Fragile Communities

When did we become those people
Who take offence so easily
Whose identity, community, faith
Is so fragile
That
A word
A question
A thought
Can shatter it into pieces?

LoveJihad

Two of them looked at the photograph.

One saw only love,
The other saw only religion.

You're Beautiful

Sometimes I wonder
If I were to have a daughter
Would I be about to look her in the eye
And say
You're beautiful
As you are
Every bit of you
Your height
Your weight
Your skin
Your hair
No matter what
You're beautiful

Would I really be able to tell her that
When I can't even convince myself of it?

The Chart on the Wall

Sonu sat tapping her foot in the bus, waiting anxiously to reach school. It seemed like on the only day that she wanted to get to school quickly, the school bus was getting stuck in all the red signals and traffic jams.

Normally, Sonu wouldn’t have cared. A longer bus ride meant more time to sleep or to talk to friends. But today wasn’t a regular day.

 

Today was the day their teacher would put up the class chart.

 

Thinking about that chart, Sonu squirmed in her seat. She had first seen that chart many months ago in this new school. It had a list of all the student names, but ordered based on how they had done in the term exams. This was the first time Sonu had seen something like this; her previous school had never put up a chart like this. Curious, Sonu had glanced at the chart, and was surprised to see her name in the third place from the top.

 

A swooping feeling had passed through her, the kind that used to pass when she got full marks in a test, or her parents smiled at her report cards.

 

The other students had looked at her curiously – the new girl – who had already managed to reach the top 3 in the class. Embarrassed by the attention, Sonu had tried to shrug it off, but couldn’t ignore that feeling of excitement in her stomach.

 

And though she had never said it out loud, she had made a silent promise to herself that day: she would get her name to the number one spot.

 

That was two terms ago. Now, the final exams for the last term were over, and Sonu felt a glimmer of hope that maybe, just maybe, she had made it to the first place. She tried not to think too much about it, wanting to avoid that feeling of disappointment she had felt in the second term. But still, she couldn’t ignore the jittery excitement rushing through her.

 

Finally, the bus pulled into the school campus. Sonu, who had specifically chosen the seat closest to the door, rushed out. She half walked, half ran towards her second standard classroom, trying not to look too eager, which was no small feat.

 

As she reached the door of the classroom, she saw her class teacher, Mrs. Chandra, putting up a chart on the wall. There it was! The chart that she had been longing to see! Sonu could make out a list of names on the chart, but was too far to read them.

 

Stepping away from the chart, Mrs. Chandra turned around and saw Sonu. Smiling widely, she said, “Good work this semester, Sonal.” A rush of excitement surged through Sonu – did that mean she had managed to come first? But Mrs. Chandra had always been nice to her, so maybe she would say this even if she hadn’t come first.

 

Slowly, bit by bit, Sonu stepped towards the chart. A few other students were starting to trickle into the classroom, but Sonu was too focused on her target to notice them. Finally, when she was close enough to read the names, she looked up at the top of the chart.

 

There it was. ‘Sonal Mehta’, the first name on the list. A mix of happiness and relief coursed through her. She read her name again and again. It really was there. On the number one spot.

 

The first rank.

 

Sonu had no idea how long she stood there, a big smile on her face, just staring at her name on the chart. It was only when a few other students came to check the list that she realized she wasn’t alone. She tried to suppress the smile on her face, at least to bring it down to the level of acceptable humility.

 

The classroom was almost full now, with students shuffling around between their seats and the new item on the wall. A few of them looked at her and murmured congratulations, to which Sonu whispered a quick ‘Thank you’, not trusting herself to say anything else. Inside, she was jumping up and down with an endless surge of energy, but outwardly, she tried to look calm and composed. She wanted to look like a first ranker.

 

As she moved to go towards her seat, she heard another ‘Congratulations’. Smiling, she turned to see her classmate, Rohan, standing behind her. Sonu began to say her customary ‘Thank you’, but stopped short as she looked at him. Rohan’s hands were stuffed in his pockets, and though he was trying to smile at her, his eyes didn’t quite show that happiness. In fact, they looked really sad and pained.

 

She looked at him up and down, trying to see if he had gotten hurt. But he looked fine. Rohan and Sonu had never really spoken much, but he usually seemed like a nice guy. Seeing that look in his eyes seemed to deflate some of the elation she had been feeling.

 

“Are you okay?” Sonu asked hesitantly, not sure what was the right thing to say. Rohan just shoved his hands deeper in his pockets and turned to look at the chart on the wall for a few seconds. Then, as though it took too much effort, he quickly turned back to Sonu. Still smiling sadly, he shrugged, and then slowly walked past her towards his seat at the back of the room.

 

Sonu stood there, unsure of how to make sense of what had just happened. The bell was about to ring, and she knew she needed to get back to her own seat. But she couldn’t move from there. There was something about the pained look in Rohan’s eyes that was taking away her excitement, and filling it with some strange emotion.

 

If she were to be completely honest, a part of her had an idea what might have caused this sadness, but that was a very tiny part. The bigger part of her remained confused, not wanting to admit that the source of her happiness and Rohan’s sadness could be one and the same.

 

Finally, after what felt like several minutes, she turned back to the chart on the wall. Starting from the top, she began to scan the list for Rohan’s name. This time, she rushed past her own name, not bothering to soak it in like before. As she went lower and lower down the list, a heaviness began to sink into her stomach, which she couldn’t quite understand. With every name she read, a little part of her hoped that Rohan’s would be the next. But it didn’t come, not until she reached the end.

 

There it was, the last name on the list. Sonu felt a lump rise in her throat, as a series of realizations began to course through her.

 

Rohan’s name was at the bottom of the list.

Rohan had the lowest rank in class.

This chart was showing his failure to every single student in class.

 

And just like that, the chart that Sonu had waited eagerly to see for the entire week seemed to take on a different form. It was the one object that had given her the most joy she had felt in the entire year; but now, it had become the object that had caused so much sadness in Rohan.

 

Bit by bit, Sonu now began to read the other names on the list, moving upwards from Rohan. With each name, she paused to quietly look at the student in the class. There was Shoaib, sitting listlessly on his seat. On one end sat Abha, her head buried in her arms. There was Kushal, trying to laugh with his friends, but the laugh never really reaching his eyes. And so many, many more.

 

As Sonu turned back to the chart, she felt a rush of mixed emotions towards it. Part of her, the part that had rushed to the classroom to look at the chart, wanted to frame it and make sure it stood here forever and ever. But another part, the part that had looked at Rohan’s eyes, wanted to tear it up and throw it in the dustbin. How was it possible, that this same object could give so much happiness to someone, and so much sadness to another?

 

Mixed with these feelings was a new, strange feeling emerging in her. Guilt. Sonu thought of every time she had felt a rush of excitement and pride at the idea of being the best in her class, and realized that she had never bothered to think about those that were being called the worst in class. She thought of all those moments that she had imagined rushing home and telling her parents that she had come first, never stopping to think what that conversation must have been like for Rohan and the others.

 

It’s not that they were terrible in their studies; sometimes they did okay in the tests. But compared to everyone else, they never managed to go higher up the rank chart. Staring at the chart, a realization struck her. No matter how everyone did, someone had to come first, and someone had to come last. That’s just the way this chart worked. In a way, the chart ensured that Sonu’s happiness depended on Rohan’s sadness. With each passing second, the feeling of discomfort continued to increase.

 

Lost in her thoughts, Sonu didn’t hear the bell ring. Mrs. Chandra was calling all the students to take their seats. Sonu walked in a daze, keeping her eyes down, not trusting herself to look at anyone (especially not Rohan). She took her seat at the first bench, barely listening to anything the teacher was saying.

 

Please don’t mention the chart, she silently willed. But Mrs. Chandra clearly didn’t hear her plea, and began announcing the top names, starting with Sonu. What should have been a moment of absolute pride and joy, now felt torturous. Sonu tried to smile, grating her teeth when she was asked to stand up and the class clapped for her. This was the moment she had been waiting for all year. This is what she had worked towards every evening. But five minutes was all it took to change this moment forever. Five minutes, and a pair of extremely sad eyes.

 

The rest of the day passed in a blur. Sonu considered multiple times talking to Rohan, saying something to make him feel better, but she couldn’t really think of anything to say. Throughout the day, students and teachers continued to congratulate her, and Sonu went through the motions of thanking them, while feeling completely hollow inside.

 

She was relieved when the bell rang to signal the end of the day. She walked quickly towards her bus, ironically with the same speed with which she had gotten off it that morning, but without any of that earlier energy. This time, she barely noticed the traffic as the bus took her home.

 

Getting off the bus, Sonu walked slowly towards her house. A part of her was hesitant about going in, because she knew the question that was awaiting her, the question she no longer felt comfortable answering.

 

Finally, taking a deep breath, she opened the door. Mamma and Papa looked at her, smiles on their faces. “So?” Mamma asked. “What rank did you get?” They knew that Sonu had secretly been hoping to get the first rank.

 

Clenching her fists around the straps of her bag, Sonu took a deep breath, trying to form the response. Finally, forcing a little smile on her face, she said:

 

“No idea. The school has decided to stop giving ranks.”

An Apology for V

There’s a certain image of ourselves we have in our minds - the kind of people we like to believe we are. And I suppose on most occasions, we try hard to match up to that image. But there are also many occasions where we fall short of being our best selves; moments that make you look back at yourself and cringe with guilt.

Around 9 years ago, I took up a two-year Fellowship to teach children in a government school in Mumbai. Going in, I didn’t know what exactly I was going to do, but I did have a certain idea of the kind of teacher I wanted to be; or at least, the kind of teacher I didn’t want to be: that angry, shouting, scary type.

And for the most part, I managed that. I might not have been the most efficient teacher when it came to increasing the learning outcomes of my students, but I was a teacher they were all comfortable with. But what I gained there in terms of the trust of the students, I lost out in managing their behaviour. And while I tried hard to maintain my temper and not become that person, there were occasions when it became really difficult.

This story is about such an occasion.

It was towards the end of the school day, which, most teachers would know, is also the time of peak exhaustion and brain-friedness. The kids had their PT period, for which everyone had to go downstairs. The school management had recently asked us to start locking the classroom doors, so I had to ensure every child was out before I could lock the door and go along.

There was one student, V, who refused to leave. Now, from the time I knew her, V had been a fairly docile and quiet girl. She had short hair, and big brown eyes that could melt anyone’s heart. But for the last few weeks, she had been acting out in different ways: the most prominent being leaning over her desk and swinging dazedly in the middle of any class. I’d asked her to stop multiple times, and she would, but only to go back to that habit a little while later.

That day, as I was waiting for all the students to leave, V continued to lean over her desk and swing her legs. After ignoring multiple requests from me to go down with the others, she looked at me and finally said, “No”. I was shocked. She had never directly refused to follow an instruction before. When I asked her why, she didn’t respond, and just continued swinging her legs.

This went on for a while: me, frustrated, asking her to leave the classroom, knowing I had 40 kids already downstairs waiting for me and most likely creating a ruckus; and her, nonchalantly swinging from that desk, ignoring every request and order to leave the room.

I don’t know what happened. Something within me snapped. I looked at her, the anger evident on my face, and said, “Fine, I’m locking this door with you inside.” 

Instantly, her face changed. She stopped swinging and cried out for me to stop. But I was beyond the point of rationality and empathy. In fact, a part of me was actually sadistically happy that I’d finally managed to get a reaction and figure out what it was that would make her move. I could have closed the door and not locked it. She would probably have come out. 

But I went ahead and locked it. With her inside, crying, screaming, banging the door. 

And then, to make it worse, I took a few steps away from the door, just to let her suffer for a little longer. Finally, after waiting for a good 20 seconds, I opened the door. She was there, crying her eyes out, looking terrified. 

In that moment, as I looked at her terrified face, something broke within me. Guilt rose up in a very real way. I wanted to hug her, but I guess my ego held me back. So I let her walk past me, tears still streaming down her face, as I finally locked up the door and went to join the class downstairs.

I can’t excuse what I did that day. Exhaustion, impatience, 40 crazy students - none of that makes up for those terrified, crying eyes: the ones I was supposed to protect, not terrify. That incident weighed me down for the rest of the day and all night. I knew that at the very least, I had to apologize to her, if for nothing else but to ease out my own guilt.

So the next day, I got my chance when I found V in the corridor without any of the other students. I went to her and called out her name. She looked at me, with those big eyes, but strangely, with no glimpse of anger or fear. Just those big, brown eyes looking at me questioningly, as though nothing had happened.

I crouched down in front of her, and said I was sorry for what I did yesterday. I expected some sulkiness, maybe a few more tears, or another glimpse of that fear I had been the source of.

But her big eyes got even bigger, a little lost and incredulous. She smiled hesitantly, and said, “It’s okay,” as though the apology was unwarranted.

I pulled her in for a big hug, which she returned warmly. 

As I watched her continue on her way down the corridor, the feeling of relief mixed with something heavier: the surprise on her face made it clear that she never expected an adult, a teacher, a person of authority to ever apologize for their actions.

Maybe because nobody ever had.

Attempts at Reading Research Papers

It’s been many years since I’ve read research papers, so when my friends and I decided to take up a course together, I was definitely tentative about the reading involved. Turns out my attempts at reading these papers hasn't changed all that much.

'Attempt' being the key word here.

Attempts at reading a research paper:

• Before starting the paper, scroll down to see how many pages are there. The more the pages, the bigger the hesitation to begin.

• Next, check how many of these pages are made up of the bibliography. The more the pages, the bigger the relief.

• Attempting to do speed reading, only to realize that you’ve zoned out three paragraphs ago.

• Backtracking, and this time trying to read slowly. Only to realize that once again, you zoned out, this time because you were probably trying to recall why you zoned out in the first place.

• Cursing the author every time a new word pops up.

• Deciding to google the word. While we’re doing that, how about a quick sneak-peak at Facebook? Just for a few sec- oh crap it’s been 20 minutes.

• Every few paragraphs, yelling at the author: Why can’t you write in simple English?!

• Feeling excited when a big image or table pops up on the page, and thinking to yourself: please let there be more. Anything to reduce the amount of text.

• Preparing yourself by making a cup of coffee.

• Your body betraying you by starting to feel sleepy five minutes after the cup of coffee gets over.

• Finishing the introduction section, and taking what feels like a well-earned break.

• Every few minutes, checking how many pages are left (answer: the same as last time).

• Finally reaching the conclusion to realize you have no memory of what was actually said in this paper.

• Beginning the discussion by unabashedly stating: ‘Can you please give me a summary?’

• When all else fails, opting to write a blog about the experience, rather than actually reading the required paper.

Gender and Technology: Week 3: A Man's World

Recently, two of my friends (J and D) and I decided to start doing a course on Gender and Technology. We pick up readings for each week and then get together and discuss them. This is me turning this learning course into a blog opportunity.

Gender and Technology: Week 3

A Man's World

When I was teaching in a government school in India back in 2011, there was a classroom that was filled with wooden planks and other tools. It was mostly kept locked up. Occasionally, however, I’d see a group of teenage boys making their way in and out of that room.

When I asked the other teachers about it, they said that the boys would go there to learn carpentry. 

My first reaction was, “That’s pretty cool.”

My second reaction was, “What about the girls?”

The teacher responded, “Oh, they have sewing classes at that time.”

*********

This week’s reading of our gender and technology course went a little bit over my head, as it covered different schools of thought in feminism regarding technology. However, a few points hit home that I’d like to highlight.

Women have historically not been a part of technological spaces.

One reason for this is the mindset of the society, where we tend to associate technology with ‘masculinity’. 

• It’s for this reason that girls were taught to sew, while boys were taught to work with tools. 

• It’s for this reason that the ‘science’ batches usually had fewer girls than boys, as was the case with engineering. 

• And conversely, it’s for this reason that men struggled with the social stigma associated with taking on courses that were not masculine enough (a friend of mine faced a lot of backlash from his family when he opted to study ‘writing’ in college).

As a society, we’ve been programmed, and we’ve continued to program children with believing that science and technology are the domains of men, whereas arts and humanities are ‘soft subjects’, better suited for women.

Another reason, apart from the social beliefs and expectations and stereotypes, are the structural barriers in themselves.

• If a girl was able to break away from the belief that she was meant to learn sewing, she still could not take the carpentry class, since that was only available for boys. The reverse was equally true.

• If a woman managed to get the required education to enter the fields of science and technology, she would have a much lower probability of being hired compared to a man with similar qualifications.

I know I’m using the past tense here, but these aren’t necessarily issues of the past. They’re still relevant today, as generalizations based on gender and workspace discrimination continue to shape our beliefs of what careers are more ‘suitable’ for women.

J pointed out that we can actually extrapolate these same ideas out of science and technology into other fields, such as that of the army, where we continue to see similar debates raging.

I suppose things are changing, especially with the onset of digital technologies. But even as more women begin to enter the world of technology, are our mindsets really changing?

********

Reading source for this week: Wajcman, Judy. "From Women and Technology to Gendered Technoscience." Information, Communication & Society 10, no. 3 (2007): 287–98.

कुछ दबे हुए अल्फ़ाज़

कुछ अल्फ़ाज़ हैं दबे हुए

बेचैन, जोश से भरे

निकलना चाहते हैं

उभरना चाहते हैं

अपने पंख खोल, उड़ना चाहते हैं

वक़्त की कोई समझ नहीं इन्हे

कभी भी फुदकना शुरू कर देते हैं

कभी चलते

कभी सोते

बिन बुलाये, दिन भर खटकते रहते हैं

पर जितना जोश अंदर दिखाते हैं

उतनी ही कायरता बाहर

क्यूंकि होठ खोलते ही

कलम उठाते ही

न जाने कहाँ खो जाते हैं

शायद डरते हैं ये

अपने होने के अंजाम से

उन्हें शाबाशी मिलेगी 

या फिर नफरत 

इस सोच में थम जाते हैं

मन ही मन मुझसे कहते हैं

एक दिन अपना चेहरा दिखाएंगे

जो खामोश हैं जज़्बात

उन्हें साथ लाएंगे 

इन बेड़ियों को पीछे छोड़ आएंगे 

मगर उस दिन के इंतज़ार में

न जाने कितने पल गुज़र जाएंगे

ऐसा न हो

की उस पल के आते

ये अल्फ़ाज़ ही ख़तम हो जायेंगे

************

Kuch Dabe Hue Alfaaz

Kuch alfaaz hain dabe hue

Bechain, josh se bhare

Nikalna chahte hain

Ubharna chahte hain

Apne pankh khol udna chahte hain

Waqt ki koi samajh nahi inhe

Kabhi bhi fudakna shuru kar dete hain

Kabhi chalte

Kabhi sote

Bin bulaye, din bhar khatakte rehte hain

Par jitna josh andar dikhaate hain

Utni hi kaayarta baahar

Kyonki hoth kholte hi

Kalam uthaate hi

Na jaane kahaan kho jaate hain

Shaayad darte hain ye

Apne hone ke anjaam se

Unhe shabaashi milegi

Ya phir nafrat

Is soch mein tham jaate hain

Mann hi mann mujhse kehte hain

Ek din apna chehra dikhayenge

Jo khaamosh hain jazbaat

Unhe saath laayenge

In bediyon ko peeche chhod aayenge

Magar uss ek din ke intezaar mein

Na jaane kitne pal guzar jayenge

Aisa na ho

Ki uss pal ke aate

Ye alfaaz hi khatam ho jayenge

Gender and Technology: Week 2: Work? What Work?

Recently, two of my friends (J and D) and I decided to start doing a course on Gender and Technology. We pick up readings for each week and then get together and discuss them. This is me turning this learning course into a blog opportunity.

Gender and Technology: Week 2

Work? What Work?

Well, we had our second week of discussion on the course, and the good news is that this time, we all did the correct reading (though J did have to make up by reading last week’s paper, which I’m happy to say she vented about as strongly as us). 

Apart from a few initial tech glitches (which only highlighted the irony of the course as J had to ask her husband for help every time her audio went off), we had a rather interesting discussion. This week’s paper was about the impact that the industrial revolution had on the home, and in the lives of women in particular.

Here’s an overview of the paper:

• There has been little study on the impact of industrialization on the home. Of this, the dominant belief has been the ‘traditional view’. As per this view, it was assumed that with the onset of new technologies and home appliances, the work of housewives reduced considerably, freeing up their time. However, ideologies did not shift, and as a result, women suffered from role anxiety, or entered the job market, or took to ‘burning their brassieres and demanding attention’. 

• The author of this paper (Cowan) challenges this view. As per her study, although new appliances might have eased the physical work involved in household work, it didn’t necessarily free up women’s time. Old tasks were replaced by new ones. Eg: As a mother, women had to prepare special infant formulas, sterilize their bottles, ensure they ate nutritionally balanced meals,  consult with their teachers frequently, chauffeur them to extra lessons (help was less frequently available, and new theories on child care was increasing their responsibilities and expectations). The discovery of the "household germ" led to almost fetishistic concern about the cleanliness of the home, and as a result, clothing and linen had to be washed a lot more frequently than before.

• However, it was not just the work that had changed / increased: it was the emotional expectation attached to this work. I’m going to use a screenshot of the paper here, because I think it conveys it best:

Excerpt from paper (yes, I had to highlight the entire para)

• Women who failed at these tasks were made to feel guilty or embarrassed: guilty of their sons go to school without a proper breakfast; guilt if their infants had not gained enough weight; guilty if the bathroom sink was slightly dirty; guilty if they failed to see the signs of an oncoming cold; guilty of their daughters are unpopular because of old-fashioned, or unironed or dirty dresses. Or embarrassed if their drains were clogged, embarrassed if accused of having body odour, and so on.

• A large role here in setting up these emotional expectations was played by advertisers, which sold this idea of what a good housewife had to be (few advertisements added below).

• In some ways, the impact that the industrial revolution had on women was the opposite of what you’d expect from a labour force: instead of their roles becoming more specialized, there were becoming jack of all trades; and instead of the emotional context associated with the work disappearing, it was getting enhanced.

********** 

While the paper in itself was interesting, it led us down a path of discussion that was far more intriguing: on the role of the housewife, and the ‘value’ we associate with it.

I remember many years ago, asking a class of 8th grade students to raise their hands if their fathers worked. Everyone raised their hand. Then I asked them to raise their hands if their mothers worked. Very few of them did.

When prodding further, we eventually reached this question: Why do you think that the work your mother does at home isn’t work? 

There was no answer.

We’ve all been trained to think that ‘work’ is something that results in earning money: something that traditionally, the men of the house did. But the work that traditionally women did: cooking, cleaning, looking after the children, has never really been seen as work. We don’t think of it as work. The men don’t think of it as work. And sadly, the women doing it also don’t think of it as work.

Why is this important? Because when we don’t see something as an ‘economic activity’, we tend to de-value it. Never mind that it aids the other members in the house in partaking in the economic activity, it’s still something that’s largely been looked down upon. 

And in the recent decades, the complexity has only increased. 

Women across the world are entering the ‘economic workforce’. But even so, in many marriages, they are still seen as the primary person responsible for the home. This is further enhanced when they have children. It’s not uncommon for women to extend their maternity leaves and continue to be the person who stays at home and takes care of the child. 

But why is this a problem?

Because we as a society still don’t see this as work. 

As a result, many women in today’s world often find themselves caught between two conflicting forces: one telling them that they should put the home and family first, and that everything else can take a backseat; and the other telling them that taking care of the home and family aren’t valuable enough activities, and that they need to get back out to do the real work. 

As J put it, the expectations (from others and now ingrained into the self) are overwhelming: ‘To be a better mother, to be a better housewife, to be well read, to have hobbies, to be well informed, to get back to a career. Because the core part of the work isn’t valued enough, so you’re constantly feeling the expectation to push yourself to do more. And nothing feels enough.’

In some ways, the cycle is never ending. The bar just keeps getting raised time and time again. And so you have examples of these ‘superwomen’ who do it all and with a smile - home, family, career, hobbies. But the remaining majority find themselves feeling more and more like failures, because society constantly tells them that their lives have now become so easy compared to what it was many decades ago, and that they’ve got the option to do whatever they want, and if these women can do it all, then clearly something’s wrong with them for not being able to do it as well.

Cowan wrote this paper studying the lives of middle-class American women in the 1920s, but it could just as easily apply today. There’s an assumption that with the onset of technology, household work has become easier. It has, there’s no doubting that. But the time that got freed up by technology has been filled up with countless other small tasks, all coming with ever increasing levels of emotional baggage and guilt tripping (ask any new mother).

But still, we don’t think of it as ‘work’. 

******

This week's paper:

Cowan, Ruth Schwartz. "The 'Industrial Revolution' in the Home: Household Technology and Social Change in the 20th Century." Technology and Culture 17, no. 1 (1976): 1–23.

For anyone interested, an amazing story titled, 'My Mother Never Worked'.

Some advertisements from 1920s:

(The next one is not directly connected with the theme, but couldn't stop myself from adding it).