Last evening, I had the pleasure of being carried away in an extravaganza put up my daughter’s school. The children had been rehearsing since a while and in my mind, I was a little tired of the pick-up and drop amidst a heavy work schedule. She didn’t make it any easier by maintaining a shroud of secrecy over the programming. But, it was worth every bit of it and had I known what a treat we were in for, I would do it twice over and in double measure.
We were in for a beautifully curated and flawlessly choreographed immersion into the talents of young children and the love of all those who were responsible for bringing the whole show together. Right from the organized entry and categorization of the audience to the systematic walk through of the Karate display, parade team, basketball and hockey display games which also accommodated parents who wanted to shoot a hoop. There was a continuous exhibition of the gymnasts, fencers , archers and tennis champions, girls who had put in countless hours of practice and sweat to perform their moves without a break or mistake.
The crowd of parents was directed towards a display of creativity at its best through recycled materials, paintings, embroidery and craft work. Finally, they were ushered into the hall by a simple and smart method of colour coded ribbons which were distributed at the time of entry. The comperes including a teacher and two high school students hosted the entire show with effortless ease and had everyone engaged in smiles and laughter.
The performances began with songs by the tiniest tots of the school and then came the big musical that was a reveal. Titled, ‘A Museum of Untold Stories’ the fantastic and surreal production was beautifully feminist and thought provoking in its choice of subject and treatment of expression. The show integrated elements of dance, song and spoken poetry into an engrossing drama. The play used the pointlessness of an education system to show what learning could mean in its true sense. Bhama, the teacher from a tiny village became the medium through which jaded school girls learned about stories that made history. There were dances of Cuban, Afghani an African origin as well as puppetry of a Russian folktale and a dance with ropes signifying the warp and weft of our collective stories. Tug a string and you feel the vibrations even at a great distance.
I was reminded of #metoo and the ripples it created across the globe since the hashtag came into prominence. The issues facing women haven’t really changed if you stop to think about it. While great strides have been made, it is still at a heavy price and by continuous fighting with the system and battling a sense of ‘not good enough’. Equal opportunity or equal pay or shared responsibilities of parenting all are a battle or at best a negotiation until there are small victories. Of course, there is a tribe of men, secure in themselves, who are partners in the journey called life and rise to the occasion to fight these fights, be it equality of pay or opportunities to serve at the highest levels. A recent article in the New York Times articulated how the gap actually widens as the academic playground opens into the work arena.
The show ended on a highly charged note with the girls dancing to the anthem of One Billion Rising and energizing all those present in that hall. As the voices died down, I found myself beginning to explore the possibilities of using my voice to articulate the facets of being female even as I navigate the ocean that is a collective of many simultaneous histories that have happened and that continue to be written. I have been unsure about labeling myself as a feminist or non-feminist but remain keenly aware of the privileges I enjoy as a woman today. It wouldn’t have been possible were it not for those who went before me, paying for it with their lives at times. Even today, much injustice happens to those we imagine to be independent, strong women. And it remains untold and buried, the scars hidden from a world that is quick to judge, oftentimes by women themselves.
History textbooks rarely speak of everyday women warriors or activists, their stories are hidden in song and folklore. Some uncommon books that I have stumbled upon as a lay reader have been an eye opener. One of them, an anthology, Women writing in India was an eye opener into the fearless warriors of the mind and spirit. They were not the weapon wielding soldiers but thinking hearts which cut to the core of being feminine while living in a milieu that was hostile towards their free expression. Khare Master is a lovely little book that is a biography of the author’s father and gives us a peep into the story of a feminist father. It would have been a daunting task and an uphill one considering the weight of customs and traditions which extracted docility and mute obedience. Thanks to those grandmothers, mothers, fathers and grandfathers who dared to educate their girl children, I went to school.
As a subject, I wasn’t too fond of history except in Std. 8 when Ms. Shyamala taught us. She brought history alive for us with her expressive eyes and storytelling. Many years later I stumbled on Sanjeev Sanyal’s books and discovered how rich and interconnected history is. It is but an amalgamation of stories but we learn dry facts and sequences of events coloured by the version of whoever is in power. Mostly men and always the conquerors. Once the powers that ruled exited the countries they ravaged, history was rewritten with an underlying tone of propaganda. It’s never all good or bad, each side having equal measure of brutality and kindness. I wish it was taught as an exploration simultaneous movements rather than a chronological one. We do our children great disservice by forcing a linear thought when our history has been one of assimilation and subjective experience.
An evening of story-telling turned out to be a foray into landscapes of feminism, feminine, strength and hope. I don’t know what directions these thoughts and musings will take and what webs they will create. I do know that our stories remain the same through the millennia, of fears and victories, losses and bravery. I remain conscious that there remains a skewed balance between men and women across geographies. But the voices that rise are loud and getting more insistent and have more men than before. It gives me hope that perhaps someday we can see equality changing from being a state that equalizing to celebrating differences on the same stage.
I wore the saree in the image to the above mentioned show and it is one that is part of personal history as well. I had bought it for my mother on a whim when we went shopping in Kerala about a decade ago. She was hesitant to wear it since she heard the voices of her older sisters saying large prints didn’t look good on big women. Over a few wears, she grew to love it and wore it much and frequently. That holiday was a historic one for me in many ways, the first time I left a young child and took a break for a few days, albeit attached to a work trip. I also participated in a family conclave, an annual gathering of whoever was present of the grand old family on my father’s side. I met grand old uncles and distant cousins I hadn’t heard of or would ever meet again. It was an idyllic time and a happy one for the three of us. I had the opportunity to visit the ancestral home which the new owners graciously opened up for me. That was the last link to my roots and with it, I was consigned to be part of a displaced diaspora forever. My stories flow elsewhere, a history that is amorphous and not rooted to a place. My roots are memories of longing for memories that I can never have.
