Rashmi's Space

One day the men of the world bristled, At the women and their gall – The women who always made them feel That they were good for nothing at all! Coffees in the morning, Breakfasts, dinners and lunch, Cakes followed, and cookies, and snacks, And the cocktails even covered the brunch! The men never cooked any meals you see, They never helped around the house – And even when it came to minding the kids, They squirreled away like a mouse! The women never said anything, of course, But it was there for all to see; So the men thought and thought; and thought and thought and thought, How they would ever equal, the Queen Bee?!   Then they came up, with a brilliant plan, Which they thought would never fail; Their women were sure to fall for their trick, The maidens, so fair, and frail – So they bought them clothes and trinkets, And diamonds and emeralds, so swell; And then they got them beautiful houses, And thought t...

Dear Rashmi… That is how they begin. Each of them. With that endearment. No, not because they know me personally. They don't. They just have my name in their database. Like millions of others. And an email id, or phone number, that is stored with them. So that they can send me messages exactly three times every year – once on my birthday, once on my anniversary, and once on Women’s Day. And since neither my birthday, nor my anniversary falls on Women’s Day, I get to enjoy the discounts and special offers they entice me with, on three different occasions! Awesome, right? And they are of all sorts! But the best are the ones who wish to sell me jewellery at a huge discount. And I cannot believe they are being so generous. I mean, really. If it weren’t Women’s Day, would I think of buying jewellery? Of course not! I would be busy doing what I would do on any other day – cook, clean, do the laundry … you know, the normal chores. But not for a moment would I think of jew...

“Don’t run on the lawn!” Meera looked up from her laptop. It was Sunday morning and while Meera caught up on her mails and other news, Pari, her niece, and Ayah, Pari’s caretaker-cum-nanny-cum-companion-cum-governess were in the garden. Ayah was pruning the roses, while Pari was jumping around the garden and playing in the shade of the orange trees lining the compound wall. All the time, trampling over the lawn that Ayah had freshly watered – hence, the reprimand. Meera smiled. Ayah was good for Pari. She ensured that the girl kept her head on her shoulders despite being a ‘gifted’ child of above average intelligence, who was ‘pampered’ and ‘spoilt silly’ (according to Ayah) by Meera. It felt just like yesterday – although it was almost close to nine years now – that Pari and Ayah had walked into Meera’s home, and her life. Meera’s sister had died giving birth to Pari. Pari’s father had never been around. And thus, Meera had become the sole legal guardian to her...

My social media feed overflows with #MeToo posts. The posts started trickling in since yesterday. And today, more people – maybe emboldened by seeing posts by their close friends, or fortified by the festive spirit (read: realising that this status update can easily be overwritten tomorrow with Diwali wishes) – have come out openly speaking up about their experiences. Comments, likes, outrage, statistics – there are innumerable responses to all that is being shared as part of this campaign. Enlightening, encouraging, harrowing, inspiring – the posts run the gamut. Many of my friends have put this up as their status. Several have gone ahead and shared their experiences. A lot, have even spoken about how someone in their family – a mother, a sister, a friend, an aunt – helped them cope and even stood up to the perpetrators in some cases. Quite a few, have mentioned instances where they had done so themselves, by calling out the perpetrators and asking help from authorities. ...

“This is how you make it, isn’t it?” She smiles. Yes. She watches as the chutney, made exactly the way she makes it, is being taken out to the table where the men are having their breakfast. “What’s with the new chutney?” says Appa “Try it, it is a new recipe,” says Amma “I tried, it’s nice; very tasty, that is why I asked.” “Hmmm. Good, you like it then.” It has been over a decade. Her’s was a match made in heaven (and college). But her in-laws took time to realise that (the heaven part). And till they did, they kept reminding her about her ‘outsider’ status and her ‘other’ness and how she was ‘different’ from them. For the first six months, she wasn’t even allowed to touch any cooking. Only cleaning the kitchen and the vessels afterwards had been her job. She wasn’t supposed to touch any food preparation, especially the food that was prepared for her husband. By the end of the year, she was promoted to helping with the cutting and peeling of vegetables...

It was a bright, sunny afternoon. I was at work in the study and my little one was tinkering with my phone. Suddenly, he asked, “Who is Deepali Kamath?” And I was like, “she’s my friend, why?” To which he countered with another question, “isn’t she on Facebook?” And I was like, “What? Why are you looking at my Facebook? And why are you looking for Deepali Kamath specifically?” Now, my little one and I are, on most days, more friends than mom and son. So yes, he does have access to my phone and he does have permission to ask me any questions – and I mean any random questions! But here I was a bit intrigued by all this curiosity regarding a specific friend of mine, especially, considering I had just spoken to her yesterday; within the little one’s earshot, I might add.  So, “what’s with this sudden curiosity about Deepali?” I asked him.   "Nothing," he shrugged. "It’s just that, I find her name in your contacts list but not in Facebook; and I know you are...

“Dear girls, get a degree, start earning, buy a house and a car, give back to your parents and then get married. Don’t put your 100% on a man.” Saw this on social media today. It had more than a few thousand likes and hundreds of comments. Then there was another post doing the rounds on social media – about how and why women are not thrilled about the idea of wearing bindis, sindhoor, bangles, toe-rings and other similar signs proclaiming their marital status to the world. And then there is also this fact that the culture of arranged marriage (with the age of the groom never being much of a concern; but the age of the bride preferred to be in the early twenties); is seeing a significant change. The average marriage age, for the bride and the groom today has gone up considerably; especially that of the bride; which brings me back to the whole Dear girls post mentioned above. These posts stem, no doubt, from the idea of women empowerment; because frankly, in our countr...

It has been a bright and sunny day. A couple of hours before sunset, the last bright rays of the sun streak in through the window. She sits by her bay window, looking out at the garden, waiting, killing time till she has to go and attend the evening gala. It is an important day for her today. The day when the world will acknowledge her accomplishment, yet again! And she sits by her window, ready to face the world. Confidently. It wasn’t always like this, she remembers. Growing up in a home where her parents’ loyalties always lay with her brother and in a society where everyone always made it look like it was wrong for someone to be born as a woman; she always thought she was lacking something because she was not the male of the species. She has grown up seeing that it is the men who are considered superior. She has seen that it is her brother who is the apple of her parents’ eye and she is, well maybe a sour grape? Even if for a moment she decides to ignore it; the ...