The Next Big Thing

Tag! You're it. Or at least, I'm it. Yep, after many a moon and many seasons I am (a) blogging again and after even more moons and more seasons I am (b) doing a tag. There has been much excitement in my personal life chez nous which I will not be blogging about. If you are in my life and a Facebook friend you would have hardly missed this momentous event. So, since this is the Writing Life, this post is to do with writing. I'l raise a toast (or three) to more blogging in 2013.

My wonderful writer friend, Daniela Norris has asked me to participate in 'The Next Big Thing,' 'The Next Big Thing' is an internet project in which authors from different countries with different ways of live and diverse writing backgrounds respond to the same ten questions about their current work in progress. Daniela was tagged by Gwyneth Box and she discusses her own upcoming book of poetry, Around the corner from Hope Street here.

So, here are my responses to ten questions about one of my works in progress ("one?" you ask? Yep, because I got two. So there!) 

What is the title of your book?

I'm currently working on my first book-length non-fiction project tentatively titled The Warrior Queens of India. It is part history, part memoir and travelogue.

What genre does your book fall under?

I really have a beef about genres in writing because I believe there is good writing and bad. I'm glad this question wasn't asked when I was in the middle of writing fiction because my response would have been longer. So, technically for this book the genre would be non-fiction--which is a true genre (unlike the dissected-to-death genres within fiction for instance).

Where did the idea come from for your book?

You could say it was an idea that was right under my nose. I had read about some of the warrior queens in history books but they were so much a part of the historical tradition in India that they hid in plain sight. And then, one day, when I was still in Geneva, I thought about the most famous one (Lakshmi Bai of Jhansi) and discovered a hankering to read about some of the lesser known ones. I came back and did some web research and found out a singular lack of information about these amazing women--amazing historical people. How was it possible? I decided then to combine them together into a book. The world--especially women--needed to know about these historical role models. The added bonus is that their stories are full of high adventure and intrigue which makes them a great read for everyone. 

Which actors would you choose to play your characters in a movie rendition?

All I can say is no glossy, pretty Hollywood or Bollywood types. I would like to scout and find intense, obscure stage actors for the queens but I think I can find spots for Irrfan Khan and Naseeruddin Shah and Shabana Azmi. There is probably no role for Gerard Butler or Colin Firth but I am sure I can find roles for both of them *wink*

What is the one sentence synopsis of your book?

Even crushed under the weight of empire, a strong woman can be a mighty warrior.

Will your book be self published or represented by an agency?

I am represented by The Rights Factory. 

How long did it take you to write the first draft of your manuscript?

Since it is non-fiction I am still working on it. I made two month-long trips to India for research and travel and I've spent a lot of time on writing and research. Writing might end up being the most relaxed and relaxing part of this journey,

What other books would you compare this story to within your genre?

Wow! Hmm. I really don't know. Some books by Antonia Frasier. Perhaps White Mughals by William Dalrymple?

Who or what inspired you to write this book?

The dichotomy of being an Indian woman inspired me. It's something that has always inspired me. The strongest and most inspirational women I've met, seen or read about have been Indian. And, of course, some of the most atrocious things that happen to women have been Indian. I always say I was shocked when I came to the US and other young women bemoaned the lack of strong female role models. There was no dearth of them in India. There were historical role models who were warriors, mythological strong women, and of course, I grew up in the age of Indira Gandhi. I wanted to highlight this often overlooked (in the West at least) aspect of Indian womanhood.

What else about your book might pique the reader's interest?

India--and Indian women especially--are seen as objects of pity, something exacerbated by the highlighting of atrocities against women in India. However, I believe people--even those in India who might have overlooked this--need to be aware that Indian womanhood is not analogous to victimhood. Our major role models are not just warriors and other fierce women. 

Apart from the historical aspects of the book readers might also be interested in reading about the travels of a woman traveling alone all around India. If the reader likes travelogues memoirs and history and feminism or any or all of these this book will appeal to her/him.

Thank you for reading my blog. Here are the links to the blogs of five wonderful writers four of whom will be answering the same ten questions about their work-in-progress or upcoming book. The fifth, Judy Bussey writes about growing up in the hills of Kentucky and is just fascinating. Just click on their names and read on!

Paula Read

Katie Hayoz

Susan Tiberghien

Daniela Norris

Judy Bussey

Crime and Punishment: A Rape in Delhi

Today the Delhi police arrested and blasted with water cannons those protesting the brutal gang-rape that sparked protests and social-media outrage. There are pictures too—of a young jean-clad woman being dragged away by cops. And of signs exhorting the death penalty for rape. And multitudes of young people protesting apathy or outright police and politician collusion with criminals in India’s capital.

This has been a media and social media sensation: the awful terrifying details of the rape, the petitions to make death penalty the punishment for the crime, the updates on the condition of the ICU-bound victim. No…not victim. The survivor. She was left for dead. She survived. She is no victim. A victim does not fight. She fought to live.

And that is why I am against the death penalty for rape crowd. Rape is an awful, terrible, horrific crime but it is not the same as murder. Anyone who is raped, , anyone who has been brutalized and lives is a survivor. If they do not, then by all means apply the penalty for murder. First figure out what rape is, what it really means before you start applying penalties. Penalties, which seem to equate rape with death. Rape is one of the most horrific things to happen to a woman. But it is not the worst. Not surviving a rape is the worst. No matter how much she suffers, dying is still worse. Because until there is life there is a promise of a future. And women do not need to be told that being raped is the end of everything good in their lives. That is giving too much power to the rapist, the men who feel like men only when they take by force what was not theirs to take. Equating rape to death makes women eternally suffering victims.

For too long has rape been akin to murder and to do so is to diminish the survivor. It feeds into the motivations between honor killings, as in the destruction and besmirching of some man's property.As if the one raped is forever tainted by being forced to have something that mimics sex. Being raped is not the burden of the survivor. The only one dishonored is the perpetrator. Being raped does not make a woman less a woman. It does not make her less alive. It does not make her less in control of her future.

Remember those old movies where the raped woman had only two options: to kill herself or to become a prostitute? That is how Indian society has viewed raped women. If you are a good girl, recognize your dishonor and kill yourself. If not, then recognize that the forced violation of your body has left you with only one recourse, to become a slut and a vehicle for men’s lust. 

Bullshit!

The best revenge a survivor has is to go on with her life. The only way is to go forward, to testify, to face her assailants and gain the courage to take her life back. Rape is a crime and it needs to be punished. But is death penalty the solution? Why?

The severity of the punishment is not the solution. Some kind of punishment is the solution. India has the lowest conviction rates around. Where is the outrage against that? Why is there no outrage that there are really no forensics or scientific evidence given in Indian courts? Even rape cases become a he said-she said scenario with eyewitness accounts and other archaic tools. So then if a survivor is left paralyzed or unable to speak how do her assailants get prosecuted?

If a rapist (as in this case) is from a lower socio-economic class he might get sentenced. This is still the Indian justice system right? Where the police catch a hold of the first poor person, beat the hell out of him and force him to confess to a crime even if the perpetrator was someone else—especially if that someone is rich of well-connected. This is also the India where cops believe that a woman who drinks or who has consensual sex has no business complaining about rape. It is also the India where the “what was she wearing to bring it on,” is still used successfully in court an where judges take moralistic stances against those who are raped and advise them to get married to their rapists.

So it doesn’t matter if rape gets the death penalty. Or if at the point of death we cut the man down, whip him and string him up again ten times. It doesn’t matter because the conviction rates for any crime are so low. It doesn’t matter because as a nation we still don’t agree on what rape is.

I’ll tell you what it’s not. Rape is not about sex. What is it about? It is about control. And violence. And rage. And domination. It is about inflicting physical, emotional and psychological damage. The fact that it takes on the parody of a sex act is incidental. Sex is about pleasure. And it is about mutual choice and consent. Rape is about pain and the lack of choice and the steamrolling of consent.

We might ask why Indian men have so much anger against Indian women? So much anger that makes them leer and touch and molest and assault openly. Rage that makes them rape and attack? What lets them worship a goddess and kill his female fetus or his already born daughter? There is something, something that is making our male-female ratio plunge to alarming numbers. Something that makes them want to annihilate women. Not all men and not all women but enough to make me wonder. Why? And how can we reverse this trend. Can we? Can Indian women get justice? True justice, not reactionary, bandaid justice.

So the Delhi Police might blast away protestors—men and women—but they cannot blast away the truth. Rape is an act of violence. And it needs an appropriate punishment. What that punishment is can be debated later. What we need are profound changes so that survivors can live with their heads held high and perpetrators get appropriate sentences and the justice system is indeed about that most elusive thing of all—justice.

Overdue tag

Amrita tagged me...and though I am not feeling quite so bushy-tailed these days I thought I'd take a crack at it. Here goes: 22 things guys always wanted to know about women, and my responses.

1. How do you feel after a one night stand?
Feelings are over-rated


2. Do you ever get used to wearing a thong?
I don't know but the next I'll ask the 80-year old guy at the pool. I especially like the white hair peeking out...ummm...was that too much information? *shudders*

3. Does it hurt?
What do you think?

4. Do you know when you are acting crazy?
Who the fuck are you calling crazy? Huh? Huh? Tell me. Tell me now.


5. Does size really matter?
Depends on the size.


6. When the bill comes are you still a feminist?
Depends on how much the bill is.

7. Why do you take so long to get ready?
You think this fierceness deserves anything else? Puh-lease!

8. Do you watch porn, too?
What do you mean too, you pervert?

9. Will something from Tiffany’s solve everything?
Yep, as long as it's not that sorry-assed keychain again.

10. Are guys as big of a mystery to you as you are to us?
*laughs hysterically*

11. Why do you sometimes think you look fat?
Because I read way too many trashy glossies. Damn! Where's the skinny mirror?

12. Why are you always late? (oh yeah, see question six!)
Maybe I'm not late...maybe you're early. Ever think about that smart guy?

13. Does it bother you when we scratch?
Depends on who you're scratching...or what?

14. Do you wish you could pee standing up?
You mean I shouldn't be standing up to pee? Damn!

15. Why do so many women cut their hair short as soon as they get married?
Mourning.

16. How often do you think about sex?
Ummm....what? I have a headache.

17. What do you think of women who sleep with guys on the first date?
Pretty much what I think of men who sleep with guys on the first date.

18. Would you?
Are you asking?

19. Do you realize every guy wants a girl just like his mom?
Sadly, yes, mainly because they have bad taste.

20. Why does every woman think she can change him?
Because we have better taste.

21. Does it matter what car I drive?
Sure, that way I can measure things that need to be measured.

22. Do you ever fart?
Silence is golden...and deadly.


I am not gonna tag anyone for this one, but if it looks interesting, go for it and do let me know if you take it up.

Cheers all!

SILENCE!!!

More than one person upon meeting me---after reading my writing and/or blog---proclaims, "Oh you're much quieter and calmer than I thought you would be."

I never know how to respond. Usually I squirm inside and feel apologetic and then come up with something inane like, "Yeah, everyone says that." Or the even more inane and pati-parmeshwar response, "Oh my husband is the outgoing, talkative one." Or the more studied and *somewhat* true response: I usually get quieter the more outgoing the othe person is. And if someone else is quiet I feel an urge to be more talkative and chatter away."

So I am clearly this strangely desperate balance-seeker of some kind or a pativrata stree as befits a nice Indian woman. What the fuck! And then I kick myself. Over and over again.

I am quiet. I am talkative. Depending on who you talk you'll get one truth.

I was the quiet child who skulked around in corners and spent hours during the summer staring at the too-bright blue sky imagining strange worlds.

I was the talkative child who would not shut up and was known as a chatterbox.

Then I became the almost too-quiet child. But still the chatterbox would emerge. In some ways I feel like I kept the loud, talker buried within. Some people saw that side of me. A few people.

But on the whole I am the kind of person who likes spending time by myself. I don't mind not talking. As long as I have a book or the Internet I'm good.

But....I only think I am quiet when someone brings this up. I don't think of myself as the silent type really. I can speak in public without dissolving into a puddle. I can make presentations and I get the usual nervousness but nothing drastic. Heck! I taught public speaking as a TA for some years. I can talk. I even like to talk. To discuss. To break ideas apart and bring them together. I like puns and jokes and when I am in my element I can make people laugh.

So, while I come up with those same, predicatable responses, apologetic for not being a phuljari, patakha kind of gal (Oh! how I wish I was, sometimes) I wonder if I am indeed quiet. Or am I putting on a show? Unconsciously...but a show nevertheless.

After this very long post I add another question: Am I a narcissist? A quiet narcissist?

A Year of Resistance

Later this May it will be a year since my essay 'War Stories,' was published in the Seal Press anthology, Voices of Resistance: Muslim Women on War, Faith and Sexuality. Nothing has changed. At least on the surface.

The world is still at war, trapped in an ever escalating cycle of violence. And women--not just Muslim women--are just still being victimized for many reasons. Killed for honor, killed for dowry, flogged for studying in Afghanistan, held down and had their genitals excised for purity, living in captivity for venturing outside the home...for resistance. It all boils down to one reason: they are killed because they are women.

The women in the anthology spanned the globe, representing almost every continent. They cut across not only racial and demographic lines but also in their degree of Muslimness. From the pious to the profane, from very Muslim to barely Muslim, all were represented. From essays to art, to memoirs and poetry, this slim volume has it all.

To me it was a work that reached behind the Muslim veil to uncover a world teeming with many and contradictory ideas. Personally for me, while writing War Stories, I broke many taboos.

I've always written honestly about myself --whether in my blog or in articles and stories--but it was in bits and pieces, vignettes. No one could really put an entire picture together. No one knew me. Now I was about to rip that away. In 'War Stories' there was no anonymity to hide behind, no disguise. This was my own story, my journey...and my resistance.

There are others braver than I, others who have resisted and overcome more, and I can only appreciate them when I think of the fear that came to the surface each time I started down to write this essay.

Fear about what my family might think and say, fear even if some crazy fundamentalist types might come knocking, fear of hurting others by my writing. I cannot even imagine the struggles of the others who wrote in the same anthology: the lesbian struggling to come out, the Afghan woman trying to make sense of her world.

In the end I am glad I wrote it, glad it was published and glad it was reviewed well. But I am most glad when I think of my own small triumph: my own resistance.

So, every May, from now on I will celebrate my resistance while thinking of those who cannot resist, those who die for resisting and those whose voices we never hear because they are stifled even as they resist inside. And I realize that wars will continue and become more violent, more tragic and yet sadly mundane. The only thing that ultimately matters is our own resistance to violence and to its insiduous reach.

Here's an excerpt from my essay:

"How do I define war? How do I redefine it? Is that even possible? For years war has been the fear that follows my mother even into her later years. Fear that blossoms like daisy-cutters in my dreams. It is being violently uprooted from long-held anchors like home, family, city, nation, and comfort. It is the understanding that places that were havens can become killing grounds, in an instant. Wars don’t even have to be fought between countries. They are fought within them, between people who live side by side. They can be fought between strangers or between brothers. Wars unleash machines of destruction from afar like mega video games. You can look straight into the eyes of your killer and he can feel the warmth of your blood on his hands before you die. War has to be felt and experienced. And it still might never make sense. Living in a culture and in a time where war is part of the constant narrative it is no wonder that its stories haunt me, though I am lucky enough never to have experienced it first-hand. "

Feminism and I: A Love Story

***Thanks indiequill.wordpress.com for roping me in to write this.

I was not even 8 when someone gave me my first International Day of the Woman button, in 1975. It was red, I remember. I loved stickers and buttons and wore this one proudly on my schoolbag. I had no idea what it meant. I thought it looked cool, whatever cool meant then. I also thought scented, pink and green erasers were cool. And red ribbons (yech) in my hair.

I was 14 when I wrote an essay in school entitled, Why I Am not a Feminist.

When I think back, these two disparate, random pieces of my life stand out. In the essay (which I discovered inside some old book a few years ago) I wrote about how I didn't need a label to be strong, to be a woman, to take what I needed to take for myself, to assert myself. I thought I was being very smart and oh, so sophisticated. I was beyond feminism. And in the process, asserted my nascent feminist self even more so. Ironic, huh?

To not call myself a feminist now, for me, is a denial. A denial of women who came before me and had to fight for everything they deserved. A denial of women who continue to struggle against oppression and degredation even now. In Indian villages, inside the claustrophobic harems of the hardcore Arab world; killed for honor in Pakistan, murdered for dowry in India, not getting equal pay for equal work elsewhere...the list goes on and on.

It is only us, who have the luxury of talking about it and not really experiencing much of what feminism had released us from, who are misguided. By denying feminism we deny the efforts of those who gave us the luxury of this talk.

It is a cop out. For someone like me, to take full advantage of the changes brought about by feminism (the right to vote, to equal rights in marriage, the right to my body, the right not to be killed at birth, to be equal to a man in the eyes of the law, etc.etc.) and then to turn around and deny the very movement that gave me these rights seems downright ungrateful.

But really, the right to not call yourself a feminist is also ironically a right bestowed by feminist thought: the right not to be labeled.

Calling myself a feminist does not, however, limit me to just being a feminist. I am not just a woman and a feminist. I am a woman, feminist, Muslim, barely Muslim, heathen-leaning...and yes, a humanist. Someone sensitive to the condition of women *and* men. Someone with an awareness that we are all in it it together. Men cannot be truly happy with repressed, unhappy women in their lives. And, yes, women cannot be truly happy with unhappy, silenced men in theirs.

I am aware that in the US, at least, at times feminist has seemed to be hijacked by selfish forces, where sometimes they have gone overboard. Where equality has been taken over by an ultra-sensitivity.

Feminism made me a strong woman not a damn shrinking violet. I can bear the occasional naughty joke. Heck, I even tell them myself. I've found the workplace strictures to be rather idiotic and onerous to women and men though I am glad that workplaces are friendlier to women than they used to be.

But that's another post. For me feminism is being me. Rather, it is one part of being me.

I am not afraid of labels. I can only be afraid of labels if I let them define me totally. Feminism does not define me. It does not constrain me or paint me in a corner. It sets me free to think and feel and respond to the world as a proud, free, and independent woman...a person. It is one part, albeit one very important part of me. And I am proud to walk in the shadow of those brave women (and men) who made it possible for me to walk tall and strong.

And to proclaim aloud: I am a feminist.

Dancing Girls

I just finished reading The Dancing Girls of Lahore by Louise Brown. So seductively disturbing. Alternate realities where 14 year old girls happily sell their virginity and mothers look at their daughters as old-age pensions. Unbroken circles of abuse, lack of choices and victimization. The strange hierarchies of izzat even within Heera Mandi. The degrees of seduction. The placement of the dupatta that identifies someone as a gandi kanjri versus a woman of some respect, even if the outside world lumps them all together as whores. There is a world of meaning in each glance, each giggle, each time the dupatta slips down to reveal the glimpse of a heaving bosom or long, flowing hair.

Why am I so interested in dancing girls and burlesque these days? In some ways, these women, owning their sexualities is a twisted kind of feminism? But, in fact, they are still victims of the shohar or the ashiq who they keep falling love with but who keeps leaving them as they grow fatter and grow more wrinkles and white hair. There's always someone younger, sexier, prettier around. Sometimes even their own daughters.

Sex is a tool for them to make money but also a weapon that denies them the identity to be anything but a prostitute. But then don't our jobs make us the same? Am I just an editor? Or something else? A writer? Struggling writer? What defines me? What makes me who I am?