHgkIaYve9S7l_5fATqgU1GhyVBYt6SEXkIFefB3ayDYbWzeKs1cuB7_hOdfl8aPVCVS6NeiefV6IipjUnRgYzJLTRLO6nAFMkxzUXQ18mo3=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2304" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjeo1OSkP2KWk9mJJDgYX3JIa3u5H5Ai12Z36bK9Zeg_BFbPNbsDzsoTKNkGlcO2NU1PaPyxAA-_XMnyHgkIaYve9S7l_5fATqgU1GhyVBYt6SEXkIFefB3ayDYbWzeKs1cuB7_hOdfl8aPVCVS6NeiefV6IipjUnRgYzJLTRLO6nAFMkxzUXQ18mo3=s320" width="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Archana wondering why this advertisement for public cycles has an image of a man on it?</td></tr></tbody></table><p>So obviously, when a campaign that is, in fact, based on 'wasting time' in a mainstream way, it can lead to anxiety. But us, who have been loitering for eight years now, know how vital this waste of time is! How vital it is for women to be seen 'wasting time' in public spaces at ungodly hours, with absolutely no guilt or inhibition. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWzCDuQI3Gy-_UzVk0OR8L4B_TmlT57UVLgxKrQNF3KkHUpmCKEeRfcTGRhRM4mWzpbV93iGUC6-7hsYXoFEllu0mOoz55QrYP8iGx8P8yP6jKBDVP6Kci-fzN7qXU-ZvJbfECTS9eM9QK07qCphMLy1epsq22sGumGIBC90X1dYqAEQWJeeuoE6Tg=s1599" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1599" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjWzCDuQI3Gy-_UzVk0OR8L4B_TmlT57UVLgxKrQNF3KkHUpmCKEeRfcTGRhRM4mWzpbV93iGUC6-7hsYXoFEllu0mOoz55QrYP8iGx8P8yP6jKBDVP6Kci-fzN7qXU-ZvJbfECTS9eM9QK07qCphMLy1epsq22sGumGIBC90X1dYqAEQWJeeuoE6Tg=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What do women want? Good street lights (to click good selfies under)</td></tr></tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p>And of course, like I said earlier, there is a certain magic that happens whenever women come together to loiter. Even without any agenda or plan, we end up discussing things that are most important to us. Our experiences in public spaces, of trauma and triumphs and adventures and small acts of transgression. We feed off each others' wisdoms and experiences to feel like we are not alone in this struggle to reclaim our life, our time and our bodies in public spaces. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsLRB768rhAbBEjkWigsXHMWVuwvzI8FNRchIMgxMItiWcdnAb7W3-y22aVEBRTWmIidaXOJ1N4PCWPprILT9QG-GuNeqEa2n0k2aa8Ui-3FLIfyTzfdsCqGrd1muQo5kGpZWJxUhoLDWqXC1FVAmVx2UBXE2YSX-rz46_zzJLP7wYQo1tWhOfpyrK=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2304" height="324" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjsLRB768rhAbBEjkWigsXHMWVuwvzI8FNRchIMgxMItiWcdnAb7W3-y22aVEBRTWmIidaXOJ1N4PCWPprILT9QG-GuNeqEa2n0k2aa8Ui-3FLIfyTzfdsCqGrd1muQo5kGpZWJxUhoLDWqXC1FVAmVx2UBXE2YSX-rz46_zzJLP7wYQo1tWhOfpyrK=w208-h324" width="208" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Walking the untrodden path!</td></tr></tbody></table><br /><p>So, thats exactly what happened this time as well. There were some of us who have been loitering for eight years now, some who have been with us for a couple of years and for some, it was their first time. </p><p>We met at 11.30 p.m and began walking. The meeting point was decided but where would we end up after walking, and also how long we would walk for, was undecided. We ended up walking for three hours straight and had the most adventurous night. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5kLexgn4PR5ID_g-NL6Cs-2VjRqklcR_eYqOkKN-XL4RutQyTEdzvc4QmI3XxdUf_zjmxN5QZpNE-xC7ttsLXOldPMkwK-sKGPNyrWcVC7B2_a-Q6OpNqW0GSTwkTDqYKfV5kquSfY9oxNqbqF0jO4o0dawVkfA4cfRUrbMUajI9frGXaYcML5q2R=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2304" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEg5kLexgn4PR5ID_g-NL6Cs-2VjRqklcR_eYqOkKN-XL4RutQyTEdzvc4QmI3XxdUf_zjmxN5QZpNE-xC7ttsLXOldPMkwK-sKGPNyrWcVC7B2_a-Q6OpNqW0GSTwkTDqYKfV5kquSfY9oxNqbqF0jO4o0dawVkfA4cfRUrbMUajI9frGXaYcML5q2R=s320" width="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What do women want? An autorikshaw with colourful balloons!</td></tr></tbody></table><p>We stood under street lamps and clicked selfies, got into long conversations with autorikshaw drivers and walked on lanes that we had never walked on before. We stared at the beautiful moon, talked about how satisfying it is to meet other women and just talk, and how good it feels to be outdoors especially after the lockdowns. </p><p>We walked on deserted lanes, something we otherwise wouldnt do. No incidents of harassments happened, unlike many other times when we have found ourselves in such situations. It was a beautiful night of 'non-incident', if you could call it that.</p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguXcyI8NmZJBCG8LtzwXWZyFhN1meAQxcuQT7ZIaSlNCC5d4xkagtlNT2zrdGhlFiEdVxs9GdGBEJxVujWLQf5nXBL6U6tJLtCAJrPNa6f2UHTRLBiuFQYGD_YITviv2hNdYi63ECYzfV44oYrxgTCJOcLIN-i9iY9uqlf9YJBldZvc4aHZJSixoz6=s4608" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4608" data-original-width="2304" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEguXcyI8NmZJBCG8LtzwXWZyFhN1meAQxcuQT7ZIaSlNCC5d4xkagtlNT2zrdGhlFiEdVxs9GdGBEJxVujWLQf5nXBL6U6tJLtCAJrPNa6f2UHTRLBiuFQYGD_YITviv2hNdYi63ECYzfV44oYrxgTCJOcLIN-i9iY9uqlf9YJBldZvc4aHZJSixoz6=s320" width="160" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Its magical how quickly women befriend women. </td></tr></tbody></table><p>And thats what women want, for all those who are forever wondering 'what do women want?'</p><p>Women want uneventful nights of exercising their agencies that have non-agendas and non-fear and non-anger. </p><p>At the end of three hours of doing practically nothing, most of us sighed about 'how wonderful and beautiful and empowering' it was. </p><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiR9eaTQ61Fwj3cz8pHo2hGmkA7zq7F_OFvrOZklVnHA3MTsr8D4uJ6GNfAQV5U-MrTv2uQcrXQc9QtCWtwOiOg1QUDMDi7IIOFic6VGUImfAnYLk8Ap5_MC3tVrfADmCFBhlemiY3-VY6W5VPkqisZYlcOhv0plRQlUyGlWClK20ByeOyN-b3fHKVH=s1280" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEiR9eaTQ61Fwj3cz8pHo2hGmkA7zq7F_OFvrOZklVnHA3MTsr8D4uJ6GNfAQV5U-MrTv2uQcrXQc9QtCWtwOiOg1QUDMDi7IIOFic6VGUImfAnYLk8Ap5_MC3tVrfADmCFBhlemiY3-VY6W5VPkqisZYlcOhv0plRQlUyGlWClK20ByeOyN-b3fHKVH=s320" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loitering women are happy women.</td></tr></tbody></table><p>It just reinforced in me, the politics of the 'Why loiter?' campaign. Women having fun, without any other agenda, is extremely powerful and political. </p><p>Here's to many, many more nights of doing absolutely nothing!</p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkf9-jraS4G5x5njz03B8cMNxUeyMItFnnEqUIKK_hCJp6p4zblyiY4o9wPwOhtpdxSciS4ntjacn6V5X5vOtftu_BYt7QwWJFbcnUrcPpNziva_Xp6R9aDfyExzpy6qkMZuHeyDlQC8AD8sB5ZAnslimEpcSm629SP07hAXyFnWFN8VV4gFWU5Rx6=s1600" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="729" data-original-width="1600" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhkf9-jraS4G5x5njz03B8cMNxUeyMItFnnEqUIKK_hCJp6p4zblyiY4o9wPwOhtpdxSciS4ntjacn6V5X5vOtftu_BYt7QwWJFbcnUrcPpNziva_Xp6R9aDfyExzpy6qkMZuHeyDlQC8AD8sB5ZAnslimEpcSm629SP07hAXyFnWFN8VV4gFWU5Rx6=s320" width="320" /></a></div><br /><p><br /></p>Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-72440290985546806612021-05-26T08:31:00.001-07:002021-05-26T09:03:08.045-07:00Mumbai Meri Jaan- Candice Dsouza<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8dT-RK-A5QGUrMjplaxpuvhhU4OYZQ7uHi_HwiIwOLwHKwx30N_0WDsAXW2Zjo8wT0AKuuzlXGs-EsD8GmHXqKmNMzjfQU6sLfqkgMhDgInWcDxbXOcYnfVYqTXp4hM2veGIbhoarlg/s1280/IMG-20210526-WA0067.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc8dT-RK-A5QGUrMjplaxpuvhhU4OYZQ7uHi_HwiIwOLwHKwx30N_0WDsAXW2Zjo8wT0AKuuzlXGs-EsD8GmHXqKmNMzjfQU6sLfqkgMhDgInWcDxbXOcYnfVYqTXp4hM2veGIbhoarlg/s320/IMG-20210526-WA0067.jpg" /></a></div><br /><br /></div>I still remember all my firsts - as a young
woman with a disability, I had had a lot of firsts a lot later than most
people. No, not my first time drinking or going to a club - I’ve had those too
- but my most memorable firsts were my first experience of independently going
out of the house,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>using public
transport, crossing the road, my first ever independent shopping experience and
even my first time riding pillion with a friend on her scooter. <o:p></o:p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">As a child growing up with cerebral palsy, I had been (much to my annoyance) sheltered greatly by my mother to the point where I wasn’t sure what I would do, unaccompanied in public spaces. But as will all things there is a first time for everything. So it was with me.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span>On an especially rainy evening in June 2015, I found out I’d gotten into St. Xavier’s College, Mumbai. This would’ve been an occasion to celebrate for anyone else. After all, I’d done fairly well on my exams and “made it” as we starry eyed teens looking for the fun Bollywood-esque “college life” experience would have described it. But for me, this spelled a host of new challenges, that I was certainly anticipating but didn’t recognize the gravity of what lay ahead (well, who am I kidding? Perhaps I did, but I didn’t want it to dampen my spirits.)</p><p class="MsoNormal"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHEJuXKoaYCZb9JLZdgHxZyLAgZ2hISfUYyE4ZKJBNfMFF59XyEPnafAaiiroQyv6dD0moYaNHkY4lQiNugReHz6RbQt8rDrWjkTqx64BlicMjQbFqRgUFzp0lFeZRLLEOEcZo119ygEU/s900/3c18dc63-77d9-4706-846c-bd22aa332468.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHEJuXKoaYCZb9JLZdgHxZyLAgZ2hISfUYyE4ZKJBNfMFF59XyEPnafAaiiroQyv6dD0moYaNHkY4lQiNugReHz6RbQt8rDrWjkTqx64BlicMjQbFqRgUFzp0lFeZRLLEOEcZo119ygEU/s320/3c18dc63-77d9-4706-846c-bd22aa332468.jpg" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <i><b>Me with my friend who took me on the Andheri Local Train</b></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><i><b> (Ironically on Independence Day in 2018)</b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span>How would I travel over forty two
kilometers from home, I wondered, in a city whose trains were brimming with
harried, hasty commuters, permanently in a rush to get on this
multi-compartment colonial monstrosity that whistled its way past me
nonchalantly? It was almost like the train mocked me, for my inability to be
among the extremely determined, agile horde that pushed its way into the
compartment, something of a rat race worse than any exam I’d ever taken. People
jostled right past me, and I heard the whistle blow and the train move,
realizing my feet were still rooted in place on the platform, almost like the
roots of a tree unyielding despite my desperate brain riding them to lift me
into the train in front of me. For the first time in my entire life, I truly
understood the meaning of what my surgeon had told my mother seventeen years
ago - the weight of his words “ She’s
living with an intelligent mind trapped in a stubbornly disobedient body”
dawned on me at the ripe old age of eighteen.</p></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVYBmldLgk4qYhp1EGgERhNt6SOQO9yR8Pd1VrbDg9mqJrsGrVGx7pwRvohr2_4rx8-JFFYfLA056IUIFLBthhNPXOVzrkWXFM_JYAFcID0yXdVSQKposwzsiVRrcy9iefOjDaom0XZw/s1024/1d1f64be-e098-408c-85ed-b2ffcb7febe8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="1023" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAVYBmldLgk4qYhp1EGgERhNt6SOQO9yR8Pd1VrbDg9mqJrsGrVGx7pwRvohr2_4rx8-JFFYfLA056IUIFLBthhNPXOVzrkWXFM_JYAFcID0yXdVSQKposwzsiVRrcy9iefOjDaom0XZw/s320/1d1f64be-e098-408c-85ed-b2ffcb7febe8.jpg" /></a></div><div><br /></div> <b><i>St. Xavier's College, Mumbai, Farewell, 2018</i></b><br /><p class="MsoNormal"> A week later, at the insistence of my
worried parents, I unwillingly hauled myself into a cab and headed to college.
But dare had other plans, and as the old Bollywood adage goes, I found a way to
get what I always wanted - a “normal” college travel experience. After some
hesitation, I found my place in the hordes of students at Xavier’s - the
imposing Gothic structure stared down at me, yet another dreamy eyed hopeful
young person, waded (or should I say waddled?) my way through the hordes of
students - to the notice bird with my timetable. My classrooms were mostly on
the terrace, where the ancient 18th century
teakwood elevator didn’t go. So I clambered my way up the narrow
staircase and finally entered the class and even crossed the busy streets near
CST by myself with a triumphant air about me, as if I’d just experienced my
life’s greatest victory.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHMZHnn_bwU5a1CPP8eZmNgMT8Ui3X1S3tkXOFIKT8H3r6-fShZZTLTKJqmnsw9pF96CfaBt3nwBORnWoJo-QbJz5_FD0NRVSd8rgTRzlCcljlfW9JSYNVLWqKG0gQ_vORfbZOCos0bs4/s1024/e56a4747-e471-460b-b219-ce2d280be767.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHMZHnn_bwU5a1CPP8eZmNgMT8Ui3X1S3tkXOFIKT8H3r6-fShZZTLTKJqmnsw9pF96CfaBt3nwBORnWoJo-QbJz5_FD0NRVSd8rgTRzlCcljlfW9JSYNVLWqKG0gQ_vORfbZOCos0bs4/s320/e56a4747-e471-460b-b219-ce2d280be767.jpg" /></a></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> <b><i>College Farewell! 2018</i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">It’s been 6 years since that day, and I’ve
almost mastered all modes of public transport, except the local train. The turn
of events came three years later, when (rather ironically) around Independence
Day in 2018, when my set of equally adventurous and (my professors and my
petrified mother would agree) rebellious friends, who against their better
judgment took me on the train with them. We had to come up with the safest plan
and my rather ingenious friends decided to board from Vile Parle (a slow train
station and therefore less crowded one). I was barely done taking a horde of
pictures from the train (window seat, of course) when the women in the
compartment began noticing my unflinchingly gleeful grin, realising<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>with some amusement, that this was my first
time. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLf7Sf4fh7M2ScVurqv8AIQblwSrmVZ1diTobcaa2ywsNTJ6VDi09ED5PiTpAUdgAk_i9V3159a-uvPy-kHlVmSbprVK8V_-XaLyYkixQKUV6qjj1bUH4b0crTCJsuRCnHNBtL7LobgIQ/s1024/43df59d4-c74c-4c04-8763-83f280854979.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLf7Sf4fh7M2ScVurqv8AIQblwSrmVZ1diTobcaa2ywsNTJ6VDi09ED5PiTpAUdgAk_i9V3159a-uvPy-kHlVmSbprVK8V_-XaLyYkixQKUV6qjj1bUH4b0crTCJsuRCnHNBtL7LobgIQ/s320/43df59d4-c74c-4c04-8763-83f280854979.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <b><i> Just before I received my degree! Graduation Day, 23rd June 2018</i></b></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB">When I finally built enough confidence to
defy the cautioning words of concerned teachers and peers, I went on a solo
trip to the metro, which was a pleasant surprise, as it had ramps with
banisters that led up to elevators that took me directly to ticketing booths
and the platform. It was less crowded and the magnetic doors meant that unlike
trains, there was safety and no possibility of me being pushed off the train.
The added thrill of doing this without anyone’s knowledge only inflated my
sense of accomplishment.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal">This episode only served to embolden me,
and I soon found myself in a series of firsts. I realised that despite its
uncertain frequency, BEST buses were a safer mode of transport, because the
front entrance meant the driver saw me and didn’t start until I’d slowly hauled
my way up the steep steps. My seemingly “normal” appearance when I was seated
meant I drew hateful stares from elderly people, who felt I was “using” their
reserved seat, until sending my embarrassment, fellow travellers explained I
was disabled. Thereon, it almost felt like yet another contest - a contest of
whose suffering was “greater” and therefore, deserved the comfort of being
seated on this bumpy long ride home. Initially , despite the vehement protests
of fellow travellers, I gave up my seat for these elderly people, until some
neurotypical adult guiltily (albeit begrudgingly) relinquished his back end
seat for me.</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZRs58ENNxehcouJr3IkI5Gmx0U7eAAoT7NDkFoz3NtELumZx9bfbkVTo4h4W2_zMkyAAwrWaGZTSlB-V7sJ6QuBgYq8V8lUAKDw28GkMQ9HozP6O7wng7DkRlo3rFzbz9MaB5ULVxSM/s960/3c4d704f-560d-4df1-b985-ad78b328511a.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="540" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHZRs58ENNxehcouJr3IkI5Gmx0U7eAAoT7NDkFoz3NtELumZx9bfbkVTo4h4W2_zMkyAAwrWaGZTSlB-V7sJ6QuBgYq8V8lUAKDw28GkMQ9HozP6O7wng7DkRlo3rFzbz9MaB5ULVxSM/s320/3c4d704f-560d-4df1-b985-ad78b328511a.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span lang="EN-GB"> <b><i>Loitering at Maritime Gardens, Mumbai </i></b></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span>My first solo shopping experience (at the
huge Phoenix Market city in Lower Parel) was another story. Every few minutes,
a random person in the mall stopped me and enquires why I was “left unattended”
in this public place. I could feel the waves of sympathy for me, judgment
towards my “neglectful parents” and horror at seeing a disabled adult for what
was probably the first time in their lives. Trying clothes on with no seating
in tiny trial rooms not equipped with stools or seating was exhausting, and the
walk from end to end of the mall in search of the elusive elevator (My reflexes
are too slow to get on to and off escalators) was so exhausting, that I
couldn’t get out of bed for almost 2 days. But the experience taught me not to
assume I couldn’t do something until I’d tried.</p><p class="MsoNormal"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwxzp8UV-qge0tYv24EwnFYOdFmUIZjYTmraHGmNr6lvwLEFGGe8TNQJv5CRQy6SUDLESyUbcPdu4LBUMXwg4XNr6lMC2JnYbG1dWXvc2nrFQPzZQr19Pf30j_Mp_HPNRcTWLUzfu0R_Y/s1280/5163b3a3-c47e-4a69-90c8-37891af8b1ac.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="948" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwxzp8UV-qge0tYv24EwnFYOdFmUIZjYTmraHGmNr6lvwLEFGGe8TNQJv5CRQy6SUDLESyUbcPdu4LBUMXwg4XNr6lMC2JnYbG1dWXvc2nrFQPzZQr19Pf30j_Mp_HPNRcTWLUzfu0R_Y/s320/5163b3a3-c47e-4a69-90c8-37891af8b1ac.jpg" /></a></p><p class="MsoNormal"> <i><b>Loitering at the Upvan Lake in Thane</b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal">These seemingly innocuous struggles made me
realise how inaccessible the city was for someone like me. Staircases and even
ramps to most public buildings had no banisters, impossibly high and broken
footpaths, overcrowded trains and no elevators meant I needed help with a lot
of spaces. Naturally, this meant I wasn’t truly as “independent” as I’d
imagined. As a woman who bought into the narrative of female independence as a
prerequisite to be a true feminist, this did make me feel hypocritical,
particularly when I needed to use wheelchairs at museums or airports to avoid
missing out on my flight. </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwAu6viGeg9zIDVjYDAmWCU7PAzw_ASQxAW2vhBS35To0avcLXJiiYUInpYmvCP_rqZMC5PQCxTqXf_q1nIuLBlzEmNkWOVEOykYRFHOAMSwl0F3Eg7slWMtZttNeTHUQNYjnYGmQ4tA/s1280/afc84e99-4bea-4afe-9881-4cbf9f672b46.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjwAu6viGeg9zIDVjYDAmWCU7PAzw_ASQxAW2vhBS35To0avcLXJiiYUInpYmvCP_rqZMC5PQCxTqXf_q1nIuLBlzEmNkWOVEOykYRFHOAMSwl0F3Eg7slWMtZttNeTHUQNYjnYGmQ4tA/s320/afc84e99-4bea-4afe-9881-4cbf9f672b46.jpg" /></a></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"> <b><i>My first time wearing the safety hazard better known as the saree at Traditional Day in college</i></b></span></p><p class="MsoNormal">But that got me thinking about spaces and
how much easier it is being able-bodied in a country as unaccepting of
difference as ours. It made me rethink a lot of things - such as my
understanding of the word “disability”. Was I truly disabled by my body, or by
the system and the infrastructure around me, that held no consideration for my
needs? After all, healthy bodies are ephemeral. Everyone will age, fall ill, or
otherwise need assistance at some point. What’s to become of us when the
frailty of age or infirmity catches up with all neurotypicals in a society that
is so capitalist that it only prizes the productivity and financial viability
of our bodies?</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span>Over time, although it’s still a struggle
at times, I acknowledge to myself that for me, “independence” wouldn’t
necessarily be absolutely complete, and that I would still need to ask for some
help in certain inaccessible parts of Bombay. But none of that made me any less
feminist, independent or worthy. My struggle to feel “adult enough” continues
but now I’ve come to see them more as an act of rebellion against a system
designed to exclude me than a struggle to fit in, because why fit I’m in a
world of people dying to stand out?</p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><b>About the author- Candice Dsouza is a young therapist</b></i><i><b> </b></i><i><b>who lives with cerebral pasly. She loves </b></i><i><b>reading and talking about everything ranging </b></i><i><b>from politics, social justice, disability rights to </b></i><i><b>the newest TV shows. She thoroughly enjoys the </b></i><i><b>thrill she derives from taking risky local train rides</b></i><i><b>in Mumbai and drinking countless cups of Iced Tea! </b></i><i><b> </b></i></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><b></b></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3BLo9yItYj_PB8kmCI0R8o3fZfvnrFCVRBVq8t9Dl7FqtbGPi-PMYJpIf9Kq8zGUZUb87_JIfUUsI9XJ-FSmgU1rJu5hBORksWgJ3Mn3CWqwyV5scHybyZEKrnkHxdZxsPBmykqD4wTs/s1024/IMG-20210526-WA0031.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1024" data-original-width="768" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3BLo9yItYj_PB8kmCI0R8o3fZfvnrFCVRBVq8t9Dl7FqtbGPi-PMYJpIf9Kq8zGUZUb87_JIfUUsI9XJ-FSmgU1rJu5hBORksWgJ3Mn3CWqwyV5scHybyZEKrnkHxdZxsPBmykqD4wTs/s320/IMG-20210526-WA0031.jpg" /></a></b></i></div><i><b><br /></b></i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><b><br /></b></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i><b> </b></i></div><i><b><br /></b></i><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p>Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-58042941820508912952021-05-10T05:50:00.001-07:002021-05-10T05:50:48.142-07:00A revolutionary body- Samidha Mathur<p> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", serif; font-size: 12pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinu2SqRnxLbEl5mZDcS02Tmo6zyyFVTrUKtOEHgnfASXQ9X8nYVieJnsyVIXZloYZ6yxYq3rj9q2C7iHoucEVS1WdAH0P3mCVaEFsnrccCaHxt8RdNS7Xo9ZC68TPAhiLdpQvpr2L97TU/s1280/IMG-20210413-WA0021.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinu2SqRnxLbEl5mZDcS02Tmo6zyyFVTrUKtOEHgnfASXQ9X8nYVieJnsyVIXZloYZ6yxYq3rj9q2C7iHoucEVS1WdAH0P3mCVaEFsnrccCaHxt8RdNS7Xo9ZC68TPAhiLdpQvpr2L97TU/s320/IMG-20210413-WA0021.jpg" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">Samidha Mathur at a salon!</div><br /><p style="text-align: left;">The very first images
that I harboured in my brain about Delhi were images of revolution. I saw huge
crowds protesting, demanding rights which should be a given in our political
capital – particularly following the repeated instances of rape and state inaction
in Delhi. Seeing people gather before seemingly impermeable Houses of
Parliament made me feel powerful, in a way in which I had not felt before.
Moving here from a tiny town in Thane thus, felt like it would be my political
awakening.</p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I wanted to march down
streets with huge banners and posters, and make my discontent heard. After all,
a protest seemed like a mode which gave the collective their space of
expression – and that was what I loved the most about these. The fact that a
state could not avoid or ignore you if you were in their face or in their way,
as protestors did. I wanted to immediately be one of them – make my discontent
heard. And as a queer disabled woman, I sure had a lot of discontent.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiARX89DzPv5PEVBhOcvRCsLaDeAo6aOk99Ss2_yRp_z1sYicOwO8VuMESoyBzg9s8Ye3nhloFeTKACgDK8TovgqtsbvAylSAGVjpRGcp5HC7esUXIGU1vT4TZ5TGketkIV_WJeV3MvNIk/s1280/IMG-20210124-WA0003.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="576" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiARX89DzPv5PEVBhOcvRCsLaDeAo6aOk99Ss2_yRp_z1sYicOwO8VuMESoyBzg9s8Ye3nhloFeTKACgDK8TovgqtsbvAylSAGVjpRGcp5HC7esUXIGU1vT4TZ5TGketkIV_WJeV3MvNIk/s320/IMG-20210124-WA0003.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">The very first thing I
wanted to do when I reached Delhi, was therefore, to go and see the Parliament.
With all my glory, I decided to embark on this adventure, only to learn that in
fact, accessing the main road of the Parliament was impossible for me. With
frequent ups and downs, and a non-wheelchair friendly tiling on its footpaths,
I stood confused. How was I supposed to approach this institution which claimed
to represent me? Could I do it by myself? Thankfully, I did have help from my
family to make my journey to the Parliament simpler, but are disabled persons
who wish to be political then only ever recognised as plus-ones, and not as
worthy of accommodation themselves? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">My family asked me to not
make a lot of this experience – citing examples of how all old government
buildings are inaccessible – and how my symbolic comparison with how this
demonstrated the able-bodied assumption that underlies all our laws was swiftly
deemed to be an overthought. <i>Maybe </i>it was. But it did seem like politics
wanted nothing to do with me at all.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">There was still a lot to
be excited about outside the Parliament. I began looking forward then to the
queer pride parade I had excessively obsessed over yearly. Preparing myself for
this meant preparing the perfect outfit – I mean with the rainbows and the
glitter and the bright lipstick and feathers – I was ready. This was political
to me, being out there, and occupying the roads of our capital as a queer
woman. It was all the more special as this was the first time I was doing it as
not a criminal under the law. I was happy that I would feel free.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrNp-xDzGAIraSalRWLc-AO0N7-aBAtfbG38__u32TcMia6Pkhc5t0tCU6iY9uE4pR8Kb3g1gvFpM5YWgPF7HyxXMRV_MAOymZ9fulJQ27cWqiuRAL7QmqMtmDkWbzHLvGUR6gU84ZY8/s1280/IMG-20210328-WA0010.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwrNp-xDzGAIraSalRWLc-AO0N7-aBAtfbG38__u32TcMia6Pkhc5t0tCU6iY9uE4pR8Kb3g1gvFpM5YWgPF7HyxXMRV_MAOymZ9fulJQ27cWqiuRAL7QmqMtmDkWbzHLvGUR6gU84ZY8/s320/IMG-20210328-WA0010.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">However, my happiness was
not permanent. A Pride Parade also involved walking, in the June Heat, which
was not a good mix with my nearly constant dehydration, and my wobbly legs.
Here as well, I needed a hand to hold, someone to walk with me, because the
route was in fact wheelchair inaccessible. And as I held the hand of someone I
barely knew on this walk, while feeling lightheaded – I came to a realisation.
Was I even meant to be here?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I mean, do not get me
wrong. I really really wanted to be there reclaiming my sexuality, walking a
walk meant to be about equal love and rights for all (even though I later
realised how exclusionary it actually was). But, was I meant to be here? Did
the organisers, just like the architects of the Parliament imagine a situation
where my disabled body would be there in all its glory? Or, was I meant to sit
at home, hidden? It seemed like a dilemma – using my voice to make political
change was what I always wanted to do, but somehow, my body which carried this
voice was really not meant to occupy this space. And that is what I saw when I
looked around and saw reclaimed love, I still saw no bodies like mine,
struggling to walk, almost fainting while celebrating themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">What then is our
revolution? Who is it for? I refuse to believe that it is mere coincidence that
I was unable to access both a government legislative house, and a public
movement on the streets – the only two modes of political expression that I
knew at that point. Instead I believe that the discomfort I felt at both these
places reflects how far away being political is from my body, reflects just how
left out bodies like mine are from political discussions – because, we never
occupy space at the political roundtable anyway. Not because we do not want to,
but because we cannot.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">For three days after
Pride, I lay in bed with my legs unable to move, because the walking they
endured was not normal to them. And next year, and the year after that – while
my friends went to Pride Parades and Anti CAA-NRC Protests, I chose my body
instead and stayed at home. While they went to the streets to ask uncomfortable
questions, I chose to avoid my own physical discomfort by staying at home,
silencing my voice. And that is a choice nearly none of them had to think
about.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxQHsYd_b-VSzLefcoDS8V8ppPorZXzLKD7XHk4SJluqIq9G7gsnJqOkqii7l5X551xnYoJV3XaLmpSDBFq1rzmHy1G-ZwqOERBJlPYighYdkR0bbCmfIDAS7avnK8WMxoXRHiFWRHP0/s1152/IMG-20201215-WA0061.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1152" data-original-width="864" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivxQHsYd_b-VSzLefcoDS8V8ppPorZXzLKD7XHk4SJluqIq9G7gsnJqOkqii7l5X551xnYoJV3XaLmpSDBFq1rzmHy1G-ZwqOERBJlPYighYdkR0bbCmfIDAS7avnK8WMxoXRHiFWRHP0/s320/IMG-20201215-WA0061.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">I do not know if this is
my careless optimism speaking, or some internal peaceful voice of wisdom – but
I believe that my decisions were just as silently revolutionary as theirs.
Choosing my body and its comfort, over spaces which were never meant to be
mine, was hard – and so was not going to these spaces and point out their
inaccessibility (merely because I would have really loved to do that).
Recognising sometimes that a movement is not just about you can be the toughest
thing of all.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkgSxbosaSCLNtOhcXzODT8F9PuyLSuTx1tH1xsDGebJ0-2C4FRkCdTGkiZpAGQP5iIF3M41EpK-T0gMqrtQVraTXTdXDZcULnmy6BuAKLH-2wsmEe4W9o4bVKamAKetdWqsx_mIdIlU/s2048/20210119_181731.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1536" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxkgSxbosaSCLNtOhcXzODT8F9PuyLSuTx1tH1xsDGebJ0-2C4FRkCdTGkiZpAGQP5iIF3M41EpK-T0gMqrtQVraTXTdXDZcULnmy6BuAKLH-2wsmEe4W9o4bVKamAKetdWqsx_mIdIlU/s320/20210119_181731.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;"><br /></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">However, I also do
realise that this narrative is about me, it is about my imperfect body, and its
desire to take on the streets. Can I do it with broken footpaths, horrific
ramps and walking only protests? Certainly not. But my desire to do it with my
imperfect body is still revolutionary – because it questions the crux of these
public movements. Yes, I am disabled, and Yes, I am political – and therefore,
political spaces must necessarily accommodate me. Because I want to be a part
of the noise that makes the change, and not just from the sidelines with
someone holding my hand, or from my home typing this out – but from the centre
of it all, sitting in a wheelchair in all glory. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman",serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%;">Now, wouldn’t that be a
revolution by itself?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;">About the author-</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;"></i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4G9CmIJxW5EIxLv_aILrcH-QUaBvfmh7HCn3OkocpVueHt-693r11H3FZRbS_v7f-ZRQ-94xnnheCV6x2SbkM6cVhq8MgoyUQhvGB6wIJBQlyhcA9cXHzKlCsEBUhvJWKmI347NTZXGM/s1280/IMG-20210319-WA0046.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4G9CmIJxW5EIxLv_aILrcH-QUaBvfmh7HCn3OkocpVueHt-693r11H3FZRbS_v7f-ZRQ-94xnnheCV6x2SbkM6cVhq8MgoyUQhvGB6wIJBQlyhcA9cXHzKlCsEBUhvJWKmI347NTZXGM/s320/IMG-20210319-WA0046.jpg" /></a></i></div><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;"><br />Samidha is a law student studying at Gujarat National Law University, Gandhinagar who absolutely loves dogs. She lives with Ehlers Danlos Syndrome-III, Fibromyalgia, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and Rheumatic Heart Disease. She wants to change the world everyday, but settles for being able to get out of bed and feed her community dogs.</i><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: justify;"><i style="color: #222222; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: small; text-align: start;"><br /></i></p>Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-60772084777974689422021-04-30T09:11:00.005-07:002021-04-30T10:01:18.325-07:00A WOMAN’S PLACE IS IN THE REVOLUTION - Anusha Misra<blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0px 0px 0px 40px; padding: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFHUY5hys8qJpkFtafDNTngX0hRWEZN6TCNzo5B72cH1XiPU756YPtbQqdPHmmydat1mbNU1R1mirbSsFVIjuUFyhnUpiXQnQP-zqnBsVlT8OvW4ZqOvDuKADV9cpgXPqJUIBv4uNnxA/s2048/legs+revival+2+%2528revised%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCFHUY5hys8qJpkFtafDNTngX0hRWEZN6TCNzo5B72cH1XiPU756YPtbQqdPHmmydat1mbNU1R1mirbSsFVIjuUFyhnUpiXQnQP-zqnBsVlT8OvW4ZqOvDuKADV9cpgXPqJUIBv4uNnxA/s320/legs+revival+2+%2528revised%2529.jpg" /></a></div></blockquote><p style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-9baafdf8-7fff-531b-18c0-e6c6d560f927" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 16pt; font-variant: normal; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><b>NAYI DILLI</b></i></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Going to a new city made me realize and reflect on spaces. This was the first time that I was going to </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">be all on my own. I had to start from scratch : get used to not only my emotions, but the physicality of my</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> location. Ramps are meant to be accessible, not rugged and uneven. This was a city where the roads </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">were too wide, the traffic lights were too bright and the cars zoomed in and out. As a physically disabled </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">woman, 5 ft in height and anxiety in her heart, I had to learn how to take up space and make the city my </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">own.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-f1aae110-7fff-4529-acd3-682c983b71c2" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Making the city my own had an entirely different connotation for me as a disabled woman, than say, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">my able-bodied counterpart.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">At the movies, exploring a city to an able-bodied woman meant going on long walks, meeting a cute </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">person, falling in love, going to Sarojini Nagar and shopping. But for me, everything had always been </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">terrifyingly inaccessible. The crowded, inaccessible lanes of Sarojini Nagar, the long, winding, roads</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> filled with pebbles at Jugmug Thela, the concert which had no chairs at Saket mall, and oh, romantic </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">love. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Romantic love, for me, was distant. I had convinced myself that it's unattainable, and hence </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">unnecessary. I always ended up choosing the first person who asked me out, who executed the bare </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">minimum and who frankly, never really met my standards. But, my mind would think, ‘’Oh yes, this </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">person accepts me DESPITE my disability, despite my flaws, despite my voice, despite my everything.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">They’re the only person in the world who’ll accept me as I am, so I better hold on to them EVEN if </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">they’re abusive, manipulative and do not live up to their words.’’</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">My thought process was reiterating an ableist society - that applauds an able-bodied man for ‘’agreeing’’</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> to marry a disabled woman. Pay close attention to the words used in these two paragraphs - </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">‘’DESPITE’’ and ‘’AGREE’’, makes dating disabled folks seem like a favour, doesn’t it? You see, in my </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">experience, even when able-bodied folks do the bare minimum for disabled folks (ie. Carrying food from</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> a buffet, helping me cross the road, helping me climb the stairs), they always remember to point it out </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">to me that what a great, big favour they have carried out for me.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Well, I’m anything but a favour. </span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I’m Fierce, I’m Radical, I’m Fabulous</span><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">. To find power in my reality, however, took me many years.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6GqOxidjRa9hWiVW2PswwWQVMXl1tWpjUFV2zczjOnHIXwK6quRSR-sCvZiywNGSRDJiS4yQcIdLELNkKd1kawMMHuTUR-9mP_JZvpXCjmeS_AcbyKf44JU8BbmONoqicaY5hIhS2gU/s1040/af4f58c4-946a-4f33-946d-2feed86d888a+%25281%2529.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="780" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6GqOxidjRa9hWiVW2PswwWQVMXl1tWpjUFV2zczjOnHIXwK6quRSR-sCvZiywNGSRDJiS4yQcIdLELNkKd1kawMMHuTUR-9mP_JZvpXCjmeS_AcbyKf44JU8BbmONoqicaY5hIhS2gU/s320/af4f58c4-946a-4f33-946d-2feed86d888a+%25281%2529.jpg" /></a></div> <span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m Fierce, I’m Radical, I’m Fabulous</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">. (Dont fall for this easy breezy look)</span><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">‘</span><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">’</span><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">CHALEES RUPAYE KYA HOTA HAI, BHAIYA</span><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">?’’</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-499aa534-7fff-ff24-02cf-29eaf1988857"></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-df8302af-7fff-feb1-b373-28022bf1c701"></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I would venture out into the city with caution - counting my steps, fearful, and weary. At 20 years of age, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I took my first auto ride on my own. I distinctly remember the vibrations on the bottom of the auto, as it</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> went through my shoes. It made me feel alive and independent, in an able-bodied world. Suddenly, I </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">had discovered an entire new feeling on my auto ride : a feeling that gave me power, a feeling that made</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> me feel radical, a feeling that made me joyous. Public transport, I discovered that day was actually fun! </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Until, I reached my destination and the auto driver turned to me and said - ‘’Chalees rupaye’’. I panicked</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">, being from Calcutta I hadn’t bothered to learn my numbers in hindi. ‘’Chalees rupaye kya hota hai, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">bhaiya?’’ I said, as I panicked. He chuckled - it seemed like I had made my first friend in a new city!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs6m4qzX6IyriBe36qt8aTUVoAKxxA1PlCGKED7fqZX712Oaqa-5Fr62Yo_F8w6Lb52DHOobpy3VpKQlvcdQflPvYkV_dkmT25Q8XNaR1zZvVRO51GknZJa7flh_DoYI0Z1Z62QGiiSO0/s1040/68d21c06-246d-45cc-9752-95d9bd0a1bee.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="780" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgs6m4qzX6IyriBe36qt8aTUVoAKxxA1PlCGKED7fqZX712Oaqa-5Fr62Yo_F8w6Lb52DHOobpy3VpKQlvcdQflPvYkV_dkmT25Q8XNaR1zZvVRO51GknZJa7flh_DoYI0Z1Z62QGiiSO0/s320/68d21c06-246d-45cc-9752-95d9bd0a1bee.jpg" /></a></div> <b><i>Learning something new about my new city everyday (and making notes)</i></b><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">MY FAVOURITE CHADDIS???!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">My hostel room however, was my haven. It’s where I put on lipstick and slept in my favourite lingerie </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">(Um, yes alone!). As I look at myself in the mirror, and at my naked disabled body, I realized something -</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> I’m beautiful! Actually I realized one more thing : that able-bodied men have disempowered me my </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">entire life. I’m my own mother now and that I must look after myself in a new city - because no one else </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">will, not even a partner.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-3b3a11fa-7fff-760f-671f-fe604b5e312c"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">But to be a disabled woman in the world, one had to have courage, work harder than her able-bodied </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">counterparts, and be fearless.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-de321ab3-7fff-6e16-cae9-9783cbd93687"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7DxERxv4pFqMMwo2oUniHWhtUPqexn1x79hYlobZEDFD3iT8j_cnH9MH4-0ydDly4IAvhS4svkze4kxqRGqG03yXbcTFgn2UjPQp16auETgL6fcVVg238X0oJrC7ekyDNO8Ij_vPB50/s591/reclaiming+nudity.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="591" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT7DxERxv4pFqMMwo2oUniHWhtUPqexn1x79hYlobZEDFD3iT8j_cnH9MH4-0ydDly4IAvhS4svkze4kxqRGqG03yXbcTFgn2UjPQp16auETgL6fcVVg238X0oJrC7ekyDNO8Ij_vPB50/s320/reclaiming+nudity.jpg" /></a></div> <b><i>Thats an accurate representation of me in my hostel room in Delhi Summers</i></b><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Let's deconstruct these 3 terms : </span><span style="-webkit-text-decoration-skip: none; background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration-skip-ink: none; text-decoration: underline; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">courageous, workaholic and fearless, shall we?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">What does having courage and being fearless, mean to me, as a disabled woman?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Courage means being unafraid to dissent, to question the existing social structure, to be </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">enraged</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">. Even if it means dissenting in my mind, and not in real life, always remember : it is still valid. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">What does having courage and being fearless, mean to me, as a disabled woman?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Courage means being unafraid to dissent, to question the existing social structure, to be </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">enraged</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">. Even if it means dissenting in my mind, and not in real life, always remember : it is still valid. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-bae2e4b3-7fff-233c-8d34-ccdf64ad822c" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">We have to redefine our definitions of activism and politics. No voice is unequal or not valuable. My </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">speech difficulty that is sidelined and ignored just because ableists fail to comprehend what I’m saying,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> is political. When my speech and agency is ignored, and others speak over me–a tool of systemic </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">oppression–is also political. I speak a language of resistance and rebellion. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-cbfe45e8-7fff-187f-3dc1-c9abeccdd62e" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I grew up with a speech difficulty, something that I’ve been ashamed of, for a long time. Sometimes, I </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">wouldn’t talk for an entire day, because I was so afraid of people hearing my “disabled” voice. I was </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">disgusted by how it sounded. So much so, that when the teacher would begin the role call I’d dread it </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">because then that meant having to yell back “Yes, I am present” to my name. When I say I was afraid </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">to Take Up Space, I also mean the space that the voice I have muffled for years would take up. But now</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> when I look back at every instance, I think to myself, “Should we really have a loud voice to take up </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">space?” Maybe my voice is not loud enough for everyone to sloganeer with at political rallies and </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">protest sites and give elaborate public speeches. But it is still enough, isn’t it?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Why don’t we make the definition of political spaces more accessible and disabled-friendly instead? </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Just because I’m an activist who writes about disability makes me no less than an activist who speaks </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">about disability in front of a large audience. I feel that we really need to change our perspective and how</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> we view certain concepts, even within the disabled community itself, where women with speech </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">difficulties are discriminated against.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Now, what do I mean when I say that, </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">as a disabled woman, I need to work harder than my able-bodied </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">counterparts?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">When I say work harder, I don't mean in an able-bodied sense. You see, I can work hard from anywhere</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> - from my bed, from my table, after having a good night's sleep, after waking up at 12pm - one doesn't </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">have to have a certain able-bodied standard to work hard : one doesn't have to wake up at 5am, they </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">can work hard even after 12pm, one doesn't have to sit up straight at the table, they can even work </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">hard from their bed. For many of us who are chronically ill, the bed is our safe haven. Sometimes we </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">can't get out of bed due to our aching bones. But don't worry, that doesn't deter us from working hard </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">akin to your able-bodied employee. As disabled folk, we can start an entire social movement from our </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">beds, make routines, get sh*t done. You get the point. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSpNck42yd51ax1P1WiMs0DBU0yF-ox8DJqGfER3AD5xAzfZg14NIh-hW7zu4cX5jnW8zWw2ZhwO7C615RNjjytS4h5TL0NLVVNaCTekveP5YcNuM3mT_Sp7w136Yqn5iPJxqxqAFa5E/s797/resist.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="797" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVSpNck42yd51ax1P1WiMs0DBU0yF-ox8DJqGfER3AD5xAzfZg14NIh-hW7zu4cX5jnW8zWw2ZhwO7C615RNjjytS4h5TL0NLVVNaCTekveP5YcNuM3mT_Sp7w136Yqn5iPJxqxqAFa5E/s320/resist.jpg" /></a></p> <b><i>My all time favourite look! Resistance is so sexy!<br /></i></b><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre;">How the meaning of survival has changed for me -</span></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">In my childhood, as I looked down at my crooked, bent fingers begging for my love, begging to be </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">accepted, I quickly hid it under my coats because my environment told me that it is unattractive and </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">hideous to be disabled. I grew up with fairytales where only witches had crooked teeth, crooked fingers,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; white-space: pre;"> crooked legs. Meanwhile, Cinderella was able-bodied, tall and white.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-2ae8cb41-7fff-8275-55ab-b3430e56bb39" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">When I approached the end of my teenage years, the only thing that was on my mind was that I wanted</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> to go to the supermarket alone for the first time in 10 years. It’s all that I could think of. All I wanted to </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">do was travel in public transport and go for a walk alone. I had never gone for a walk alone or gone to </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">my local bazaar alone. Being independent in my own way, I felt was essential for my survival and </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">well-being.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Survival for me now, means an entirely different thing. Survival to me means acceptance : To be able to </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">dance in my room however I want - not the able-bodied way, but </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">my disabled way. </span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">To be able to move </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">my curved fingers in the form of a dance step without a care in the world - At this point I don’t care if I’m </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">attractive to anyone - I should be attractive to myself. At 14, survival to me meant catching up to able-</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">bodied standards of living, dancing, affection and dating. But, at 23, survival to me means creating an </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">affirmative space for fellow disabled women where we carve out our own disabled histories. It means </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">not waiting for anyone’s approval but making an impulsive decision anyway. Learning, un-learning and </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">re-learning from impulsive decisions and looking out for yourself. As disabled women we need to speak</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> up, speak out and take up space in our neighbourhood, on roads, in grocery stores, at the dining table,</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> in conversations, in panel discussions. We need to so the seeds of intersectionality with our disabled </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">fingers and watch them bloom for future disabled women. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Speaking up is easier said than done because for me personally, as a woman with a speech disability, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">speaking up doesn’t only serve an auditory function. It becomes a tool of political resistance - whenever </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I speak up, I speak up with immense courage. I speak up carrying a history of oppression, of ableism, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">of misogyny, of harassment. I speak up carrying centuries of disabled anger, angst, dissent and </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">resistance. What is the use of being at the table if I’m not heard and acknowledged? So, whenever I </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">speak up, it takes effort. It takes acceptance - for me to accept my disabled voice and to get over my</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> fear that others might not understand me. When I was 14, able-bodiedness was something I looked up </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">to - like something I had to achieve, something that would finally make me happy and satisfied, just like</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> a before and after picture of someone who had lost weight. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfGBIb48QtxCiVPfuf0R-Tg3VqtW9kSXb193UMD_CwwOpr8dBmCz37OIgAZOBcBtStQPYSSdZwTbbM440OHTfPnBPbSPQilojtsxSK27mptwIfRX_wI8LF07fYr06rbestvf1JSGDb2m8/s599/disabled+riot.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="599" data-original-width="564" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfGBIb48QtxCiVPfuf0R-Tg3VqtW9kSXb193UMD_CwwOpr8dBmCz37OIgAZOBcBtStQPYSSdZwTbbM440OHTfPnBPbSPQilojtsxSK27mptwIfRX_wI8LF07fYr06rbestvf1JSGDb2m8/s320/disabled+riot.jpg" /></a></div><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">GASP! YOU’RE DISABLED!</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-e11e78a1-7fff-a171-c593-ffabe6f925da" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Women with disabilities suffer from misinformation regarding their sexuality, far too often because most </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">doctors would consider us to be devoid of any desires or in other words, asexual. Disabled Sex-ed is </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">non-existent. Imagine a world where discussing accessibility or logistical requirements during sexual </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">intercourse isn't awkward, or weird. Imagine a world where I wouldn’t have to tell men I just met on </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">tinder that, ‘’I walk with a crutch’’ and that I hoped that that wouldn’t be an ‘’inconvenience’’ for them. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">Imagine a world where we taught disabled girl’s to love themselves and normalized asking all those </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">questions that were at the back of our minds but we couldn’t ask because our parents had never</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> educated us about sexualities or identities. Imagine a world where we didn’t tell disabled girls that they </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">were too ‘’weak’’ to have sex. Imagine a world where some able-bodied men learn what ‘’no!’’ means </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b id="docs-internal-guid-88613cbc-7fff-50ca-2426-88301ca9a382" style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">As soon as I entered college, I remember my peers would run to ask my friend, "oh but she's disabled </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">and has a boyfriend? How?". There was this unsaid and invisible clause that a college student who's a </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">disabled woman should behave in a certain way : she shouldn't live life according to her own choices : </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">this would entail her not being able to go out with friends at night but instead, staying in and studying</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"> because of course, disabled women cannot party. Since childhood, my disability had prevented me </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">from behaving in a certain way, that meant standing up for what I believed in. I had to be nice and </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">polite because I depended on my classmate for their help even if they were mean to me. I couldn't be </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">hostile to those who were rude to me because who would help me go to the canteen or who would help </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">me with notes when I was absent due to the untimely flare up of my chronic illness?</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBQsCv1p18Fsb4UvIt7gdnBZBm9PTKI49FTyyxt_oEYbQEAdWfvakAOlFdRJSKUYuSO-jH8akh2nuyuo7xDziEEywfNvTjDCIvi_qOvbjQFHZ0vgF4VDkMCXXXQ1mVNNObUQDDCaHFpA/s1040/417ff27c-5a22-4e11-9cbc-c5b37a5a58f8.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1040" data-original-width="780" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuBQsCv1p18Fsb4UvIt7gdnBZBm9PTKI49FTyyxt_oEYbQEAdWfvakAOlFdRJSKUYuSO-jH8akh2nuyuo7xDziEEywfNvTjDCIvi_qOvbjQFHZ0vgF4VDkMCXXXQ1mVNNObUQDDCaHFpA/s320/417ff27c-5a22-4e11-9cbc-c5b37a5a58f8.jpg" /></a></div> <b><i> Getting around on my own (and shopping of course!)</i></b><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 14pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 700; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">DISABLED DISSENT</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><b style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></b></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-8a117e50-7fff-b998-5db5-a0a383e78d9a"></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span id="docs-internal-guid-352b5e2c-7fff-0c38-edc4-dd0494346c89"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Why do I have to fit into the various othered boxes constructed by my able-bodied classmates? Why do I have to be "the ideal disabled woman" and not someone who lives life on her own terms? You know what, I don't want to be an inspiration. In fact, I'm far from that. I'm flawed. I'm flawed and sad and depressed and angry. I have no motivation nowadays. Why is there a certain standard that disabled women must live up to, a certain standard that paints us as relevant only when we become TedX motivational speakers, or we "inspire" others with our struggle and make them feel better about their ablebodieness? </span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Until next time, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Your fav disabled girl in a new city.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A little bit about the writer- </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Growing up in a bookstore, books taught Anusha ways of dissent and how to take the road less travelled by. She is a psychology graduate from Lady Shriram College, a writer and the Editor-in-Chief of Revival Disability Magazine, a magazine on Disability, sexuality and intersectional Ableism. She writes a column about Taking Up Space as a disabled woman on Feminism In India. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She describes herself as "queer, chaotic and disabled" and strongly believes that intersectionality gives marginalized women the emotional skin to survive in the world. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: left;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgImdCx-Srtk9gAZNtuFH7eX0lksTdWwmtg1lFgh8TgUubufAxeAYyJ2WG_mtsyC74qfcMPpEnqtR7uJIRo9t8b4HMQTb44crj3ussvoU7M3YO8TZk3k7CcXO22jdYfGRyjOAyKF6_057w/s720/FB_IMG_1618473665814.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgImdCx-Srtk9gAZNtuFH7eX0lksTdWwmtg1lFgh8TgUubufAxeAYyJ2WG_mtsyC74qfcMPpEnqtR7uJIRo9t8b4HMQTb44crj3ussvoU7M3YO8TZk3k7CcXO22jdYfGRyjOAyKF6_057w/s320/FB_IMG_1618473665814.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p></div><br /><span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p>Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-34002523958381406592021-04-19T00:43:00.003-07:002021-04-19T01:16:53.668-07:00DILLI: A WHOLE NEW, WONDERFUL (INACCESSIBLE) WORLD - Anusha Mishra<p> </p><span id="docs-internal-guid-ed73469a-7fff-84f4-0d0a-a7df3db3415a"> This post was first published on Belongg<br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-weight: 700; white-space: pre-wrap;">Fair warning: This piece is going to be about Disability and sex, dating, relationships, sexting and disappointments. Rebellious, huh? No.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwcRiTWwlBi0S_I2pIoaFZkNkv9Yg2fpyELDfD5RTOV1wj03KoJHLAOaobom0rgZGDNjrwswbf1apmw7yqz_mNqa_e5qpRBDU2dcbx6_W9uvP34v65QCse9FuNF_0llzohDvDizJl_Hqk/s720/FB_IMG_1618473670708.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="616" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwcRiTWwlBi0S_I2pIoaFZkNkv9Yg2fpyELDfD5RTOV1wj03KoJHLAOaobom0rgZGDNjrwswbf1apmw7yqz_mNqa_e5qpRBDU2dcbx6_W9uvP34v65QCse9FuNF_0llzohDvDizJl_Hqk/s320/FB_IMG_1618473670708.jpg" width="320" /></a></div> Thats me ! Anusha Mishra- the author of this blogpost<br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I grew up watching a show called ‘’Girl In The City’’ (starring Mithila Palkar) and would dream of the day when I moved out of my house to a new city where I would meet someone and, of course, fall in love. A simple Calcutta girl had a simple heteronormative dream. The show follows the journey of Meera who arrives in Mumbai from the town of Dehradun to pursue her dreams and ambitions. As a 14-year-old, when I watched the show, the thought of accessibility never crossed my mind, not even once. Meera was confident in her steps, Meera could climb stairs, Meera could carry her luggage without any help, Meera could navigate the environment without her non-existent mobility aids slowing her down. As an impressionable teenager, I thought I’d be just like Meera. By denying myself my disabled identity, I now feel like I was unfair to myself. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The people around me didn’t help either. Relatives would say, ‘’You’re not disabled, you’re just lazy!’’ with boys I dated chiming in with, ‘’You’re too pretty to be disabled! My girlfriend can never be disabled!’’. Clearly, I would now barf at these comments. To recognize abuse in the form of ableism and find power in my identity took me 22 years. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I like to identify with myself rather than identifying with an able-bodied adult on screen, a conclusion which I’ve arrived at after a whole life led otherwise. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">The house I grew up in had a certain storybook quality to it. It was feminine, it calmed me down. Calcutta was home. The narrow lanes of Calcutta were warm and non-threatening. However, it is also where I experienced severe childhood depression, borne out of disability grief and self-loathing. I had the habit of naming rooms in my house after my moods. The room where I grew up was called the “depression room”. The bathroom was called my “happy room” because it had memories of warm showers and soapy bubbles on a sunlit afternoon. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I would often ask myself : Why was the moon bigger in Delhi? Why was love bigger in Delhi? Why was the sky bigger in Delhi? As someone from a small city like Calcutta, being just about 5 feet and having an intense fear of open spaces, I would look at the narrow (inaccessible) lanes of Champa Gali and the lights of JugMug Thela and wonder, ‘’Isn’t Dilli the loveliest place to fall in love?’’. Well, I was naive back then, with my eyes full of stars.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh74jwJYew8bzPeUalZv516D5b2-sHFsf_kCgIGE0izSDCzXu_zuOCRzREKsElKpOLWflND4U9c6OGJ3B1KEXqy4Pq0zitjcPYUjwFOagVRhWDHiiYMsLbQlDVl3TkVuQfL-BLrS_-9GGw/s720/FB_IMG_1618473633331.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="713" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh74jwJYew8bzPeUalZv516D5b2-sHFsf_kCgIGE0izSDCzXu_zuOCRzREKsElKpOLWflND4U9c6OGJ3B1KEXqy4Pq0zitjcPYUjwFOagVRhWDHiiYMsLbQlDVl3TkVuQfL-BLrS_-9GGw/s320/FB_IMG_1618473633331.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> My mum, Mayura and I, feeling giddy over books, our common love interest.</span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Please excuse my conditioning!</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Growing up disabled, I have often perceived love and relationships as something terrifyingly inaccessible—from the man to whom I’d send daily feminist posts on Instagram (in the hope of ‘’training’’ him to become an intersectional feminist), to the person I was seeing for about a month, until I realized that they open up more on Twitter than they would ever open up to me. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Whatever it was, can I blame my conditioning, which mostly consisted of Carrie Bradshaw and her toxic love life? My first relationship was with a cis-het man who was overly obsessive and controlling. He started imagining the names of our future offspring by the 2nd date and made me meet his mother by the 3rd. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Our first date is worth noting. I was feeling particularly rebellious (undeniably, a result of my sheltered upbringing) and so I decided to get drunk for the first time with a stranger from </span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Tinder</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">.</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Soon, it was dark, and I was intoxicated with alcohol which in turn, made me think I was intoxicated with love (as it often happens). What ensued was cuddling, and a conversation between two hormonal horny teenagers. Cute, right? </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">He dropped me home, I began to see stars in his eyes and the rest is history. It was a cute, traumatic relationship. He gave back all the gifts I had given him during the course of our coupling, except well, my bra. I often wonder what he did with it. Did he burn it? Did he throw it? Did he give it to another romantic escapade? Does he still have it in the back of his closet? Well, who knows. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">One conclusion can be drawn from above: Fake orgasms became my forte.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Clarrissa Pinkola Estes writes in her much celebrated book called "Women Who Run With The Wolves" that women who've been caged their entire life, either because of childhood abuse or disability, grow up hungry. As soon as they taste freedom, they don't know how to balance it with reality. They'll often paint too much, love too much, work too much. I believe that I'm one of those women.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">All my life, due to my disability, I've always felt like I've been missing out. And so, as soon as I entered college, I always engaged in extreme behaviours</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I either studied too much till I got sick, drank too much (alcohol), and oh, the toxic men were many. My entire life, I've always felt like I had to somehow "catch up" to my able-bodied classmates.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSsh64Pl6O5F-Oi2hq5A4nFA3HJZRo5bTKVJ7FS1pj2HXIIj27Ntj330T1maVwchOvfCNyH2IPlk7Dx5l20wHu7sdLyfFia3BXqP0o010Foijy7KECkC2eDbfbsPzIA2DfMvfrzyic3g/s720/FB_IMG_1613134342849.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="720" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguSsh64Pl6O5F-Oi2hq5A4nFA3HJZRo5bTKVJ7FS1pj2HXIIj27Ntj330T1maVwchOvfCNyH2IPlk7Dx5l20wHu7sdLyfFia3BXqP0o010Foijy7KECkC2eDbfbsPzIA2DfMvfrzyic3g/w394-h213/FB_IMG_1613134342849.jpg" width="394" /></a></div> <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;">Felt cute, might delete later (or not)! </span></div><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">PETITION FOR ACCESSIBLE FASHION:</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Now that I was living alone in a new city, I had to book my own therapist appointments, learn how to be kinder to myself, learn how to make the right decisions, teach myself to work harder because we live in an able-bodied world where disabled folk constantly need to prove themselves. I no longer had mom to help me tie my hair, or attach the hooks of my earrings (I couldn’t attach them myself due to my disabled left hand). Petition for accessible earrings, by the way. I had to learn to ask for help from my hostel mates. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I had grown up thinking that my disability made me inferior, weak, and asking for help would simply tarnish my reputation as I thought that I was already a burden by being around people. One of the realizations I’ve reached, over the years, is that it is absolutely okay to ask for help, even if it’s something as simple wearing an intricate gown or attaching the hooks at the back of a dress. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjen1_UgxCM3RPDGWIlLbvrrt3WDIccSN2drNHN8SLRGJIXgoGsIiVvk7z8yTDmFCyF_HuFx5WXBeDgToVSeAJi20AmKP8d_djDQfkkdE8hJgeY2F9cZ5NCnjUkS7ti6K8ZGPamzYqdK8U/s960/38644127_963789713806545_2315132168776450048_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; white-space: pre-wrap;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjen1_UgxCM3RPDGWIlLbvrrt3WDIccSN2drNHN8SLRGJIXgoGsIiVvk7z8yTDmFCyF_HuFx5WXBeDgToVSeAJi20AmKP8d_djDQfkkdE8hJgeY2F9cZ5NCnjUkS7ti6K8ZGPamzYqdK8U/s320/38644127_963789713806545_2315132168776450048_n.jpg" /></a></div>Living in a new city was lonely but it also taught me to survive, book my appointments, take care of myself and get photos clicked with abstract sculptures!!</span><div><span><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-weight: 700; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">LONELINESS AND DISABILITY:</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As we enter our later 20's, more than physical rebounds, we look for emotional rebounds</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">or as I like to call it, an emotional "quickie"</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">jumping from one obsession to another. As young women, we're always taught to "settle down" quickly : As a result, I grew up craving security and searching for it in different men.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As I swiped on dating apps such as Hinge, where a man congratulates himself on ‘’putting down the toilet seat’’ and another bold man proclaims, ‘’Dating apps have brought about an era of feminism never before seen, we men have to put on a fancy show to impress women and pray to God that we get laid!’’ (I’m not making this up; I’m quoting it word for word), I realized that trying dating as a single person during a pandemic is, to say the least, brave and I’m certainly not brave (I inherently dislike that word due to being intensely patronized during my childhood days. People would call me "brave" for surviving an illness). </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I cringe when able-bodied men on dating apps ask me if I would like to "go out" for drinks. Me, who has an immune system that is compromised due to a chronic illness, would scoff at that. Going out during a pandemic is nothing but an act of violence. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As our lives have gone online during a pandemic, so has love and sex. I’ve dated able-bodied men my entire life, and I’ve always been curious about sexting : How do I sext as a disabled woman? How do I inform my able-bodied significant other (who’s really into sexting, by the way) that the impossible sex positions he’s describing on text cannot be possible in real life because well, I'm...disabled? Does disabled-friendly feminist sexting exist, or is it just heteronormative able-bodied sexting? Am I a bad feminist? What is the intersectionality between sexting and disability? How do we meet somewhere in the middle? I’m not being too crude, am I?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">In my only adult relationship, I felt like I was too dependent on the other person for validation and positive affirmations. After our whirlwind romance where parked car conversations would end up always being a trigger for me, I realized that I had always depended on the other person for acceptance and approval : Whether it was waiting for a text back, conditional happiness, or emotional dependency, I always sought a certain kind of security in the other person. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">As a physically disabled woman, I feel like I grew up with overprotective parents (understandably so) and as I ventured out into the world alone, in a new city, I looked for the same emotional security in a significant other. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Until I found out that the only security I needed was within myself. Loving myself has been radical. Fucking myself has been radical. Exploring my body and its needs has been radical. Realizing my bisexuality has been radical. Respecting my own boundaries has been radical. Learning how to say “no" has been radical. Respecting my own emotional and mental peace after years of toxicity has been radical. Putting myself and my hardwork first has been radical. </span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCiPoX52UBhvLgYB4-oeKYfqwOBzoU2p32iq3_bRngYvZ7Vw8dI6_7rbW76NY3tFVTMy8cyZi_3lHwLdUuxLh1ZOGRcPM-UZORRu1WU86WFPADxrI3je2pZc1EmuquMYr5FK_I-km4PZY/s720/FB_IMG_1618473626986.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="720" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCiPoX52UBhvLgYB4-oeKYfqwOBzoU2p32iq3_bRngYvZ7Vw8dI6_7rbW76NY3tFVTMy8cyZi_3lHwLdUuxLh1ZOGRcPM-UZORRu1WU86WFPADxrI3je2pZc1EmuquMYr5FK_I-km4PZY/s320/FB_IMG_1618473626986.jpg" /></a></div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 14.6667px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Realizing that I'm worthy of life, of love and of appreciation has been radical.</span><br /><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span><p></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">My disability has certainly not been a gentle breeze. Neither has heartbreak. I'd be lying to myself if I said that I accepted myself from the very beginning. My grief has been cruel to me. It has made me give up time and again and has made me pick up myself again from the bathroom floor because I was grieving about the loss of my mobility. I've tripped and fallen several times, bruised my body, hated my unstable balance. I always remember the faces of kind people who pick me up after I've fallen down, both physically and emotionally.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">I promise I don’t examine all my behaviours to such an extent. Or maybe I do?</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">For everything else, whenever I feel lonely and feel the abandonment issues creeping in, I hug myself and my boobs very tightly, until I feel warm enough</span><span style="background-color: white; color: #4a4a4a; font-family: Arial; font-size: 13.5pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">—</span><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">because I'm my own emotional rebound.</span></p><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Until next time, </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Your fav disabled girl in a new city.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">A little bit about the writer- </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">Growing up in a bookstore, books taught Anusha ways of dissent and how to take the road less travelled by. She is a psychology graduate from Lady Shriram College, a writer and the Editor-in-Chief of Revival Disability Magazine, a magazine on Disability, sexuality and intersectional Ableism. She writes a column about Taking Up Space as a disabled woman on Feminism In India. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-style: italic; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">She describes herself as "queer, chaotic and disabled" and strongly believes that intersectionality gives marginalized women the emotional skin to survive in the world. </span></p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGzLG1f3uGiWNZWkH5sQDL1z8d1ic2Z0pFBAQE9JS6xs-wWfDTtpzzo7mJY8XKrOByXrNc3SmdasENurMyK5cxYEnAPd_oMYKOjam8Hwjp29NR7autVVq_e_fI5ezxw1AnDwoVAhdKXQ/s720/FB_IMG_1618473665814.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="540" data-original-width="720" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGzLG1f3uGiWNZWkH5sQDL1z8d1ic2Z0pFBAQE9JS6xs-wWfDTtpzzo7mJY8XKrOByXrNc3SmdasENurMyK5cxYEnAPd_oMYKOjam8Hwjp29NR7autVVq_e_fI5ezxw1AnDwoVAhdKXQ/s320/FB_IMG_1618473665814.jpg" width="320" /></a><br /><br />Here is the link to the original article that was published on Belongg.</span></div><div><span><br />https://www.instagram.com/p/CKn-6a0hmYH/?igshid=1f01woy1iugej<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><br /></p></span></div>Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-30409008454200916562018-06-30T04:49:00.001-07:002018-06-30T05:31:15.043-07:00 Walk Like A Woman: Why it mattered to me - Himadri Barman<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKmWDoznd1Va74c7-tz4GaI6FVIVTdvhiXUohiv6EXi5yw836P-4SvUaxRHOOVtP9Yz1TEWDYHhL9imEf26cYhrzmVhN4K72MQYj3l97cP5KRhEziaUUP-GHljpJWyHFv_Ja5rDAfM5Rk/s1600/dsc_0053_28514184628_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="1600" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKmWDoznd1Va74c7-tz4GaI6FVIVTdvhiXUohiv6EXi5yw836P-4SvUaxRHOOVtP9Yz1TEWDYHhL9imEf26cYhrzmVhN4K72MQYj3l97cP5KRhEziaUUP-GHljpJWyHFv_Ja5rDAfM5Rk/s640/dsc_0053_28514184628_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Last
month (May 25), Why Loiter (spearheaded by Neha Singh) had the
Walk Like A Woman, four years after the event first happened on the streets of
Mumbai. Me, Naireet Basak and Dhruv Lohumi were the men who took the challenge
to walk-like-a-woman. Dressed in conventional women’s garments we all decided
to walk on the crowded Juhu beach of Mumbai around 8.30 at night. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Though
Why Loiter majorly claims women’s<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>right
to loiter at any point of time at any place in a free country like India,
Walk-Like-A-Woman equally <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">invites
men to dress in “women’s” clothing and walk in the public . The right of a
citizen to walk freely without being questioned what she/he is wearing should
be<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>as fundamental as assured in our
constitution.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So
to me, the event was an opportunity to check whether I can wear a woman’s
clothing and experiment what reactions I get from people. Of course, I gained a lot of public attention, many people apparently praised me for looking
different, and even by seeing the men in our team, one vendor on the beach
decided to wear a skirt to show solidarity to the movement. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbEL4lx3CC7wHMpvy4aYL5vUXCQc7KFV-ERMdAKWVRQPn9mepeU_fgynzCaK9Rh8YCMf3KyhEtc6wLKHj9BmZzRIbk_A7ZQvLvyLJ5Pu5UQ5Yx2Z4H-Nt3CiaLCYv1iuTv4Lgy4QjTcUw/s1600/dsc_0062_28514184048_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1060" data-original-width="1600" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbEL4lx3CC7wHMpvy4aYL5vUXCQc7KFV-ERMdAKWVRQPn9mepeU_fgynzCaK9Rh8YCMf3KyhEtc6wLKHj9BmZzRIbk_A7ZQvLvyLJ5Pu5UQ5Yx2Z4H-Nt3CiaLCYv1iuTv4Lgy4QjTcUw/s640/dsc_0062_28514184048_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span lang="EN" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>Neha with a
super-excited masala-chaat seller at Juhu Beach, Mumbai</i></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">We
also talked to some people on the beach and asked their opinions on our
dressing. Nobody discouraged us, some decided not to comment, some wanted to
know what’s happening, some sellers on the beach came to us and happily sold
their stuff. The interaction with people became a bit interesting when we met a
group of young people who shared their views on women’s safety issues,
appreciated Why Loiter’s collective effort to claim women’s right to have safe
public places, and agreed that gender attachment to one’s choice of clothing
should fade away soon. Here’s the video clip from Sxonomic’s youtube channel:</span><br />
<br /><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YFufOedVoUs</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">So
that’s a bit reporting of the event. Now I would like to tell a bit about my
story. Things, styles, and behaviors attached to a gender always appeared
problems to me and starting from my childhood how I solved a few of them is the
story I am going to tell you.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><b>Colored umbrella: <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Since
the monsoon has hit most parts of the country by now, I don’t need to remind
you of one of the indispensable things of life: <i>Chhatri</i> aka <i>Chhata</i> aka
umbrella. Since my childhood, I was taught that boys’ umbrellas should be
always black or dark in color while only girls are entitled to use all those
beautifully printed colorful ones. <br />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjksGrEZ4DEMypthhlNGx-f5-lgLdf-kfeZGPeGly0cugHKD0oEgqsYtVgFwkPnjn-aghTghafDI7uEK1UxGyhNXyJDwvkDgbtqS1neh9GUxtEcxHBA-XXwV8m6VdtMump3PwbUBJuIpLo/s1600/Mens_umbrella_image_search.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="674" data-original-width="915" height="470" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjksGrEZ4DEMypthhlNGx-f5-lgLdf-kfeZGPeGly0cugHKD0oEgqsYtVgFwkPnjn-aghTghafDI7uEK1UxGyhNXyJDwvkDgbtqS1neh9GUxtEcxHBA-XXwV8m6VdtMump3PwbUBJuIpLo/s640/Mens_umbrella_image_search.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-no-proof: yes;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600"
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<v:imagedata src="file:///C:/Users/Neha/AppData/Local/Temp/msohtmlclip1/01/clip_image001.png"
o:title=""/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></span><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>A simple Google’s Image Search shows the “dark side” of men’s umbrella.<o:p></o:p></i></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw98p7x-UZPwNnSFPgu1Rzt_DmmpcF_JcWxeziHqMnFC1NtKOPQR29fVFrWv6IyVzAun-zGWO29PxClzGfK4wjdcz3TYoVw2g8wX5H3_xJ-g6xxsn8r7PFWW2hnYFFiOWeE-HxtP5hm1c/s1600/Flipkart_gents_umbrella.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="647" data-original-width="793" height="522" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw98p7x-UZPwNnSFPgu1Rzt_DmmpcF_JcWxeziHqMnFC1NtKOPQR29fVFrWv6IyVzAun-zGWO29PxClzGfK4wjdcz3TYoVw2g8wX5H3_xJ-g6xxsn8r7PFWW2hnYFFiOWeE-HxtP5hm1c/s640/Flipkart_gents_umbrella.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-no-proof: yes;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shape id="image14.png" o:spid="_x0000_i1025"
type="#_x0000_t75" style='width:400.5pt;height:326.25pt;visibility:visible;
mso-wrap-style:square'>
<v:imagedata src="file:///C:/Users/Neha/AppData/Local/Temp/msohtmlclip1/01/clip_image003.png"
o:title=""/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><!--[endif]--></span><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
<br /> <i>Even Flipkart acknowledges “black” as the color of a gentleman’s
umbrella</i><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br />
Though I accepted this rule unhappily, one day I got an excuse to take a
"lady's" umbrella as there was no black umbrella around and I had to
go to school on a rainy day. So I took my mother's colorful chhatri happily and
went to the school. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
However, I couldn't remain that much happy-dappy as I got mocked by many of my
classmates who were proudly owning black umbrellas. I finally had to hide my
wet umbrella inside my schoolbag. In my mind, I promised to bring only a black
umbrella or come without an umbrella, but color one never-ever! Months or years
passed, one day I was enjoying a Grand Slam Tennis match on my TV and got upset
when the rain started in between the match. While praying for the rain to stop
asap, I suddenly discovered that the people sitting in the gallery have created
a sea of umbrellas. And by people, I mean men and women, boys and girls of
varied ages.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> where's the gentlemen's black umbrella? It's almost nowhere! All are so
colorful with plain, polka dots, floral,</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">
</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">and other kinds of design. Now I got a proof, the black-for-men is a
myth, and I started having colored umbrellas for myself since then. Nowadays I
see many men hardly bothers about color attachment (even many men happily wear
pink apparels), but for me at that time was overcoming a battle.</span></div>
<br />
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Long hair: <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
was happy with "short hair for decent men" theory because then I used
to think that it fits in a tropical country like India (That time I was not aware that
many men keep long hair in Mexico which is also a tropical country).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then <o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">after a long journey in my adulthood, I found my role models. And believe me, this time I debunked the theory fully in desi and sanskari way! Yes, have you seen any of the male characters in Ramayana and Mahabharata in boy's cut? You haven't, I betcha. Though I haven't kept my recent long hair following any sanskari path (actually I do not need to justify for my choices), that's a fair enough point to shut up the people who doubts my cultural values.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><br /></span></div>
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</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNQw4MCyO4f3waoJE078qyzZfUdr3amz7-ezugY4UmFsi5syNtv-ZJvuL_lbGezJppujpBa9wU6UjGvUj4MRT6hriOL9tZwiHLng1q6bOof0e6sqEergF-XhHMzYO_P5Gr6Lwu8gJyHs/s1600/Arjuna_n_Krishna.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="394" data-original-width="565" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijNQw4MCyO4f3waoJE078qyzZfUdr3amz7-ezugY4UmFsi5syNtv-ZJvuL_lbGezJppujpBa9wU6UjGvUj4MRT6hriOL9tZwiHLng1q6bOof0e6sqEergF-XhHMzYO_P5Gr6Lwu8gJyHs/s640/Arjuna_n_Krishna.png" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>Can you figure out why Krishna and Arjun had to boycott boy’s cut?
How did men’s haircut get stereotyped, think a bit. (Courtesy: B. R. Chopra’s
1988 TV series Mahabharat)</i>
<br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Skirt:<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">I
watched my father and other men in my family wearing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lungis</i> at home and started wondering why men can't wear skirts
which almost look like lungis or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mundus</i>
of Kerala people. As I was a child, I again unhappily noted down this in my
cultural notebook and gave up my wish of wearing a skirt. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">Then I came across </span><i style="font-size: 18.6667px;">The Black Island</i><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"> and found Tintin in skirt:</span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK0TexcM1DpZ9DdTsEFfHibj8VeSV88YDRjMpKq0zHewDLhymHjDUxtUHtik_Kb6Iol64t3wYG5db0ldxtArp3AL1rMuanjizFRCWjaKky5__LDIu7igGlKFrRj32my8t_BJSrfUkUF-Q/s1600/Tintin_Black_Island__tintin_com.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="457" data-original-width="590" height="494" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhK0TexcM1DpZ9DdTsEFfHibj8VeSV88YDRjMpKq0zHewDLhymHjDUxtUHtik_Kb6Iol64t3wYG5db0ldxtArp3AL1rMuanjizFRCWjaKky5__LDIu7igGlKFrRj32my8t_BJSrfUkUF-Q/s640/Tintin_Black_Island__tintin_com.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> <i>Tintin wearing skirt in the comic The Black
Island, courtesy: tintin.com</i><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" />
<!--[endif]--><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><o:p> </o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Then
I watched the movie </span><u style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="color: #1155cc;"><a href="https://www.imdb.com/title/tt0112573/"><span style="color: #1155cc;">Braveheart</span></a></span></u><span style="font-size: 14pt;">
and I got to realize Scotland is my country! And "Scotland trip" was
put on my bucket list. However, </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">the
Walk-Like-A-Woman event made it real in my own land and saved a huge amount of
money needed for the foreign trip.</span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-kmw7A-8rekIWsU2BmgU53fPJw_mQmSqVtFTN-uTnxDDfKz-qWK6m3f8TIDajJiURBqo0_tuTNbAZfv2gfxDd_MR90dx63o0NvBUjyBQfy5lbEIBy3Ur4Zhe5rakIkJXoq_tiLEpXy7U/s1600/IMG_20180526_221624.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-kmw7A-8rekIWsU2BmgU53fPJw_mQmSqVtFTN-uTnxDDfKz-qWK6m3f8TIDajJiURBqo0_tuTNbAZfv2gfxDd_MR90dx63o0NvBUjyBQfy5lbEIBy3Ur4Zhe5rakIkJXoq_tiLEpXy7U/s640/IMG_20180526_221624.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">These
are a few examples, where I started doubting the gender stereotyping
attachments in our social choices and couldn't firmly ask "Why not"
at my younger age. Now I understand that the gender binary setup is baseless
and is a sin of patriarchy and I'm ready to break any stereotype.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">However, it may not be that much easy to do for someone. The more some men walk
in “odd” type of clothings in public, the more other men gain a confidence to
do the same. Initially there could be a controversy and objections, but over a
time, this will become none’s business. Like </span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">once
a time, even wearing trousers and shirts used to be considered as
cross-dressing and many women even got arrested, penalized or shamed across the
world. Now after a long feminist walk, women in “men’s” clothing</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">has
become a normal matter. </span></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEifQu8OHYIbW74vkWWFhQxQMSZ9BMEwEKTcUMagb343WZWAAPqEZxfbdA49Mj29pFgz4G9Lx-9O03esfcEWsyaQtJ2Z2yvqq9k-_CvXLdni5Fem50FFfTUcuFp9RZfF0BOrHFoNkTtA/s1600/Evelyne_n_Catherine_Chicago_arrest.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="580" data-original-width="450" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMEifQu8OHYIbW74vkWWFhQxQMSZ9BMEwEKTcUMagb343WZWAAPqEZxfbdA49Mj29pFgz4G9Lx-9O03esfcEWsyaQtJ2Z2yvqq9k-_CvXLdni5Fem50FFfTUcuFp9RZfF0BOrHFoNkTtA/s640/Evelyne_n_Catherine_Chicago_arrest.jpg" width="496" /></a></div>
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<span lang="EN" style="font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14pt;"><i>Evelyn “Jackie” Bross and Catherine Barscz arrested for violating the
cross-dressing law at the Racine Ave police station, 1943, Chicago. (Courtesy:
Chicago History Museum)</i></span></span></div>
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;">
<br />
<br />
Though the walk-like-a-woman event made my day, I still wish that I can
exercise wearing any clothing of choice in my daily life too. Like many women
once wished to come up in trousers and shirts. But the difference is that women
explored that space while many men are still happy with their boring suits,
shirts, shorts, and trousers. To some men, it’s derogatory to
dress-like-a-woman, walk-like-a-woman, talk-like-a-woman, or cry-like-a-woman.
Of course, all these are stupid stereotypes set by the patriarchal society and
we need to challenge and break them into pieces. My men friends, are you
holding the hammer?</span><br />
<div>
<span lang="EN" style="font-family: "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0gVbmtRVPgcl2sl-kQOGqEHclSOfT7960F6N6l15shVLXW7XdMtR02QWPfhHHiOcD2O7nfZjFZ0HMQfkeMFy64ro0h0jONgWZGyUHW44UhA5MPWvCSWWe-LMzAf3E_S4Bi13ucJadof8/s1600/Break_stereotype.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="542" data-original-width="764" height="454" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0gVbmtRVPgcl2sl-kQOGqEHclSOfT7960F6N6l15shVLXW7XdMtR02QWPfhHHiOcD2O7nfZjFZ0HMQfkeMFy64ro0h0jONgWZGyUHW44UhA5MPWvCSWWe-LMzAf3E_S4Bi13ucJadof8/s640/Break_stereotype.png" width="640" /></a></div>
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-47250597652574593562017-06-29T00:05:00.002-07:002017-06-29T00:06:24.238-07:00#notinmyname <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU1UegbwmpwaneaRLZYGYT4V5BuOJ_tnIBI92z2R2YxxnaQnbATMBgCqL3Y3hj3gSNKN0hx8rtOcd9kqb9Wqows9L181QXxVunQ6Cqg2_Yvt-vst3dpoEyRmfUAlf_jTLh_jZgsQHQCF0/s1600/19466413_1550562944988959_7896780772211955737_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU1UegbwmpwaneaRLZYGYT4V5BuOJ_tnIBI92z2R2YxxnaQnbATMBgCqL3Y3hj3gSNKN0hx8rtOcd9kqb9Wqows9L181QXxVunQ6Cqg2_Yvt-vst3dpoEyRmfUAlf_jTLh_jZgsQHQCF0/s640/19466413_1550562944988959_7896780772211955737_o.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
Yesterday was a day of hope, solidarity and light in the times of despair and darkness. Yesterday, thousands of Indians came out on the streets in nineteen cities across the country and abroad to send out one, loud, clear message against communal violence and hatred. That we are not part of it, we do not support or endorse it and we will now have none of it.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1YlSwQCcoDQx8azTPZspOCKW9NI34GUSzvdLbCS6XX3jaDacidbr5GLokZu4oUDAcxrRJvB4deWiNfBBx7jbU1CZJacq16ElZgJpYbU7SDihgX0hFwCHT40SDqn_J4pGpQJ_enTJ0BnY/s1600/19453205_10154544046726034_6928535694773003865_o.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1032" data-original-width="774" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1YlSwQCcoDQx8azTPZspOCKW9NI34GUSzvdLbCS6XX3jaDacidbr5GLokZu4oUDAcxrRJvB4deWiNfBBx7jbU1CZJacq16ElZgJpYbU7SDihgX0hFwCHT40SDqn_J4pGpQJ_enTJ0BnY/s640/19453205_10154544046726034_6928535694773003865_o.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Thousands of men, women, children of all religions, castes, sexual orientations, ages, languages and regions came out on the streets of India for one cause. To say that no one should walk on the streets or travel in public transport or be in place of worship or in their own homes with the sense of fear looming over their heads.<br />
Yesterday, the words written by Shilpa Phadke, Sameera Khan and Shilpa Ranade , that, the complete reclamation of public spaces by women can happen only when the complete reclamation of public spaces can happen for ALL MINORITIES. Yes, yesterday, this understanding was as visceral as the blood flowing in my body. Yes, when a Muslim child is targetted and lynched by a mob in a train, when he lies on the platform with two hundred onlookers and no one comes to help, when a Muslim man is forced out of his own home and beaten to death for rumours over beef, when Muslim traders are murdered on the roads for transporting cattle, when such incidents are normalised and garner no response from the police, the politicians or the average Indian, then PUBLIC SPACES BECOME THE SCARIEST PLACE ON EARTH, FOR EVERYONE, INCLUDING WOMEN.<br />
Not just that, but recently, the demarcation between public and private has also been blurred by this mob. People are being pulled out of their homes and shot dead in front of their families. So then, which place is safe? Will I live with the constant fear that when I am asleep in my bed, I can be pulled out because of my religion/my caste/my gender/or the food I eat and be beaten to death?<br />
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Yesterday was a revolutionary day, when we sang, shouted slogans, held hands, put up placards, braved the torrential rains and came together in one voice to protest the fear that surrounds us all. We were in a public space, fighting for our right to live without fear, travel without fear, eat what we want to eat, without fear, wear what we want to wear, say what we want to say, and be who we want to be.<br />
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For a lot of people the fear is recent, but women have lived and operated with this fear for as long as we have been alive (or even before we are born). The fear of being raped, attacked, killed or beaten. For women the fear looms in public as well as private space, twenty four hours, everyday of the week. Yesterday, there were thousands of women supporting and fighting for the fundamental right to live for everyone, INCLUDING THEMSELVES. The malice and hatred that is being perpetrated through the mobs and the religious groups against individuals of religious minorities and dalits, women have faced and lived with that hatred and malice for their entire lives, sometimes protesting, sometimes supported by large groups, but mostly just dealing with it in whichever way they can on a day to day basis, or complying to the rules of patrairchy. I think women understand the fear and pain of the communities being targetted so well, because we are all part of the population that is hated. We are all a part of the population that has had to struggle to just exist.<br />
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Yesterday, women, who have faced this constant threat to their lives simply for being female, found an equivocal voice in the protest that said #notinmyname. Stop hating, stop beating, stop killing. ANYONE, including women.<br />
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The words of the book Why loiter? rang true yesterday on Carter Road, in the company of hundreds of men, women and children , that public space (and home) can be completely free of threat and fear for women only when public spaces (and home) is completely free of threat and fear for ALL.<br />
Yesterday I sang and shouted and protested for the right of live without fear, for everyone, including, and also for myself.<br />
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I hope that such protests, such anger, such hope and solidarity stays strong when the victims in question are religious, caste, language based minorities, the poor, the disabled, the LGBTQ or simply, women. </div>
Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-11955607226638184592017-06-08T01:02:00.000-07:002017-06-08T01:02:03.930-07:00How loitering changed my politics- Pooja Nair<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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On May 29<sup>th </sup>2017, WhyLoiter? celebrated three
years of taking tiny, slow but steady steps towards a new mindset. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The idea behind the WhyLoiter? movement is to assert a
woman’s freedom to occupy public spaces anywhere in the world, at anytime of
the day or night wearing anything she pleases. How do we assert this? By
simply, doing exactly that. Once a week, we gather at a public place and well,
loiter – purposelessly. (Except that we happen to be serving a larger purpose)<o:p></o:p></div>
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When I first heard of the idea, honestly, I did not feel
much for it. I believed ‘loitering’ to be a wasteful activity that men with
nothing better to do did. I didn’t really understand why I should fight for my
right to do something wasteful. However, I decided to participate because it
sounded like fun. (Today, I notice the irony that had earlier eluded me. While
I thought of ‘loitering’ as something wasteful for useless people, given a
choice, I <i>wanted</i> to do it sometimes.
I had never realised that the reason I never loitered is not that I did not
want to, but that I <i>did not have the </i>freedom
do it.)<o:p></o:p></div>
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Even though I did not initially buy into the cause entirely,
I never regretted participating because I got to meet intelligent, talented, meaningful
women from all walks of life. We sat late into the night at parks playing
Pictionary or hired cycles and cycled across town in the rain, getting soaked
to the skin, or played anatakshari on local trains, or took long walks in the
city after dark, after midnight even - talking about life, society,
relationships, attitudes, dreams, the arts, philosophies, dilemmas, epiphanies
and more or exchanging horror stories. <o:p></o:p></div>
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This basic freedom is something men take for granted. Men,
having lived their entire lives as males in society, have no clue what it is
like to have to factor in the possibility of being humiliated or physically
attacked EVERY time you step out into the public. What’s disturbing is that
women themselves are so deeply conditioned that we have no idea how much we
strain and restrict ourselves in order to be simply be allowed to exist, leave
alone flourish. A majority of our preoccupation is how to get from one place to
another safely and to not be blamed if we were to be attacked. <o:p></o:p></div>
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And yet, every second of the day, men feel entitled to
humiliate women, of all ages, dressed in anything, at any time, at any place. And
in the biggest ironies of all, the first tendency of both men and women in
society, when they hear the news of sexual assault is to wonder, “what was SHE
wearing?”, “ where was SHE?”, “what was SHE doing?”, and then concluding that
she was an idiot to not have seen it coming. It was her fault. They then tutor
their moms, sisters, daughters to be safe and not be stupid - out of love and
care, of course. And continue to wake up each day to news of gang-rapes and
gang-molestations.<o:p></o:p></div>
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All these restrictions and endless list of do’s and don’t
simply disallows a woman from having equal space in society. Plus ‘being safe’ comes
with zero guarantee of being safe and therefore means nothing. We need to break the pattern.<o:p></o:p></div>
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The only way to change the status quo, is to stop being
afraid. Instead of ‘being safe’ we need to ‘create safer environments’. A safer
environment is an environment with more women in it. We need to stop stopping women from stepping
out at night. The more the women on the streets, the safer the streets become
for women and for men. More so, for men because it is men who need to live with
the stigma of being molesters, rapists or murderers. We all need to understand
women have nothing to lose, except their lives, (if they are also killed). But
isn’t dying better than a life of slavery? There is no shame in being raped and
killed. There is however, no dignity in living life as a slave to fear. <o:p></o:p></div>
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Being a part of this movement has taught me to sift the
chauvinist persons from the crowd. It has given me new eyes with which to view
my life and my place in society, everyday. Now, when strangers stare me down
when I am at a crowded local train station, late at night, I don’t look away
sheepishly (as if to convey I am sorry for being out this late), I look him
straight in the eye quizzically. I silently remind myself that I have every
right to be there with the same ease that he does. When a neighbouring
pharmacist, making small talk with me, shared with me the titbit about his
village in Rajasthan, where they never allow women to step out alone, because
they respect their women a lot. I did not just smile dismissively. I looked him
in the eye and said politely, “but what about her freedoms? “azaadi mili toh
sammaan khatam ho jata hai?” (does having freedoms spell the end of your
respect worthiness?) He was shocked at my refusal to let him have his dig at
this man-like confident young girl. I didn’t care so much about what he thought
of me. I do know that I think very little of him. When a colleague joked that
his women juniors in office never brought him home-cooked food hilariously adding,
“what was the use of having women juniors?” Instead of laughing it off, I
managed to say, “Men can cook too, can’t they?” and changed the joke. <o:p></o:p></div>
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The event on the 29<sup>th</sup>, was one of 2 times that we
invited men for a late night walk. It was called the “walk like a woman”. The men had to dress as women. Again, to be
honest I found it strange. The deep conditioning in me, made me think I can’t
look at men in women’s clothes with a straight face. I wasn’t even sure, what
we were hoping to achieve except get a lot of attention. However, I had the time
and thankfully am blessed with an open mind, so decided to attend the event.
Within 3 minutes of being in the presence of these men, I realised how
superficial ‘clothing’ is. As we
loitered from Versova beach to Juhu chowpaty, I took turns having little
inconsequential one-on-one chats with each of these men wearing dresses,
spaghetti tops, tights and head scarfs etc, I discovered that there is
something very comforting and attractive about men comfortable in women’s
clothing. I know that these are the kind of men who understand and support the
need for feminism. There is nothing more attractive than that, in a man! <o:p></o:p></div>
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One of the conversations revealed that men too become
vulnerable to attacks when dressed in women’s clothing. Had the men dressed in
women’s clothing been alone, they would surely have been beaten-up! This means
that society would kill to maintain a clear difference between men and women.
Why? I wondered. <o:p></o:p></div>
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As I looked ahead of me, and saw these men and women, all
dressed in women’s clothing walking in many little groups, chitchatting with
one another, it dawned on me - I couldn’t tell from far which are the men and
which are the women. And THAT is
probably, the problem society has with this. If all the silhouettes appeared
the same from afar, how would you spot a woman? How would you know, who is
‘safe’ and who is ‘unsafe’? Who can
attack and who can be blamed? <o:p></o:p></div>
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<i><b>Pooja Nair is a theatre and film actor-blogger-advertising professional-avid loiterer.</b></i></div>
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-33475856993104417762017-06-02T01:38:00.000-07:002017-06-02T01:47:53.882-07:00When men walked with/like women- by many authors<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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Why loiter? the movement in Mumbai celebrated its third year of existence by organizing a loitering session where men and women loitered on the streets wearing what is traditionally 'Women's clothing'. This walk is special because its inclusive and also because it beautifully passes the litmus test of the Why loiter? movement, that of 'the right to take risks' and 'the right to have fun'. By putting their male bodies in women's clothing in an aggressively patriarchal and homophobic society, these men were definitely risking a lot. But, they didnt let this deter them from having lots of fun too. This was the third such walk and I can say the men are getting more experimental with their attire, the route was longer and we had a lot more interaction with people on the roads than the times earlier. It is important to know how men feel when they break notions of masculinity in such a visceral and vulnerable way. It is truly brave of them to make themselves accessible to anyone on the streets, wearing women's clothing, knowing fully well how that attacks a patriarchal man's sense of masculinity and can even result in violence. Here are some testimonies of the men that participated in the walk. Read on. </div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">FRIENDS,
LOITERERS AND COUNTRY(wo)MEN... LEND ME YOUR CLOTHES<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">This
had probably been the 6<sup>th </sup> or
7<sup>th</sup> time, that I walked on the roads, wearing a woman’s clothes. Not
that one is counting, but it only makes sense to keep an account of the silly
little victories one manages to accomplish in a world which is otherwise more
concerned with the real, pragmatic, solid, applaud-worthy victories.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Come
to think of it, it was a silly and outrageous idea some 3 years ago when I had
asked Neha Singh, my dear friend and founder member of Why loiter to be a part of their ‘loitering in public
places’ sessions. Since my gender automatically makes me ineligible for the
politics of the movement, it was only natural that I push for some more
silliness. Little did I know that she would agree. Little did I know that there
would be so many other men who would join me in this seemingly harmless but
gently persuasive social experiment.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Now
that one has done some 9 shows of our theatre piece LOITERING (where I come
onstage in a woman’s clothes), there is nothing new or uncomfortable about
cross dressing. But the stage, or an auditorium has its own comforting cocoon.
The real joy of actually taking the streets and engaging with members of public
space who are curious, amused, provoked, offended, dismissive amongst other
things is a different ball game altogether.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Right
from little street urchins to people in their cars. From traffic policemen to
the moonlighting transvestites. From coffee sellers on cycles to the people
driving down to a 5 star hotel lobby for their midnight dose of caffeine – the
range of an audience one gets here is simply mind boggling.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Invisible
theatre is here to stay and I am ecstatic that there are some steps here which
I can take fearlessly. I don’t need my producers approval of the financial
implications of the show, I don’t need to sell tickets online or otherwise, i
don’t need anybody’s dates or support. All I need is some women friends to lend
me their clothes and join me on the streets. Offers anyone?<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><b><br /></b></i></span>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><b>- Satchit Puranik, theatre maker, film maker, and has worked in five languages across different media. While India Today covered him in an article about ‘male feminists in India’, he is non committal about his real reasons for cross dressing and stepping out in public. Part fashion, part exhibitionism, part weather, part shock value – his essential reason is PURELY POLITICAL – to comfort the disturbed and to disturb the comfortable.</b></i></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Walk Like a Woman is organised to
draw awareness to the lack of safe public spaces for women. I participate not
only because I align with this objective, but also because it allows me to
satisfy a very personal desire- to express my femininity in public. For a
majority of my life I subscribe to normative ideas of being a man, with respect
to my clothing, behaviour etc. I would never walk out of my house wearing a
dress or a skirt or a saree or a blouse, and dare to walk down the street by
myself. I don't want to be harrassed, I don't want to be stared at, I don't
want to be beaten up. There is security in a group. When Walk Like a Woman is
over, and I have to change into my shorts and t shirt, there is a feeling of
emptiness. I stop myself from going to a restaurant in a dress. Is it because I
will be the center of attention? Is it because I haven't worn make up and
haven't shaved my face, legs, arms and armpit hair and I don't look woman
enough? <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The number of
pressures we put on women on a daily basis is entirely absurd- no leg hair, no
arm hair, no armpit hair, no upper lip hair, no nipple hair, no belly button
hair. If a woman comes to work with no kajal on, (I have been guilty of this
myself) she is asked if everything is ok and why she looks so tired/sick. I
remember in college being repulsed by the girls who hadn't started waxing yet,
and sniggering at them along with my friends. These friends were girls, by the
way, not boys.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">What all does a
biologically male person have to do to be considered woman enough? I am
reminded of Alok Vaid-Menon, a trans-feminine performance artist who identifies
as both genders. It is very hard to watch them and not say, 'that's just a man
in a dress.' Alok does not shave their(*) arm and armpit hair and did not shave
their beard for the show I watched. Their performance very cleverly complicates
the act of performing gender. In their poetry chapbook, Femme in Public, they
write:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">"Promise me
that you see the femme in my hairy body...</span></i><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">Promise me that you
understand that I wasn't just assigned male at birth, I'm assigned male every
day walking on the street</span></i><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">Promise me that you
understand that as a form of gender violence."</span></i><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I wish I had kept a
copy of Alok's book and given it to the men on the street who saw us and
exclaimed, "Ladki hai ya ladka?" and (this is my favourite),
"Zindagi mein kya takleef hai bhai?"<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Alok sums it up
beautifully:<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">"To the two
men who yelled 'that's a man in a dress! That's a man in a dress!' while
pointing at me on Sixth Avenue: </span></i><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">I wanted to turn around
and point back and shout:</span></i><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">'Hey everyone
that's an insecure man! That's an insecure man! That's an insecure man!' "</span></i><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">"I have spent
25 years trying to figure out where man begins and where man ends and what I
have discovered is that man begins only where I end. </span></i><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">Let me be more
explicit: Man begins when I end. Or rather: Man begins because I am ended.</span></i><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">Which goes to say
in order for man to exist I cannot. </span></i><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><i><span style="color: #222222;">Which goes to say
one day I got so confident in myself I was no longer a man.."</span></i><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="color: #222222;"><i><u>(*): The pronoun they/their
is used in place of he/she as a gender neutral pronoun.</u></i></span><span style="color: #222222;"><o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><b><i>- Vikrant is a performer and writer based in Bombay, whose work over the last few years has centered largely around gender and sexuality. </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I had never worn women's clothes in public. Of course my elder sisters dressed me up in their clothes for fun when I was a kid. But this was a first. The militant exhibitionist in me was excited but the 'man' in me who was raised in a patriarchal and gender in-equal set up was a little uncomfortable. I minded the tremendous attention, stares and hooting from crowd on the roads, but only for the first 10-15 minutes. Then came a strange sense of freedom and liberation from God knows where. It had me engaging with strangers. Some curious people asked and I was happy to explain the vision of 'Walk like a woman'. Some young boys on bikes hooted and whistled and I hooted back at them and they were amused. For the first time in my life I got a sense of what it must feel like for a woman to be eve-teased/hooted at. I was supported by a bunch of other ballsy men who cross-dressed in clothes borrowed by our female friends and we marched from Versova to Juhu along with hose women. We thus attempted to make a statement about gender-equality and dousing the shame attached to 'women's clothing' in general. I feel proud of myself for participating. And I feel grateful to Neha and her team for this wondrous initiative.</span></span><br />
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<b style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;"><i>-Himanshu Singh, juggles between being a fashion model, acting in the theatre and making photographs. In his free time he loves to clarify the widespread and ridiculous misconceptions about feminism.</i></b><br />
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">It cannot be contained by saying just an experience, for me it has beyond an experience. I first hand feeling of getting into the clothes of a women itself was difficult. But while it took some time to sync in I got comfortable when I meet other male into the same attire. Walking through and feeding on live reaction from passerby was little awkward , but all settled down in few minutes. Then it really did not matter who is feeling what, infact the feeling was how many are actually turning back to checkout what is happening. Overall it was a moment of truth for me and will always remain one of the special event of my life.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: #222222; font-family: arial, helvetica, sans-serif;">-<i style="font-weight: bold;">Devashish Nandy, father, husband, media person, tennis player and 'experi-mental'</i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Apart from Satchit, Vikrant, Himanshu and Devashish, we had Dhruv Lohumi, Sumeet Thakur, Shawn Lewis, Saurabh, Manoj Gopalakrishna and Arpit Singh who participated in the walk. Watch out for their reflections in the next post. </span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #222222;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">As the city, state, nation and the world gets intensely skewed in terms of gender violence, ignorance, pitting men against women and even refusing to acknowledge the entire spectrum of genders that exist, it becomes more and more relevant to include all genders in the walk towards women empowerment and gender equality. Thank you, all of you, for being the torchbearers of not just support for women, but also for celebrating gender, sexuality and beauty in all its vivid forms. </span></span></div>
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-71472426309218622922017-05-27T16:09:00.001-07:002017-05-27T16:09:55.606-07:0010 ways how Indian families fail their daughters<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I am not even going to get into female feoticide, infanticide, honour killing or child marriage, because that may seem something that the 'others' do. To tell you the truth, I have first hand information of these too, from friends, colleagues, cousins and more.<br />
But for now lets stick to the middle class and the rich families that do not indulge in any of these 'heinous crimes against women' that they wouldnt even think of. They also give their daughters nutritious food, an education, love, care and protection. So then how do Indian families fail their daughters? How do they slowly condition their daughters to dumb down, think less, speak less, have fewer ideas, ambitions, desires and the quest to live out their entire potential?<br />
They do it everyday.<br />
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1. When they stop their daughters to go swimming because they would tan and then look 'ugly' or if they go swimming they would have to wear swimming costumes that reveal the shape of their body and they would rather not have people see the shape of their daughter's body than let her have the pleasure of a swim.<br />
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2. They do it when they encourage their daughters to aspire to be the next 'Aishwarya Rai' or 'Priyanka Chopra' or 'Miss Universe' instead of asking them to aspire to be the next Kalpana Chawla or the next Saina Nehwal.<br />
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3. They do it when they buy princess books and princess bags and princess tiffin boxes and princess dresses and take them to malls where there are 'princess makeovers' happening and allow their daughters to get that makeover done and then click photos and put them on facebook with tags that say 'my cutie princess'.<br />
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4. They do it when they bar their daughters from sports and extra curricular activities because some good-for-nothing neighbour wrote on their wall 'I love you 'daughter's name'. Or because some aunty ji came home and said that everyone is saying that their daughter is 'becoming really fast'.<br />
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5. They do it when they ask their daughter to keep fasts on Mondays to get a 'handsome husband' like Shiv ji (yes, my friends did that in school)<br />
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6. When they tell their daughters to hush-up about the uncle or neighbour or cousin who touched them inappropriately in a wedding function.<br />
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7. When they are so surprised that their daughter's boyfriend wants to marry her and doesnt have any demands! They think their daughter is so lucky that this person wants only her and not money or a car along.<br />
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8. When after marriage, the family serves the daughter's husband like he is God and ask her to 'let go' of her aspirations and dreams if it in any way hampers her 'successful married life'.<br />
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9. When they make sure to advice the girl time and again that she should hail her husband in high regard, never get angry with him, serve him food before daring to serve food for herself and always put his needs above hers, never get more successful than him and basically 'never hurt his ego because it may be fragile'.<br />
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10. When they start enquiring about when their married daughter is planning to have a baby, without bothering to ask her if she even wants one at all.<br />
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If you see an Indian woman living out her entire potential, most likely she is doing it inspite of her family, not because of it. <br />
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<i>P.S. - the thoughts are purely personal and not based on any data or survey. </i><br />
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-541940152400419352017-04-28T06:19:00.001-07:002017-04-28T06:19:18.237-07:00Breaking the "Rich kids loiter freely" myth- Neha Singh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I was invited by a very rich, international, prestigious, with-it school to conduct a session on gender and public spaces with their seventh grade students this week. This school has been very active in sensitizing and working with their students on gender related issues and I gladly accepted the invitation.<br />
Now, a lot of criticism that Why loiter? faces is usually "But what abt the poor girls? What are you doing for them? Rich and middle class women loiter all the time, they are privileged. What is the point of you middle class, educated women loitering? You should "help" the poor women loiter, because those poor women are the ones that never loiter. Rich kids dont need your activism, You should start Why loiter? in villages because THAT'S where it is really needed. "<br />
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NOT TRUE. Rich, middle class, educated, super educated, south Mumbai, so-called privileged women/girls DO NOT/CANNOT loiter. Public spaces are considered as UNSAFE by them as they are by anyone else.<br />
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Case in point, the extra ordinarily rich students of this extra-ordinarily rich school.<br />
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I designed an activity where I marked different public and private spaces in their library through the use of simple placards taped on walls. The spaces I marked were as follows<br />
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HOME<br />
GATED NEIGHBOURHOOD<br />
COFFEE SHOP<br />
MALL<br />
SCHOOL<br />
BMC PARK<br />
CHAI TAPRI<br />
PUBLIC TOILET<br />
DHABA<br />
SLUM<br />
POLICE STATION<br />
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First I asked the boys to do the exercise. I asked the boys to roam around in these spaces and tell me how unsafe/uncomfortable they felt on a scale of 0 to 10. I kept changing the time of day. Sometimes it was morning, sometimes, afternoon and sometimes post midnight.<br />
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Spaces like home, nieghbourhood, mall and coffee shop got an average score of 0 or 1 from the boys. As the spaces became more and more 'public', and as the time of day turned to night, their scores had a gradual progression to 3-4-5. Public toilets at night time scored the highest with a boy scoring his level of fear and discomfort as 10.<br />
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Most of the boys said that the reason that they would be scared after dark in spaces like dhaba, chai tapri and BMC park is because "there would be people of DIFFERENT IDENTITIES" and that there was a fear of being "KIDNAPPED".<br />
Some boys said that they had never been to a dhaba or a chai tapri so they dont know how they would feel if they were there.<br />
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"Fair enough!", I said to them. "Now sit down and lets see the girls take on this exercise."<br />
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While planning this exercise for a group of 12-13 year old students studying in a high-end institution, I wasnt sure the girls and boys would have different scores, but I still wanted it to be a boys-only and a girls-only exercise.<br />
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The girls entered the space. They were given the same instructions.<br />
By the time the girls finished the exercise, I wanted to cry.<br />
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NONE of the girls gave a score of zero for ANY space, at any time of the day. NOT EVEN HOME.<br />
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Their scores hovered around 4 and 5 in so-called safe spaces like gated neighbourhood, malls, coffee shops and school and shot up to 8 and 9 in spaces like chai tapri, slum, BMC park and dhaba.<br />
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Their reasons were also more complex and articulate.<br />
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When one girl gave a score of '3' for home in the afternoon, I asked her why. She said "it depends, if there are relatives and servants around then I feel unsafe, but if its only immediate family then maybe zero."<br />
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When two girls gave a score of '2' to school at 10 a.m, the reason they gave was "because there are security gaurds and cleaners and people we dont know, so no space is completely safe."<br />
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When a girl said '8' for feeling unsafe in her OWN GATED NEIGHBOURHOOD at 7 p.m and I asked her why, she said "because there are gaurds and neighbours."<br />
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The same reasons for feeling unsafe at malls, coffee shops too. And none of the girls said that they would feel unsafe because of a fear of being kidnapped! 'Sexual abuse' was the most pertinent fear.<br />
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After the exercise, we all realised that even 7th grade girls who are extremely 'privileged' live in a state of constant fear EVEN AT HOME AND SCHOOL and their entire life experiences and personalities are based on the foundation of this fear.<br />
For the boys it was sort of an eye opener, and I hope they would be more sensitive towards their classmates.<br />
<br />
I told them about Why loiter? and reclamation of public spaces and why its important to not operate on the fear-principle but exercise our right to taking risks and enriching our life experiences through interactions that are not based on prejudice but an openness to engage and learn.<br />
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But I also came out of the session with a greater resolve to loiter INSPITE of being middle class- educated- privileged etc. etc. etc, because there is NO GREATER MYTH than the one that says "RICH KIDS LOITER FREELY AND DO NOT NEED MY ACTIVISM".<br />
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-1482067217950190992017-03-09T00:49:00.004-08:002017-03-09T00:49:43.870-08:00When Kamathipura showed me the mirror- Neha Singh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last night, to celebrate International Women's Day and to commemorate the many, many struggles and fights women have had to go through to get us some of the most basic rights, we decided to go to Kamathipura to loiter.<br />
For those who arent aware, Kamathipura is the (in) famous "red light district" of Bombay, or the place where a majority of sex workers live and carry out their daily work.<br />
The idea seemed simple and innocent. We planned to meet at 8.00 p.m at Merwan's bakery at Grant Road East, and then start walking towards Kamathipura, which is about a kilometre or two away from the bakery. We were ten of us, eight women and two men. Some of us were friends already, some of us meeting each other for the first time, some just acquaintances who wanted to be part of the session.<br />
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We began walking and slowly the landscape changed. From more well lit, families infested lanes and gullies, the streets became darker and narrower, with mostly men standing, working or walking around us. A few men walked by extremely dangerously, brushing their bodies against mine. But we were a group of ten and we were determined to visit this much-talked-about place called 'Kamathipura'.<br />
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Prior to our visit their had been discussions about buying red roses and handing them out to the sex workers, but the options were open to those that wanted to do it and others who didnt. I personally didnt feel I wanted to hand out red roses to sex workers, so I chose not to. Some of us bought chocolates instead.<br />
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Slowly, the lanes became narrower and stuffy. There emerged small and gaudily lit old cinema halls that were playing Bollywood films from the eighties and ninetees. We seemed a bit lost, not having managed to reach our destination yet. We checked google maps for Kamathipura while some of us just asked the men working on the streets for it. Somehow, it took a lot more effort to ask, "Bhaiyya, kamathipura kahaan hai?" than the amount of effort it would have taken to ask for any other destination in the city. We subconsciously even judged the men who did know where Kamathipura was.<br />
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Finally, I saw a sign that said 'Kamathipura, Lane 3' on an inconspicuous small blue board. My smartphone carrying self immediately clicked a photo. It would definitely bring a lot of 'likes' on facebook. We were finally in Kamathipura. Another discussion ensued, about whether we should divide ourselves into smaller groups and just roam around and meet at a fixed point at a given time, or stick together. The majority voted for sticking together. So we did.<br />
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The place was a let down for us since it looked so 'normal', it didnt seem at all like the red light districts I had seen in films, I couldnt hear any titillating music, or spot vendors of gajras, paan and itar. No drunken men eyeing women, no pimps looking evil, no little children running around getting business for their unfortunate mothers. In fact, I couldnt spot a single sex worker! Then one of the loiterers whispered in my ears to look above. And thats when I saw the three to four storeyed dilapidated buildings with tiny, iron barred windows. And from behind those windows and balconies, women staring out on the streets.<br />
I felt excited. I stared at them, they stared at me. It was getting real now.<br />
We walked some more and I saw a bunch of women dressed in bright saris sitting on the steps of closed shops. They sat there waiting to get some work. I began talking with them. Some of us joined me. We asked them their names, where they came from, where they lived and how business is these days. They didnt mind talking to us. They told us their names, where they came from, how business was and where they lived. Some of us gave them chocolates to take home to their children. They accepted it gracefully and smiled at us. Some of the men that were inhabiting the streets gathered around us, wondering what we were doing and why we were talking to the women.<br />
The crowd around us was growing and we kept talking to the women. And they were kind enough to entertain our questions and attempts at small talk.<br />
Some of us bought some more chocolates and gave them to other women that thronged the streets.<br />
To some of the women I said , "Aapko pata hai aaj antarrashtriya mahila divas hai?', they were clueless and laughed when one of us said, 'Aaj humara din hai, aapka bhi aur mera bhi'. They told us how demonetisation had hit their business severely. They told us, 'jab aadmi kaam karega tabhi toh yahaan aayega, jab aadmi kaam hi nahi karega, paisa nahi kamaayega toh yahaan kaise aayega?'.<br />
As the crowd of men and women around us grew bigger, we decided to begin walking to the end of the street. It was around 10.00 p.m.<br />
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The crowd dissipated. We spotted a small casino. A tiny space with some screens and numbers that you needed to press to try your luck. I was curious. I entered the casino and saw a lot of men inside, playing. But they werent scary. They were just playing. The man at the counter asked me to give him some money for the entry charge and try my luck, but I didnt go ahead. I just saw for a while and then came out.<br />
We walked some more. We spotted a video parlour that was playing films. We saw posters of old Bollywood films but some of us thought that that was probably a guise for the pornographic films that actually play inside. There were also some bars and eateries on the way that looked inviting, but we decided to walk to the end of the street. No untoward incident happened and we all felt very safe. We spotted a small restaurant at the end of the lane and decided to eat a small dinner, sitting on the small plastic stools outside the restaurant. We ordered nalli niharis, noodles, chicken tikka, caramel custard and some cold drinks. We sat and chatted and laughed and had a good time. And then slowly, one by one, we called it a night and went home.<br />
Overall, it seemed like a good session. We had clicked photos which I shared on the Why loiter? group. We had met new people. Visited a new area.<br />
But something didnt feel right. After I reached home, I began to question myself.<br />
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Why did we go to Kamathipura to loiter?<br />
Why did I have a notion in my head about a red light area?<br />
Why did I stop and talk to the women when I was clearly disrupting their work?<br />
Why did I click a photo of the board that said 'Kamathipura Lane 3'?<br />
Why did I ask those women if they knew today was International Women's Day?<br />
Why did I subconsciously judge the men that told us the exact directions to Kamathipura?<br />
Why do I remember what colour saris the women wore, or the fact that a lot of them were from Bangladesh, that they wore big nosepins and had put on bright lipstick?<br />
What purpose did it serve us or them for us to loiter there?<br />
Why did it not feel satisfying, joyous or good as it does after every loitering session?<br />
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Why do I feel that I am never going to choose Kamathipura as a space to loiter in again?<br />
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I realise now that I was loitering in Kamathipura with an extreme (although covered under layers of articulation) sense of middle-class-good-girl-entitlement. That reflected in all my actions and interactions in that space.<br />
I realise that what for us was a 'unique experience' was maybe nothing more than a hindrance in someone's daily work.<br />
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I realise that we need to have discussions and rethink about what these loitering sessions mean to us.<br />
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The critics of Why loiter? often dismiss our movement as a 'frivolous', 'elitist' exercise and uptill now I have felt that none of our sessions fit the bill of being frivolous or elitist. But for last night's session, I have no defence. It did feel a bit 'frivolous' and 'elitist' simply because I dont think it managed to do what other sessions do. That is, bring about a change in the women loitering and in those that watch us walking. Last night, we were more like a bunch of tourists without any deeper engagement or reflections of the space we were in.<br />
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I am happy that this happened. It will help us rethink and revisit our reasons for loitering with a greater fervor than ever before.<br />
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-68862048257759648552017-02-05T01:43:00.000-08:002017-02-05T01:43:04.068-08:00The importance of being repetetive<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Why loiter? the movement, is now in its third year of existence and the one thing (among many other things) that I have learnt from doing it for more than two years, repeatedly, is the importance of repetition.<br />
Not to take away from events and mass protests or their importance in making people get up and take notice, expedite the judicial process or just to vent anger and frustration over incidents of gender based violence. Such large scale protests, events and walks are essential to keep reminding those in power that we care and we are not happy.<br />
The sustainability of Why loiter?, however, is a miracle in this fast paced lives of ours. When Devina and I first took our tiny step of rebellion on a Sunday morning in May, 2014, we had absolutely no idea that we were onto something much bigger than ourselves or our ideas. We didnt even do it for something bigger, one day. We went to a park with our mats and our music, for just that pleasure of being in a park, on a Sunday morning, exercising our right to be there, and gleefully taking selfies, like any other regular person. What was irregular was, however, our politics. What was unique was, that we knew that our bodies on the grass that morning meant a lot more than our bodies on the grass that morning.<br />
We continued loitering not because it was going to become bigger and we were going to be featured in newspapers and TV shows and we were going to become famous , but just because it was so much fun. We continued loitering because it came from a sense of pleasure, fun, being proactive and with a very political vision.<br />
I cannot emphasize enough the value of sustainability, in not just changing the world, normalising things, but changing yourself, really. Doing something over a sustained period of time helps you discover your own fears, your own politics and your experiences lead to a braver, more articulate and assured individual. Mass protests that last a few hours dont do that.<br />
A lot of women call me after incidents of sexual violence and ask me to participate in protests they are organising and my question to them, always is, yes sure, but do you have a plan for after that?<br />
A lot of people feel bogged down by the largeness of the issue of gender inequality and feel that just a bunch of women loitering wont solve anything. I agree. But we didnt start loitering to change the world, we started loitering to change ourselves and to have fun. and look what all has happened in the last two and a half years.<br />
There are loitering groups coming up in several cities across India, and Pakistan. There are people writing about it, making films, plays, talks, lectures, workshops, and more, across the world. Students are writing papers, making presentations and writing PhDs about it. The authors of the book, the people from the various chapters in cities, the people who do the play 'Loitering' have all become friends.<br />
But most importantly, women are getting inspired to just loiter, to just have fun, and have stopped taking 'no' for an answer from families and guardians. This is a lot more than we could have ever imagined our first little loitering steps would do.<br />
Sustainability, repetition, consistency has become of a much greater value to me than ever before, and is the key to normalizing a gender equal world.<br />
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https://www.newsdeeply.com/womenandgirls/women-india-pakistan-unite-right-loiter/<br />
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http://www.bbc.com/news/world-asia-38188288<br />
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-56702240422063985542016-10-16T23:11:00.001-07:002016-10-20T23:09:30.598-07:00'Any room available for single ladies?'- memoirs of Neetole (loiterer) Mitra<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXtEB1e20aEQJW1O-jEyAazjPpPhqAbifQ46yVxFKQ_MSIj6dhZXWloDExqVkikB0WeAqS0AkdO1_vz8NAk6IcjerBSR8Cwxi9TwCBFVwf8MXKK8bjQoqbj6roH5i_LkiHbkFjyXi3X9Y/s1600/IMG_20161004_132608.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXtEB1e20aEQJW1O-jEyAazjPpPhqAbifQ46yVxFKQ_MSIj6dhZXWloDExqVkikB0WeAqS0AkdO1_vz8NAk6IcjerBSR8Cwxi9TwCBFVwf8MXKK8bjQoqbj6roH5i_LkiHbkFjyXi3X9Y/s640/IMG_20161004_132608.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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I’ve been loitering my entire life. Just loafing in some corner, ambling away time in road side tea stalls and taking indefinite long walks to nowhere in particular. Now, I’ve qualified to solo travelling, drifting from place to place without purpose. That’s me.<br />
I travel unplanned, without a set route or list of destinations that must be covered. I don’t journey for beautiful sights alone, neither for historical monuments. Instead, I reach and go where the place takes me. No prior planning and very little budget.<br />
But this isn’t really the Indian way of life. And it’s definitely not our way of travel either. Most destinations don’t expect a solo traveller to appear with a backpack and an uncertainty about the number of days they’ll stay and about what they are going to do in the given destination. Even more so when this unplanned traveller is a woman. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_uXgwk-SnCO3f6uVi1u8qCFeu38F2S_IMh9KtcwjemS9XIoCvBxoyvZJqYWlYMcYtucIfFZKjQz0hn60pMM95RXG2qfJAG9rytFIkes9csFsQSUruu0Hv43KfE9LRQmR1VgZIOejYl2Y/s1600/14031683_1854200458136352_1569289356_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_uXgwk-SnCO3f6uVi1u8qCFeu38F2S_IMh9KtcwjemS9XIoCvBxoyvZJqYWlYMcYtucIfFZKjQz0hn60pMM95RXG2qfJAG9rytFIkes9csFsQSUruu0Hv43KfE9LRQmR1VgZIOejYl2Y/s640/14031683_1854200458136352_1569289356_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AT THE TIP OF INDIA, LOOKING OUT AT THE INDIAN OCEAN IN KANYAKUMARI</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A DINNER OF BEEF CHILLY AND PORONTA AT EDAVA, KERALA</td></tr>
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The first thing I heard even when I was standing on the station stairs at Kanyakumari, is – “Yahan single ladies ko room rent nahi deta hai.” Almost a proud utterance. As though it was the decidedly moral thing to do. What was I to do now? The solo traveller looking for a very cheap room, standing there with an increasingly heavy backpack and two days of craving for a shower? Welcome to solo female travel in India.<br />
Our country expects its travellers to be planned. What to do, where to stay, where to eat and when to leave. These details must be at the tip of your fingers. Else, you are a probable source of nuisance and are bound to make people around you suspicious. Here, we reserve the right to loitering primarily for local males. Prowling their territory I guess.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismkrJsSEoILIdPGk6jk6zOH3pDFtw35JGZ2xRFg4GsJHHUdTZseBUj7w7rPH7V3Hhxw36iFJX4BIl5YHSbE68Q1O40uKfW_cQvjuA3eFTCj5bXop-UFluX7OTZstYEjHxgIFIpySE3eg/s1600/IMG_20160830_110628.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEismkrJsSEoILIdPGk6jk6zOH3pDFtw35JGZ2xRFg4GsJHHUdTZseBUj7w7rPH7V3Hhxw36iFJX4BIl5YHSbE68Q1O40uKfW_cQvjuA3eFTCj5bXop-UFluX7OTZstYEjHxgIFIpySE3eg/s640/IMG_20160830_110628.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">INDULGING IN SOME SELF LOVE</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCQUwdsGKgWqYeF_WkqKzlAGrs2c58Bcv4MTnd4QGqsT19p9sQdUYCQShxuZI9O8PrBehh5hHY2VpVhu8yjsXHn7kKuMmj9tE969NG3RiMHe8pH9zGMTDMRh6ENDgTWVJVNgg-XeT1Jck/s1600/14033585_1216027421801258_1080084677_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCQUwdsGKgWqYeF_WkqKzlAGrs2c58Bcv4MTnd4QGqsT19p9sQdUYCQShxuZI9O8PrBehh5hHY2VpVhu8yjsXHn7kKuMmj9tE969NG3RiMHe8pH9zGMTDMRh6ENDgTWVJVNgg-XeT1Jck/s640/14033585_1216027421801258_1080084677_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">AT THE NIZAMMUDDIN RAILWAY STATION, NEW DELHI, EARLY IN THE MORNING</td></tr>
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<span style="text-align: left;">Of course all voyages start at home. Mine started when I was in the last year of school. It was sort of a late realization that the ‘safety of the daughter’ was an alibi that stopped me from venturing beyond my gully or beyond the premises of my school, alone. It was like the fear of shakchunni (Bengali version of chudail). Don’t go out at night, the shakchunni will get you. </span></div>
Somewhere during the last year of school, I had a tiff with my mother. I told her I will take the public bus back home instead of the school bus. I should get a hang of how the roads work. College starts soon, right? She didn’t speak to me for a couple of months after that. This made me really curious, like the road was a horror story and I needed to get to the bottom of this.<br />
Since then I’ve been going vagabond a few extra hours every year and now I’m proud to say, I full time at it. Over the last one decade of loitering in Delhi and elsewhere, I’ve walked many indiscreet roads and have loitered at both godly and ungodly hours and almost always I have come across friendly help in case I have lost my way.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">OUTSIDE THE CHENNAI CENTRAL RAILWAY STATION, GRABBING SOMETHING TO EAT, HOPING THE TRAIN WON'T LEAVE</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A TWENTY RUPEE DINNER</td></tr>
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But it sure is a lonely affair because the only possible source of exchange stays limited to men as they are more easily available. It’s mighty difficult to find unaccompanied women on the streets that you can stop and talk to for a couple of minutes.<br />
In Calicut, I see men standing about cigarette shops having a post lunch cigarette, some simply picking out with a toothpick. I see there’s always a walk in section to most restaurants where working men come in to eat at noon or maybe just stop for a cup of tea in the midst of the day’s errands. When I enter, I’m politely pointed to the family section – a more closed set up on the first floor, with waiting time, because it’s proper. There you get a table all to yourself. No one else comes and joins. The ways we limit casual interactions for the fairer sex.<br />
I’m an outsider in this walk in section at Paragon restaurant as I’m hogging on a plate of very flavorful biriyani. Almost everyone turns to look at me. Some continue to stare. I feel relieved when I see one more girl as I go to wash my hand. But she’s with a male friend.<br />
Yet, it’s not such a problem if a woman goes exploring. Mostly people are just shocked at the odds of a woman walking down the road. But beyond that mostly they want to help out. I took a walk from Varkala’s north cliff and found myself somewhere near Kollam at about 10.30 pm. Half an hour’s failed attempt later, I find myself resting my legs as an old man hails down an auto for me.<br />
However, there is a clear lack of understanding and sympathy towards the need to ‘travel’, and a woman making a firsthand claim to public spaces is almost unheard of in India.<br />
While staying in a Thallassery PWD rest house, I have to deal with the chetta who is watch man there. I have to pay him the rent, and make an entry in the register. He’s visibly annoyed with me. He’s caught that I don’t understand Malayalam. In fact all the Malayalam I know is Malayalam illa. So he puts on a frown on his face and starts mumbling. Angry mumblings; which gives me the impression that he is insulting me. Asking me questions and then getting even more annoyed when he has to translate to Hindi or English. He calms down only after I ask looking him squarely in the eyes – What chetta? You are not happy that I’ve come to stay here? You are angry that I’m travelling alone?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj60zrUctjimXpqFt9Oez2gNjGs7msm41RzSjfp8Zs8nDa_YpoODknkRyfNaOk1FEQwvScJFpLhYrK0fZS9WUqeDD8XYBIDYArtBY86jZacje1olAxUiYFs3wF6TEtv3k9uPhZjxLQOakU/s1600/14128799_1003943233047661_353229729_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj60zrUctjimXpqFt9Oez2gNjGs7msm41RzSjfp8Zs8nDa_YpoODknkRyfNaOk1FEQwvScJFpLhYrK0fZS9WUqeDD8XYBIDYArtBY86jZacje1olAxUiYFs3wF6TEtv3k9uPhZjxLQOakU/s640/14128799_1003943233047661_353229729_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">THIRUVALLUVAR STATUE</td></tr>
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Then he gets over friendly, and spends some part of the evening reeking of alcohol and whistling in the corridors. I am the only occupant of the rest house. He’s my guard.<br />
Overlooking these slight set-backs that crop up once in a while, I have to say that I will do this a thousand times over. This is what I want to do. This is the only thing that makes me feel happy and alive. To land in a random station and then get lost in random lanes, and enjoy the rhythm of life somewhere I’ve never been before.<br />
In Kerala I made many friends, wonderful people I would have never known had I not loitered. I ate at their tables, they tried to teach me Malayalam while I earnestly tried to learn. I helped myself paint a real picture of a place that was so far only a vague pop –culture and book accumulated hotchpoch. I explored its cities, beaches and hills and eventually realized that mostly the roads are welcoming. It can give you a hard time yes, but if you can keep a straight face and hold your own, then happy loitering to you my friend. I shall look out for you.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmoLGdSZj9ubMNYuYCDVYQomc275MFFoPEjBccDs_JOKX5q4WVIaOntvqMrCyAhFbTEuuwrhPNkOVdNFuz5-qKsH4E8TW3Y_bR1QQVhW6otS8XowDa7IAtwjjBYIWwESP_wLv2YzDW-M/s1600/14334681_1176826922377464_1881169272_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigmoLGdSZj9ubMNYuYCDVYQomc275MFFoPEjBccDs_JOKX5q4WVIaOntvqMrCyAhFbTEuuwrhPNkOVdNFuz5-qKsH4E8TW3Y_bR1QQVhW6otS8XowDa7IAtwjjBYIWwESP_wLv2YzDW-M/s640/14334681_1176826922377464_1881169272_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A GLIMPSE OF PULIKALI ON THE STREETS OF COCHIN, THE PERFECT PLACE TO CATCH ONAM CELEBRATIONS.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2B7NRQoR_PmZNH_SkHz2QKxbt_iXTu8Zqcz3p6TOGkcTX7levCLjui3R-NzsjXbe_HAIe3QeaJuAZj-Z1YKhdf4VmbY4opqTNnVgZY5Wh0Dn8hAIx4enK2dnt8O-Al3V4UAsp4mA7uPQ/s1600/14717383_1071189359660865_8266263687614955520_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2B7NRQoR_PmZNH_SkHz2QKxbt_iXTu8Zqcz3p6TOGkcTX7levCLjui3R-NzsjXbe_HAIe3QeaJuAZj-Z1YKhdf4VmbY4opqTNnVgZY5Wh0Dn8hAIx4enK2dnt8O-Al3V4UAsp4mA7uPQ/s640/14717383_1071189359660865_8266263687614955520_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PRETTY SIGHTS ARE COMMONPLACE IN KERALA. DURING A WALK IN BEKAL</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhetLAu5xCPK2VJHY2cyaUUMPe1c5d5gY19OD1GlXjhp-3ADgye555FbD9flZD9O4-GxV7FF3F3Qrh88ZwYPmbf1N_MarZXBNcLJGeHYLFofBnEV2smRf9nHEdU6eVlMkwote0RHlUz5UA/s1600/14063370_288957474812533_2039298851_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhetLAu5xCPK2VJHY2cyaUUMPe1c5d5gY19OD1GlXjhp-3ADgye555FbD9flZD9O4-GxV7FF3F3Qrh88ZwYPmbf1N_MarZXBNcLJGeHYLFofBnEV2smRf9nHEdU6eVlMkwote0RHlUz5UA/s640/14063370_288957474812533_2039298851_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">BRUISED FEET, HAPPY SOUL</td></tr>
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<b><i>Neetole Mitra is a solo budget backpacker, writer and ardent instagramer. You can visit her at neetolemitra.com.</i></b></h3>
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-15036317468068906282016-06-26T00:13:00.003-07:002016-06-26T00:21:46.978-07:00Let's start a revolution...but how?- Neha Singh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Last Saturday we had a special show of our play 'Loitering' directed by Satchit Puranik, which is based on the ideas of the book 'Why loiter?' and the movement 'Why loiter?' for a group of 35 odd seventeen year old students from an international school.<br />
This bright and articulate group is attending a workshop on 'Gender and photography' and as part of that their teacher has exposed them to the book, the movement and the play. I personally think its a brilliant idea and wish I had teachers when I was growing up who would do the same. Expose me to ideas so real and so idealistic, without having to sit in a dreary classroom and read from boring books. Hats off to such projects and such endeavours by young teachers.<br />
After the show we had a question and answer session with the students which was supposed to last half an hour but lasted for almost two hours. They had several questions about the movement, particularly.<br />
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Most of these questions were something like this<br />
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<b><i>'How do we extend this to poor women?'</i></b><br />
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<b><i>'Poor women don't have time to loiter, so what about them?'</i></b><br />
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<b><i>'How do you plan to expand this movement?'</i></b><br />
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<b><i>'Do you think your movement will have any impact on the billions of women of India?'</i></b><br />
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<b><i>'How do you plan to reach out to the masses?'</i></b><br />
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<b><i>'How does a few upper class women loitering change anything?'</i></b><br />
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<b><i>'How does loitering make any difference in the statistics on crime against women in India?'</i></b><br />
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<b><i>'What about our house maids?'</i></b><br />
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<b><i>'You think what you have achieved in 2 years is good enough?'</i></b><br />
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<b><i>'Do you have a plan in place to expand your movement?'</i></b><br />
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<b><i>'How does you loitering make any difference in the mindsets of people on the roads?'</i></b><br />
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<b>'<i>Why is a play about why loiter? directed by a man?'</i></b><br />
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<i><b>'Don't you think limiting the movement to you and people you know is selfish?'</b></i><br />
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<i>'<b>Don't you think loitering is a privilege restricted to the middle and upper middle and the rich?'</b></i><br />
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<i><b>'How is your movement going to bring about a positive change in the country?'</b></i><br />
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<i><b>'You think what you do changes the mindset of men?'</b></i><br />
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At first I was defensive and felt they were attacking what I do so passionately, and being insensitive. But as the questions kept coming and I realised they were all basically asking the same thing, 'how is what you do important if it cannot change the world/the society/the country?'<br />
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I tried to quickly go back to when I was seventeen years old and how did I think then. And my own seventeen year old self told me that I should be more tolerant and accepting of the questions because even my seventeen year old self thought that something that doesn't change the world or at least a few billion people isn't worth it, something that seems small and slow is to be dismissed and an individual, internal change is so blase that it is not even worth a mention, not even to myself! My seventeen year old self also had vague and absurd notions about the 'poor' people, that they only work work work, their lives are so miserable, they don't have a concept of 'fun', they never crack a joke, they never laugh or smile or tease or flirt, or sing or lie down on soft grass and stare at the stars and dream. Oh, foolish, ignorant, stupid seventeen year old me!<br />
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Then I imagined this group, that is seventeen year old NOW, when their lives probably are enriched by social media, google and Wikipedia and most of them lead much more protected lives than I ever did. I also realized that as a seventeen year old I did not have to think about changing the world, if I could just iron my school uniform and polish my shoes and take out the dog for a walk once a day, my parents were happy with me. But these children face the pressures of being so much more than that. They have to be entrepreneurs, leaders, debaters, thinkers, activists, and what not. They know everything about the whole world, the problems the world faces, the problems India faces, the bleak future ahead of us, global warming, crime against women, terrorism, nuclear deals, Donald Trump, ISIS, Boko Haram, blah blah blah blah blah!<br />
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Then it struck me, that they found the idea of 'pleasure', 'fun', 'doing something for oneself', 'changing things one person at a time', 'changing something internally, for yourself', so alien, so foreign, so distant, because they have forgotten what simple joys are, or atleast find the idea of simple, personal joys 'not worth it'.<br />
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<i><b>'Because the problems are so huge, the solutions have to be huge too'</b></i><br />
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<b><i>Maybe, but maybe, just maybe, because the problems are so huge and complex, the solutions could be small and simple. </i></b><br />
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Satchit and I kept reiterating that loitering is simple fun, and would become an oxymoron if I had a loitering 'Head office' in Mumbai from where I was in touch via skype with all the loitering 'branch offices' where my loitering 'workers' made people loiter, and then send me the attendance sheets that I then filled into my main excel sheet and mailed to the CEO of the multi national company that was funding our loitering!<br />
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<i><b>It sounded just as absurd to them as it did to us. </b></i><br />
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I also confessed to them that if I had asked myself all the questions that they were asking me, I would have felt so hopeless, small and depressed that I would have scrapped the idea of loitering even before doing it. They all laughed!<br />
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I told them that when I read the book, it spoke to me, not to make a large scale movement, but to just, get out of my own house, and loiter. It just so happened that others found the idea interesting and joined me. Loitering cannot be forced, it cannot be asked of someone, it has to come from the individual, it has to be fun and joyful and simple, otherwise it is not loitering, it is work.<br />
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We told them that this idea of 'expansion' and 'what about them' and 'how do you plan to change the world' may not be quick and straightforward, but may take years and decades and may never happen, but its important to keep doing it to change yourself, your friends, your family, your neighbourhood and ideas spread, ideas are replicated, borrowed, are sources of inspiration. I told them that similar movements have started in Jaipur. Aligarh, Pakistan and it is not a coincidence, its a collective. The only way something like a why loiter movement can be sustained is if it is locally pioneered, is fun, is personal.<br />
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I told them about the blog and that we have readers from across the world that often share stories of their own individual loiterings and how sometimes what they read here inspires them to loiter. I told them that I conducted a workshop with tribal women in Jharkhand about the ideas of loitering. That seemed to impress them a little. By the end of the two hours we did manage to erode some of their ideas of what a movement means and what it CAN mean. Some of them also said that they would love to start loitering with their friends in their own neighbourhoods. I said, 'of course, there is no copyright on loitering, in fact, there is a copy left on it!' They laughed, but it is true. Loitering is a phenomenon as old as life itself, its just that we have now forgotten its simple pleasures.<br />
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The idea that a movement, a revolution has to be for OTHERS and not for MYSELF is something that is propogated, but is so not correct. How are you going to change others when you arent sure of what you think, practice and advocate? How are you going to 'make' others loiter and have fun when you have forgotten what loitering and having simple joys means? How are you going to sustain something that you, in your head, have made so serious and joyless?<br />
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'Be the change you want to see in the world'- M.K. Gandhi.<br />
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Simple words, but so true. Lets revisit these words by the man who did change the world by changing just himself.<br />
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-67275818222776469322016-05-29T23:22:00.001-07:002016-05-29T23:29:01.399-07:00Antakshari in the metro: new ways of bridging gaps- by Manasi Rachh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I remember getting added into a whatsapp group long time back by Neha. The group said</span></span><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> Why loiter? And she mentioned on the group that it was an informal group she had made and all she wanted to do is loiter every Sunday at public places. I went through the other participants that were added and realised all of them were women. Hmm. Interesting I thought. Women loitering around in public places. Very different. Rebellious. Maybe a little attention seeking being women but courageous nonetheless. I couldn’t make it that Sunday. And I couldn’t make it for lot more Sundays after that. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;">This morning I read on Neha's facebook wall that she was loitering in the Metro train today and that if you are interested you could meet her at the Versova metro station at 5pm. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.36px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">So 4.50 I reach the Versova metro station. A little earlier than the time given. But I didn’t want to be late for my first loitering session. Honestly those 10 minutes I was just pacing up and down. I had seen pictures on Nehas Facebook page about people loitering every Sunday. But I didn’t know what to expect. And also loitering in a metro train was something I couldn’t really imagine. Anyways before I knew there were so many of loiterers assembled at the metro station. It was a mix group of men and women. We took a return ticket from Versova to Ghatkopar and back and boarded the metro train. There were a few who had loitered before, a few who were first timers like me. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> <span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;">The loitering session started with a gentleman playing the flute and before we knew we had started playing antakshari. Boys vs girls. Just that it wasn’t limited to our small group. But it was played between the entire metro train ladies compartment vs a section of the gent’s bogie. It was a simple game of Antakshari and every time it was the girls turn, the loiterers would urge the other women in the compartment to prompt a song. As they would come up with a song, the loiterers would then encourage the women in the bogie to sing along. The guys from the group were doing the same thing in the gents section. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.36px; text-align: left; white-space: pre-wrap;">Initially people were quite hesitant. Slowly they started to open up, especially the women. From just prompting the songs to singing loudly, the transition happened so smoothly between on the 25 minute ride from versova to ghatkopar. It just took 25 minutes for people to open up and play Antakshari with complete strangers. What started as a normal boring metro ride for most of them, who were minding their own businesses either listening to music on their headphones, or surfing the internet or just interacting with their small groups moved on to become a playful, happy, healthy but competitive game of Antakshari. All of this while they were in transit from destination A to destination B or a regular Sunday evening. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i>What did I get?</i></b> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;">To begin with immense joy. I haven’t played Antakshari so freely and fiercely since school picnic days. Honestly waiting at the Versova Metro station, I would have never imagined this was possible in a metro train. What else? I also witnessed this little act putting smiles on so many people’s faces. It spread like forest fire across an entire metro train bogie. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.36px;"><br style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;" /></span><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"> <b><i>What did I learn?</i></b> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;">That it’s very easy to connect with a complete stranger if you go with complete openness and trust. I saw women staring at us, some of them were just looking at us from our head to toes and observing each and every movement of ours. I think they were just curious to know as to where did we come from, how did we behave so freely. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span>
</span><span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In some ways I think the first few songs that the girls from the loiterers group sang were almost setting examples for the other women that you can sing loudly in public places without being judged. It’s ok. They slowly started picking up on that and then found their own spaces and voices to play the game. I think also what helped was we were quite a few of us. We were an intimidating number of influencers. I wonder if we were lesser of us, or like Neha said if it was only her urging people to play antakshari would people open up the way they did? </span><span style="font-family: times, 'times new roman', serif; line-height: 15.36px;"><br style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;" /></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b><i>What about my nervousness? </i></b></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;">It was completely gone. I felt so comfortable in my own skin. There was no one to restrict me, no one to judge me. It was quite liberating. And it comes from someone who feels she’s quite independent anyway. What made it different though was that I didn’t have to rebel or fight for my freedom or justify my independence. It was just given to me. Naturally. Without having to ask for it or fight for it. Effortlessly. It felt nice. I felt respected. And I think a lot of credit also goes to the guys who loitered with us today. Yes women can fight for their rights and for their freedom. They may even get what they want. But it depends on how you get that freedom. Do you have to fight for it? Do you have to ask for it? Or you just get it. Because you are a part of the same universe like any other person existing. I experienced the latter today. And it was beautiful. So ya, thank you guys. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.36px;"><br style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;" /></span><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;">I wish one day women wouldn’t have to loiter to change perceptions of the society. I wish one day women will loiter, just, because they want to, because they can without drawing any attention. And I wish that this day comes soon. More power to Neha and all the other Loiterers on completing two years of this beautiful movement. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.36px;"><br style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;" /></span><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><b>Why loiter? Because you should, you must, you can. And above all its lot of fun!!</b></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 15.36px;"><b><br style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;" /></b></span><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;">In awe</span><span style="line-height: 15.36px;"><br style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;" /></span><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;">Manasi <span class="accessible_elem" style="clip: rect(1px 1px 1px 1px); height: 1px; overflow: hidden; position: absolute; white-space: nowrap; width: 1px;">smile emoticon</span><span class="emoticon emoticon_smile" style="background-image: url("/rsrc.php/v2/yx/r/pimRBh7B6ER.png"); background-position: 0px -340px; background-repeat: no-repeat; background-size: auto; display: inline-block; height: 16px; vertical-align: middle; width: 16px;" title=":-)"></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Times, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="background-color: #fefefe; color: #4b4f56; font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 15.36px; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><b>Manasi Rachh is a theatre and film actor from Mumbai. She is also a writer, film maker, thinker and supporter of alternative ways of living. </b></i></span></span></div>
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-84804334057920224292016-05-26T22:49:00.002-07:002016-05-27T01:32:50.508-07:00NOT a typical day in the metro! by Sreemoyee Bhattacharya<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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‘Why loiter’ is turning two this Sunday. For those who don’t know what ‘Why loiter’ is, let me give you a brief description. It is a movement for women (not necessarily only by women) to gain back the rights to reclaim public space. Neha Singh, a short filmmaker, author and actor started this movement based on the book ‘Why Loiter’ written by Shilpa Phadke. As part of ‘Why Loiter’, a group of people (mostly women) usually loiters around the city during night. But last Sunday was special! It was basically a demo version of the second birthday celebration of ‘Why Loiter’ on next Sunday.<br />
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So eight of us met at Versova Metro station at 5 PM on 22nd of May. Four girls and four boys. Few of us knew each other already. The others too mingled well in just a couple of minutes, like how revolutionaries connect very quickly! We all bought return tickets for Versova-Ghatkopar. The idea was to entertain the metro passengers by reading, singing and reciting or playing games and let them reconsider whether they want to have a journey with real friendly people around or in the virtual world created by their Smartphones. We discussed a little about our plans before boarding the train, but lets not give out spoilers here.<br />
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Once we entered the train, we discovered a rope tied between two metro seats (facing each other) designated for women. One of us almost tripped over it, not knowing what exactly it does. A middle-aged woman smiled at us, saying it is ‘The Lakshman Rekha’. We were excited to see the smile on our first fellow passenger’s face, which is rare nowadays. We realized that the rope actually divides the general and ladies compartments. Well, it is ‘Lakshman Rekha’ then!<br />
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Satchit, an FTII passout, got pretty excited now. He asked the woman if she has read Ramayana by Valmiki, as the concept of Lakshman Rekha was not even there in that version. He informed that it was later added in Tulsidas’ Ramcharitamanas. The woman smiled again explaining that she had only seen Ramayana in television or movies. Satchit took out a book from his bag now and started reading a short story that had five letters written by Sita to her parents. By then the train was half full and it began its journey towards Ghatkopar. The passengers were not quite sure what exactly was going on there. But they looked curious. Many of them listened to the story carefully and there was a round of applause once it was over.<br />
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But we realized that not everyone could relate to the story. So Ajitesh Gupta, an UP-born actor and singer, started singing a Marathi song. People, who were busy with cellphones, turned now. Ajitesh, with his amazing voice, pulled more crowds towards our small group. There was a bigger round of applause once he finished the song. Then we sang Tagore, ‘Aakash Bhora Shurjo Tara’. Glimpses of ‘Komal Gandhar’ played hide and seek within me. Next was a Gujrati song by Satchit. It was a hilarious song about ‘Garam Chaye’. By then the entire crowd got interested in us. Some started asking if Sonu Nigam had disguised himself again. We laughed. Everyone laughed.<br />
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So it was time. The interaction began. And in a country like India, especially in a city like Mumbai, what can be more interactive than music? Decision was taken immediately. Antakshari it was. And the proud ‘Lakshman Rekha’ divided us in two teams. Girls vs Boys.<br />
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‘Baithe baithe kya karenge, karna hai kuchh kaam,<br />
Toh shuru karo antakshari lekar Prabhu ka naam’<br />
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I always wondered who this ‘Prabhu’ is. But whoever he is, he created a brilliant game indeed! The girls’ team had to sing a song with ‘Ma’. Someone from the far end of our compartment started singing ‘Mere khwabon me jo aaye’. And most of the girls joined her with sheer joy. Then the guys’ team had to sing with ‘ey’. And it went on.<br />
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Interestingly, the girls were much more spontaneous than the boys. So none of us, the four girls from our group, me, Neha, Devina and Rashmi, had to start a single song with the letters given to us. All other girls did it. Rather we were just one large group of girls playing the game against the boys! There were few men though, who participated and sang songs of Big B, with a lot of excitement in their voices. We danced along with them. It was so much fun!<br />
Stations came and went, the game continued. One of the girls came in front and declared that she had to get off at the next stop, but she would want to join us in this venture. Neha shared numbers with her. We heard another girl, who was about to get down, telling her friend how she wished to continue the journey with us. <br />
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And like that, to our astonishment, we almost reached the last station, not even realizing the time it took. It was time for the last song. And the girls’ team had to sing with ‘Ha’. Someone started ‘Hum honge kamyaab’. It was co-incidental though. But the entire compartment sang along. The girls from all age groups had sparkle in their eyes while uttering every single word of the song. For a moment we felt, there is no discrimination in this world between different religions, castes, races or class! The spirit of equality resonated all over the public transport! Who says the world has lost all hope?<br />
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Once we reached Ghatkopar, lot of people came and thanked us for making their journey so entertaining. But it should have been other way around. So we thanked them more. Some of them said that they would do something like this on their own, if they have a group. Others showed lot of enthusiasm to join us.<br />
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The return journey also went like that. We sang and danced along with our wonderful fellow passengers. When we reached Versova, we saw a burqa-clad woman dancing happily on her own, inside the empty train. Her happiness was our tribute to ‘Why Loiter’ movement indeed.<br />
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We came home with hearts full of hope and promises! This was just a demo. So this Sunday, 29th of May, at 5PM we will again embark on a similar journey. And we believe that some of them and many of you, who are reading this right now, will join us! Let’s make the world more beautiful and peaceful together!<br />
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P.S. Co-incidentally, the only book I have published till date, a collection of Bengali poems, was named as ‘Life in a Metro’. I had a series of poems on the journeys I had in a Metro rail in Kolkata. Well.. the writing bug bites me again!<br />
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<i><b>Sreemoyee Bhattacharya is a filmmaker, writer, singer, champion of Bengali literature and an engineer. She is originally from Kolkata, but she is loving loitering in Bombay too.</b></i><br />
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-32368219591762639382016-03-14T08:30:00.003-07:002016-03-14T08:30:43.749-07:00'Loitering' the play! - Neha Singh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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I am sure when the authors of the book 'Why loiter?' were writing it they hadnt thought the ideas they were penning were going to turn into a movement. And when I started the movement 'Why loiter?' in Mumbai I had no idea people in other cities would make their own loitering groups. And I definitely did not think that after almost two years of loitering, someone would propose to make a play about it. A play purely celebrating the joy of loitering, by people of all shapes, ages and sizes.<br />
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Satchit Puranik, a theatre colleague and co loiterer proposed the idea of making a play around the themes mentioned in the 'Why loiter?' book, the experiences of the women that are part of the 'Why loiter?' movement, and his own personal learning journey associated with years of travel in and outside the country. Satchit also participated in the Why loiter? walks whenever he was allowed. When we invited men to come dressed in women's clothes and walk with us, Satchit dressed up in a shimmery long skirt and a low cut blouse and came.<br />
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But I had no idea what was in store when Satchit began working on the play. The first day when I went to see the rehearsals, I was refreshed to see lots of people that are essentially non actors. This eclectic cast included a ,Gujarati world class tabla player, Maharashtrian couple in their mid sixties, a Malayali single mom of two young daughters, a young storyteller who is also a mother of two, an eighteen year old kathak dancer, a 30 year old Muslim rapid sketch artist from Aligarh, a young office going girl from Nagaland, and a kallari payattu martial artist from Uttar Pradesh and two young Mumbai girls, one a gujarati and the other a Sindhi, to help with the direction and the production. two young men helping us with music, sound and art, again from diverse backgrounds. I was awestruck with this wonderful and experimental cast, and I knew instantly that this was going to be a fun roller coaster ride.<br />
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This was going to be a DOCUMENTARY THEATRE piece, where people come on stage as themselves and share their own personal stories, of course, with artistic and dramatic embellishments, but essentially its non-acting.<br />
The stories that emerged were priceless. The rehearsal space turned into a safe space to share our most intimate stories of being in public spaces, over the years. We shared experiences of being on roads, in buses, in trains, in different cities of India, during the day and the night, with people or without, as men and women, as young adults and children and grown ups.<br />
Patterns emerged, of societal norms of being 'safe', 'protected', being feminine and masculine, what it means to be a woman in our country and what it means to be a man. Both equally stifling.<br />
Our own mini rebellions and transgressions of rules and feeling of being heroic when all you had done was cross the road to drink chai at a chai stall on the pavement.<br />
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We discovered what is called the 'Ganika Gat' or the walk of the courtesan, at one point an integral part of Kathak but not a single teacher teaches this to his/her students anymore. There is no mention of the Ganika Gat online and no research material. Satchit tracked down one of the few remaining Kathak dancers who knows the form and had long discussions with her about the seduction attached to the walk of the courtesan and how a woman's walk in a public space can never be removed from what it means to the male observer.<br />
We shared what it means to be a woman cycling down a Mumbai road, with men leering, honking, pointing and behaving in extremely juvenile ways.<br />
There were a few disturbing stories too. Like a girl getting harrassed in the most disgusting way on Holi, which is a major Hindu festival, especially celebrated with enthusiasm in the North of India. Stories of women being burnt for stepping outdoors and women taking inspiration from buffaloes, that loiter uninhibitedly on the roads, of what it means to finally have two free hands because you are no longer mobilizing your dysfunctional knee with your hand, the pressures on a boy to turn into a 'man' by his own male family members, the sign board outside an 'Art of living' center that banned menstruating from entering the prayer hall because when you pray your energy is 'going up' and when you are menstruating your energy is 'going down' etc etc.<br />
It was a difficult task to weave all these stories together in a play and Satchit made good use of poem, one of them by our lovely young supporter from Pakistan, Hira Yousuf's 'You are not allowed' and others by well known poets like Vinod Kumar Shukl and Paash.<br />
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The cast wore their own personal clothes, clothes they liked best or those colours that represented the nature of their stories and personalities. In fact, the stories all fell under the nine moods, or the navrasas that is spoken of in the Natyashastra. Stories of courage, of romance, of horror, of happiness, of motherhood, anger, sadness, peace etc.<br />
The rapid sketch artist, Satchit decided would keep making sketches of people in the audience or people on stage as and when he felt like, onstage, of course. Satchit himself decided to dress in women's clothes for the show. We were taking several unique risks, like making panipuri on stage, offering and drinking chai on stage and all inviting the audience on stage to loiter with us.<br />
Finally the show day arrived. 8th March, Women's Day. We were lucky to have two great producers, Amrita Dodani and NCPA Edge.<br />
Hearts were aflutter, considering the form 'documentary theatre', and all the other risks involved. But as soon as the play started, all the nervousness disappeared. The audience was with us from the word go and connected with all the real stories of women and men loitering in cities and towns of India. The authors of the book 'Why Loiter?' had come to watch as well. At the end when the audience was invited to come on stage and loiter with us, almost everyone came on stage, tasting the panipuri and the chai (the official food and beverage of loitering) and mingling freely with the artists and other audience members.<br />
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That is when we realized that we had successfully made the point we had in mind. Here we were, the lines between audience and artists blurred, everyone connecting with one another on the experiences we have all had loitering or at least trying to loiter, and the joy it brings to each one of us. We surely planted the seeds of unapologetic, aimless, joyous loitering firmly into the minds of the audience.<br />
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-22373150451504798812016-03-13T01:14:00.001-08:002016-03-13T01:15:32.418-08:00An interview with SPARK magazine in their Women's day special <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=9820" target="_blank">interview with SPARK magazine</a><br />
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<a href="http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=9820" target="_blank">http://www.sparkthemagazine.com/?p=9820</a></div>
Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-81449178031407150142016-02-18T01:47:00.000-08:002016-02-19T22:49:07.432-08:00Sharing ideas of loitering with tribal girls at the SELF workshop by CREA- Neha Singh<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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The year started with meeting some amazing young women from Jharkhand at the SELF (Sports, Empowerment, Leadership and Freedom for young girls) workshop organised by CREA. CREA has been working with the community based organisations in Jharkhand for the past three years to advance sexual and reproductive health rights of adolescent and young women through sports. This particular workshop was a 15 day residential workshop for 50 tribal girls selected from across the state. This residential workshop will happen everywhere henceforth, providing a world of new exposures, learning and experiences to girls.<br />
The fifty fiery and fun loving girls came from different villages and cities across Jharkhand to attend this workshop at the tribal cultural centre in Jamshedpur. Some of them took overnight buses, some of them came in trains, some in shared jeeps and mini buses to attend the workshop, forgoing their Christmas and New Year celebrations with the families back home. Like one of the girls said to me, "I celebrate with mummy and papa every year, but I wouldn't get an opportunity to come here and be with all the other girls and the teachers and learn so much, so I don't mind skipping Christmas and New Year outings with the family."<br />
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The girls came from different parts of the state, but the ideas of the workshop, their mentors and teachers, the love for football and sports and learning new things together really brought out the team spirit in them.<br />
My two day workshop with them centered around the ideas of the Why loiter? book and the movement. The medium I chose to share these ideas with them was theatre. The girls had never attended a theatre or drama based workshop before so they were excited and full of energy. We started with some basic theatre games and exercises and then moved to creating short improvisations based on their experiences and memories of public spaces, what it means to be a girl in their city/village, what the familial and societal norms of clothing, access to public spaces and mingling with people of other genders.<br />
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At first most of them said that they get a lot of freedom and can do whatever they like, barring a few who said that they feel restricted in terms of their clothing and freedom.<br />
But when I probed a little more, I realized that the conditioning had been so deep and strong that the girls had internalised it and felt whatever they were offered was good enough. For example, most of them said they could wear whatever they liked, but it actually meant they could wear any design/colour/style of salwaar kameez only. When they shared further, they revealed that they were not allowed to wear jeans or t shirts or dresses at all.<br />
Same case with accessing public spaces, most of them said that they could go anywhere they felt like, but soon it was revealed that this freedom was only till 4 or 5 in the evening and was restricted to going to school, to the tuition class or a friend's house in the neighbourhood. After 4 in the evening they were not allowed to step out at all, unless they were escorted by a brother, or if the entire family was going out.<br />
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When it came to communicating or being friendly with boys, the experiences were very similar. There was a lot of shaming and teasing if the girls spoke with boys, even with their classmates or friends' brothers. Rumours and 'link ups' would immediately be created if the neighbours or people from the extended families saw the girls with boys. This led to the girls and boys leading completely segregated lives and meeting only secretly.<br />
During the improvisations and creating short dramatic pieces based on their experiences some very interesting stories came forth.<br />
One girl narrated her story of wanting to buy jeans. She forced her mother to buy her a pair of jeans, inspite of her mother repeatedly saying no to her. Finally, when she wore the pair of jeans and went out, her aunt who lived close by teased and ridiculed her for wearing jeans, something that only girls that are 'immoral' wear. This hurt her so much that she came home, took off the pair of jeans and wore salwar kameez. When her mother found out she scolded her for making her buy such expensive jeans and then not wearing them. This double jeopardy caused so much stress to the girl that she took a pair of scissors and cut up her brand new pair of jeans into ribbons.<br />
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Another story was shared by a girl who lives in Hazaribagh. She said that once she was sitting in her classroom and a couple of her brother's friends came to the window and began talking to her. During this her pencil fell out of the window and one of the boys picked it up and gave it back to her. This simple act caused such a furor in the community that when she reached home she was thrashed by her mother and locked up at home for a few days.<br />
Some of the participants were married. It was even tougher for them to access public spaces and have platonic relationships with the opposite sex. Most of them said that it was only because of the support of their immediate families and the constant convincing by CREA teachers that they were able to come for the workshop.<br />
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That evening when I spoke to them about 'Why loiter?' the book and the ideas it talks about, they heard me in pin drop silence and when I told them about the movement that is inspired by the book they were thrilled. I narrated to them our several run ins with the police, with harrassers on the roads, with stalkers and people in general that find it odd for us to roam around at night or sleep in a public park or cycle around the city. They clapped and laughed and were spellbound with the photographs of the why loiter sessions I showed them.<br />
There wasnt anyone in the room that disagreed with the idea, or said it was risky or impractical or not worth their while. I got a sense that this group, more than any other group I have worked with, understood and appreciated the value of unconditional freedom and what that means in an individual's life.<br />
One of their mentors who has been a CREA beneficiary shared a beautiful story. She said that in her small town, she and a few other women go for morning walks to remain fit. All of them would cut the route short and head home because they had to make tea for their husbands and families. One day they discussed that why is it that they have to cut short their morning walks and rush home to make tea, instead of being served tea once in a while by their husbands. Since that day they decided to stop at a chai tapri and drink chai on the streets and not bother about reaching home in time to serve tea. Their families soon followed the decision and began making their own tea, not expecting the wife/mother/daughter in law to make it.<br />
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Some of the girls got so inspired by our midnight loitering sessions that they insisted their mentors to let them roam around outside in the night that very day, and calmed down only when they were promised an outing the very next day.<br />
The next day the girls shared their own practice of loitering that had already started to take shape. Some of them had lay down on the grass in the lawns of the Tribal Cultural Center after lunch. When a few of the male instructors walked by one of the girls whispered to the others to get up and sit in a more 'ladylike' manner. To which, the others said, 'Why? We are just lying down and enjoying the Sun. When men can do it without feeling embarrassed, why shouldn't we?' after which the girl that had spoken also lay down and they kept enjoying the Sun on the winter afternoon without caring about looking 'decent'.<br />
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That day the girls made four short skits based on the themes of gender, public space and freedom. They spoke about freedom of clothing, roaming around freely, riding cycles, exploring new spaces, being out with friends for pleasure, the restrictions put on them by the families and society at large and their little revolts against it.<br />
At the end of the session they had all become familiar with the word 'loitering' and the power it entails. They promised me that they would now question the norms that they have thus far followed without ever questioning, and would make sure they explore the public spaces in and around their villages and towns and negotiate with their families over norms of clothing and mingling with boys.<br />
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Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-88535276561041069712016-02-06T00:44:00.001-08:002016-02-06T01:59:56.521-08:00You are NOT allowed- a poem by Hira Yousuf<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED</span></b></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12.8px;">
<br /></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<i>You are not allowed</i></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<i>To make me feel fat<br />Or to make me feel as if being fat<br />Gives me no right to occupy the space I do</i></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<i>You are not allowed</i></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<i>To make me feel ugly<br />Or to make me feel as if being ugly<br />Makes me less of a person</i></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<i>You are not allowed</i></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<i>But most of all<br />You are not allowed</i></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<i>To leer at me<br />I do not give you permission<br />To speak about me amongst yourselves<br />Through your vulgar yellow teeth<br />And your trained peripheral vision<br />Talk about my silhouette<br />Dissect each body part I own<br />Till I no longer feel like myself<br />Till I start feeling like I do not exist<br />Except as separate pieces<br />That can never be whole<br />As I cross my arms across my breasts<br />Tug my shirt down<br />Try to look a little less visible<br />A little less there<br />A little less solid<br />No<br />You are not allowed to make me feel like that<br />You are not allowed to make me<br />Lesser<br />Than I am<br />Than I could be</i></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<i>You are not allowed</i></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<i>To make me feel<br />A little bit less<br />Like myself<br />Each time I draw a breath</i></div>
<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; color: #222222; font-family: arial, sans-serif;">
<i>You<br />Are<br />Not<br />Allowed</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<b>Hira Yousuf is an 18 year old student pursuing Engineering in Karachi, Pakistan</b></div>
</div>
Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8182880073728111697.post-13612007267654535792016-01-04T21:13:00.003-08:002016-01-04T21:13:44.909-08:00'No parcels, thank you!': loitering at the dhaba - Tarishi Verma<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="_GoBack"></a><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 14.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Well
now that 2015 is gone, I can safely say this was last year. Not many people
will be happy with how I went about things ‘dangerously’.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A
certain week in October, I was ditched by a lot of people for dinner. Campus
mess offers nothing great so I thought okay, McDonald’s it is. It is in a mall,
I’ll just have to take an auto and then I will be in a place with people and
crowds. Sorted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I
took an auto at 9 pm for K-star. In the middle of my journey, I remembered that
I could eat <i>kulchas</i>! Except that it
was a place in Chembur camp and pretty deserted by this time; but the <i>kulchas</i> were so great; but there would
be no one there and I am out alone.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Fuck
it.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I
redirected the auto to the place and I lost my way completely because I had
only navigated the area in the bright light, not in the night time. By the time
I reached the place, it was 9.20. If it is of any relevance, I was dressed in
shorts and T-shirt, my favorite outfit for any day or any night.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">I
reached and ordered a Paneer Cheese Kulcha (which is the absolute best, if I
may say so).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“<i>Pack karnahai madam</i>?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">“<i>Nahibhaiyya, yahinkhanahai. Aursaathmeinek
thumbs upbhi de do</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">The
look on the poor guy’s face was priceless. He couldn’t believe I was going to
eat there, with no one around except the owner. The lane was pretty deserted.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">But
the gentleman that he was, he sat outside after presenting me with delicious <i>kulchas</i>. I asked him to pack another one
(because after 10 pm, you couldn’t take the auto inside the campus and who
wants to walk!).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">While
I ate, the TV played <i>SasuralSimarKa</i>.
I laughed at it. The owner tried really hard to stay awake to watch but he kept
dozing off. The other guy kept asking me if I needed anything else. I paid and
left to find the <i>kulfithela</i>nearby but
he had unfortunately packed and gone home. I was reveling in my adventure. I
have to admit I got a little bit alarmed when I couldn’t find an auto. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">When
I was telling my friend about this, she was shocked and appalled at me being so
adventurous. So I decided it was better to be shut about it and enjoy the
experience that I had. My only regret is that I didn’t take any pictures. Well
frankly, I was too busy enjoying the <i>kulcha</i>
and Simar’s antics.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">Not
only did I feel I should loiter around more, I also felt we should trust people
more; anyone, from any background. Maybe through mutual trust and
understanding, we’d be able to create a fear-free world.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US;">A
world where I can loiter, any time I want.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Why loiter?http://www.blogger.com/profile/11729664951968132028noreply@blogger.com0