Woman hood

I was at the mall with Father yesterday in the afternoon and was stopped at regular intervals by eager and beaming young people asking me to fill in forms for a Women’s Day raffle of sorts. I never did find out what I could win, partly because I had not bought anything yet and so had no bills to use to enter the draw, but also because since I never ever win anything, I was not especially interested in finding out what I could possibly win if I entered. But somewhere along the way, the age-old truism made its presence felt in my mind once again: Why does there have to be a special day to celebrate being a woman? Isn’t being a woman enough celebration?

But then again, perhaps not. Almost every day I see instances of how being a woman makes you, somehow, for reasons I never understood, less able, less deserving, less everything. In this country, at least, the great and glorious nation that is Hamara Bharat Mahan. Many many many generations ago, womanhood was exalted, given a status that was equal to or higher than that of men. This was in a more enlightened time, when the Vedas were the tenet by which life was lived. There is apparently evidence to show that in ancient times being a woman meant that you were in a way a more evolved, more aware, more privileged form of life. And then things went to hell and woman was reviled, cast to a position far lower than her male counterpart. Today, surprisingly, even the most educated and liberal man will, at some level, see women as being a little less equal, a little less capable, a little less worthy. I see a lot of it, I get some of it and I don’t like any of it.

Some years ago, I opened an account in the bank near where I live. When I filled in the forms – something I have always hated doing, since I tend to hit a glorious blank when asked deep and searching questions like ‘Do you have an account with this bank?’ or ‘What is your income tax folio number?’ – I had to write in my father’s name. Without that, I could not start banking with that institution, I was told by a greasily smiling manager when I asked why they needed that information. At which point I threw a bit of a tantrum, which could be why the bank manager still peeks warily and sideways at me whenever I go in there. I was a legal adult, I had my own source of income, the account would be in my name, so why did they need to know who my father was? Why didn’t they ever ask who my mother was, or something less gender-biased like that? I have no idea why I was so annoyed, since I am usually far more accepting and understanding of my own country and its modern culture, but I was. Be all that as it may, the account was opened, albeit with a little intervention from the aforementioned male parent, who came in and soothed every ruffled feather and fluff in the building, or so it seemed.

Today, when someone looks at me leeringly and implies that because I am a woman, and a fairly pulchritudinous one at that – though what looks have to do with anything, I do not know – I cannot possible do what a man can, I smile tolerantly and go ahead and do exactly what I want to. After much trial and error, anger and some unwanted unwonted stress, I know what I am capable of and firmly believe that those who see me as a somehow lower form of life are just plain ignorant. And I show more teeth and defeat them at their own game.

Which is the best course of action, don’t you think?