Tapas: No ‘Pal’ of Mine

I promised my mother I’d write something joyful for my next blog post. Tapas Pal has other plans though. He’s elicited my snark, my wrath and my desire to introduce his cojones to the tips of the steel toed boots I intend on purchasing at the earliest (also his doing).

Picture courtesy the Tapas Pal Community Facebook page.

So, what’s new about Pal’s misogyny? How has he chosen to distinguish his brand of derogatory crap from others competing in a hotly contested race packed with chauvinists holding political office? I mean, the man needs serious game, it’s a bloody battlefield out there. With the likes of Mulayam Singh Yadav, Abu Azmi, Sudin Dhavalikar, Abhijeet Mukherjee, the Sri Ram Sena morons who don’t even deserve to be named, all piping in with winsome statements on women and how they ‘deserve’ to be treated, Pal may just prove to be a minor contender in a never-lacking-contestents competition.

However, what Pal is bringing to the table is a spanking new dimension to the talk surrounding rape in India. Finding the fondue too full already of the big cheeses – ‘asking for it’ women, ‘mistake-making’ boys, ‘against Indian culture’ behavior – Pal popped his own rancid dairy into the mix and named it: revenge. Yes, Pal has staked his claim on revenge rape. Well played, Pal.

The revenge rape statement is crucial for Pal taking top honors in a race guaranteed a photo finish. This is because, through his declaration, Pal marks himself out as a faithful misogynist. Not only does he consider rape an appropriate form of punishment for the women running counter to his political inclinations, but he also looks at rape as the worst threat possible to them. By this I mean that Pal, like every other true-blue misogynist out there, considers a woman’s worth confined to her sexual organs. In contrast he threatens the male members of the opposition with death, allowing me to draw the conclusion that Pal equates the ravaging of a woman’s genitalia to her life’s metaphoric end. The unsoiled condition of her so called ‘virtue’ is what guarantees her a life-like quality, and once that’s been pillaged, little else matters.

An apology has been tendered though, the statement filed in the Indian political establishment’s overflowing ‘error-of-judgement’ cabinet. Pal’s spiel has been relegated to the ‘babbling brought on by the “heat and dust of [an] election campaign” category’, and the follow-up apology accepted by his party and its leading lady. Deeply disappointing stuff from the tournament favorite whose unadulterated spirit came across not in the diluted expression of regret unleashed to protect his career but in the firebrand speech aimed at fostering it. A speech in which he threatened to “loose” his boys on the women of an opposing political mindset, reiterating their commitment to committing rape and, in doing so, proving his genuine worth as a real public servant.

Ladies and gents, I think we have a winner.

© Ayesha Sindhu 2014

 

 

I’m Not My Dad’s Princess

And I am not rueing the fact of my non-regal upbringing in any shape or form. In truth, I’m reacting. Yes, I’d say this post is a verbal up-chuck of sorts. It’s a regurgitation brought on by the consumption of a most vile read. The piece in question is, as the social media post suggests, a ‘dad’s speech at his daughter’s wedding.’ Having read it, I can only hope this is a fictitious father, an imaginary daughter, and a most made-up wedding where an unreal soliloquy went down.

My dad and his non-princess.

The speech seeks to ratify every unfortunate stereotype ever associated with a woman, specifically an Indian woman, and more generally with other fellow females who form part of patriarchal cultures. To summarize: the dad thinks his daughter’s a “princess” and wants her treated like a “queen” post marriage. For this he “begs” that her husband’s family, or, as he puts it, “the family for her” ensures her happiness. The tone is ingratiating and the “please keep her happy” refrain is nothing short of nauseating. The kid comes off as some insipid, voiceless lump in desperate need of being protected for she is oh-so “fragile” and someone who appears to be still in the process of becoming a full-fledged human being.

The Problem With Owning A Vagina

Going by the reports coming out of my country it would appear that being born with a vagina is insanely problematic. That’s right; as if it wasn’t bad enough that they’re awfully inconvenient. Being the proprietor of a vagina is no cake walk, for one thing it doesn’t allow you silly little freedoms that your male counterparts enjoy: for instance, you can’t whip it out of your pants and extend it toward a tree or wall or an open field for a nice pee when there’s no public restroom nearby and your bladder’s close to bursting. Peeing for a woman demands squatting, and pulling down pants and underwear or lifting up skirts and petticoats, it demands the baring of bottoms, and slowing car journeys down.

The organ is also unnecessarily leaky. In fact, when attached to a normally functioning reproductive system, the damn thing dishes out a monthly dosage of blood for the better part of your life; blood that must be absorbed by posture-altering tampons or chafe-inducing sanitary pads or something equally uncomfortable and porous. And, if your vagina has an attitude, even these instruments can fail to contain, leaving you with ruby-red stains on your posterior, and, if you’re supremely unlucky, on upholstery at a friend’s house. Oh and the shame that goes with said staining is god-awful. You’re expected to turn red in the face – not ruby but a nice flush will do – you should apologize profusely for the behavior of your vagina as you back out of a room and into a bathroom to rub your fingers raw under scalding hot water while you try to undo the evidence of a normal occurrence.  The leaky days are the worst, they ask you to be prepared with back up absorbents, interfere in your wardrobe choices, they stir up a storm in your lower abdomen and make your back feel like it spent an entire week doing hard labor.