An Open Letter to the Makers of #NestleEverydayMilkAdvertisement

From B&W to Colour, the representation of women.

Could it be that the owners of Nestle are all women and this is the reason why they have so many women actresses in their advertisements? Oh but it was founded in 1905, a year when women writers like Virginia Woolf and Kathrine Mansfield were busy fighting aggressively, with their pen and their paper. 

Fighting against a certain section of the society which thought women have a smaller brain and are meant to make breakfast and lunch and dinner and clean the house and host parties and bear children and stitch and take long walks. 

Or could it be that Nestle has pledged to employ more and more women because they have realised that Virginia Woolf was after all right and that  'a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction', where 'writing fiction' could mean doing whatever she desires to do. 

In my view, none of the above is remotely possible because if they would have read absolutely anything about the fate of women in a patriarchal society, their conscience wouldn't have allowed them to shoot an advertisement where there are two women, discussing what makes their tea, better and admirable to the only man in the advertisement.

Ridiculous is one small word to explain the advertisement.

Nestle, my dushman, you're reaching thousands of people, and the message you choose to give out to the women in the society is that however progressively they're dressed, all they'll do is make tea and try to impress the male in the family? Who is taking all these ad making decisions anyway? Insecure mainstream men of the 17th century?

And the newspaper! Women don't read newspaper? I read three, in one day. Just saying.

I do realise that it's not solely the social responsibility of the advertisers to make sure that they don't strengthen the stereotype, but in their quest of being able to 'relate' to the people I am afraid they are doing just the opposite. My mother doesn't make tea and so, she doesn't relate herself with the advertisement, I make tea but I don't expect myself to make tea for somebody everyday like it's my duty and so, instead of relating to the advertisement, I find it irritating. It's plain wrong.

Madhuri Dixit, one Indian talented actresses of all times, known for her dancing skills, known for taking up bold roles is doing what in a Nestle advertisement? Dancing and making food for the entire family, adults or children no bar.

My dad makes delicious food, he cooks for us. Take that, Nestle.

It's not just Nestle, there are other brands involved in this showing-off that -we are all in for the women's movement and we're doing our part in trying to change the society - take LG.



Sundrop advertisement, the woman's serving the food, and the man is the happiest alive.

As if the Nestle ad was not irritating enough, they thought oh-let's-show-the-women-what-they-are-supposed-to-do-and-let's-reinforce-it-by-showing-back-to-back-pseudo-progressive-advertisements.

LG washing machine advertisement where a bunch of women, wearing dresses and heels and makeup and whatnot are dancing their way to the clouds is your treat if you're an 18th century regressive husband.

But if you're not. I empathize with you.

Take CornAgraFood's Sundrop oil. Advertisements showing women in the kitchen, in the market, buying oil, making food, feeding their husbands, their children, their in-laws and whonot. It's unbelievable that the women in the advertising industry let it pass, or could it be that we have the same fate in the advertising industry as the Dalits in the news industry.

Who knows.

Where on one hand we have advertisements which are in true sense, the warriors in this battle of representation of women in the advertisement industry, say Mahindra scooty advertisement, Scooty pep advertisement or Lloyd washing machine advertisement, on the other hand we have advertisements showing women in the kitchen, in the bathroom, in the toilet, in the market, shopping for eatables, all because men are too busy reading the newspapers and running the country.



Here is an advertisement, doing all things right.

However superficial it may seem but if women decide to boycott products which shows them as domestic beings, ya'll are going down, fellas. I'm going to quote my aunt here and say something to you on behalf of all the women who spend their time not washing, serving, cooking or cleaning but, reading, writing, coding, making softwares, hardwares, making laws, making policies, advocating, and doing other things you guys don't show in the advertisements. These are the words of wisdom my aunt gave me the other day, I need them but you need them more, so...

'...mend your ways.'

Standing Up

Blue - almost sets the tone for this week and the previous one. Blue is the colour of my toe after a part of the 50kg glass table fell on it and blue was my nail paint then, so the doctor thought I was overreacting and blue is exactly what I felt like, when I realised that it wasn't just the nail that was hurting, it was also my abdomen and my back. Thanks, clear enough PMS signs.

The toe's much better and the life, easier. Raksha Bandhan was round the corner so I thought it's the best occasion to say my thanks to that one guy, whose name I have no clue of, and whose face I don't much remember for two reason, First - It was way too dark. Second - I didn't take a good look at him. All I remember is that he was lean, dark and one hell of a person.

This goes back to the end of February, when we were busy working for our college magazine. Time then, was just another dimension and not something we had to keep a track of. I had boarded a bus at 8 in the evening. The bus wasn't crowded much so when a man who could have sat anywhere, even in the luxurious front seat with extra leg space, chose to sit next to me and make my heart overwork, change my eyes' size from M to XXXL, transform my palms into sweat pumps and make my face look like that of a grumpy cat, I freaked out.

I was paranoid. Fault of our times, my bad, but this lean-dark-one-hell-of-a-person confronted the guy and asked him to sit somewhere else. Small deed, but the peace I had on my face at that moment would have beaten the peace at a monk's face.

 He could read the signs, he was able to figure out how terrified I was, and he gathered the guts to stand up when my voice had betrayed me. I couldn't have asked the man to get up and leave the seat for no reason, but he could. I was still arguing with the voice in my head which was asking me to chill the fuck up while my face was battling hard to look normal.

The guy got down somewhere before my stop and I never got the chance to thank him but - you go man, kudos to you. Not to suggest that I always always need protection and someone else to speak up for me but sometimes, it's a relief.

Yes, a perfect, faith in humanity restored incident. Just realised.

Faith in humanity, restored.

Happy Rakhi.

Looked Back in Anger.

The number of times I have avoided writing here is directly proportional to the eve teasing incidents I have been subjected to, in the past month. Remember, I said these things can affect efficiency, that's precisely what's been happening. Precisely.

http://www.thegoldenletter.blogspot.in/2014/10/for-how-long.html

Here are the links, which will lead you to the respective pages and prove my point. Pilot woman and IAS women who studied so hard and became something, became the actual policy makers have to put their energy into filing FIRs and fighting for their rights instead of putting their energy into making policies for uplifting the poor, employing the unemployed, saving the earth and being an inspiration for the rest.

http://www.wsj.com/articles/in-afghanistan-death-threats-shatter-dream-of-first-female-pilot-1438738716

http://indianexpress.com/article/trending/idiots-are-lined-up-at-every-step-woman-ias-officer-on-the-harassment-she-faced/

http://www.thehindu.com/news/national/telangana/ts-woman-ias-officer-asked-to-file-complaint-against-magazine/article7374535.ece

I like to be a rainbow and spread positive vibes, but today's not your day, mate.

From staring like they could kill, to singing songs in the street and to stalking me till my effing house and having the nuts to ask for my phone number to creepy-boss-encounter, I literally went through hell this summer.

But unlike bad ol' days, I took control. It's not as if I have not taken control in the past but in the past, I waited for something miserable to happen to take action so this time, I snapped.

When I think of - a group of men assured of the fact that they could just look at a girl, sing creepy songs on the street, make whatever remarks they want to make and go on living their lives without any regrets, it disgusts me and I confess, it scares me to death and so, when it happened with me on the busy streets of Satya Niketan, mind you, a street just opposite to a very respected Delhi University college, I was scared and just like any other sensible person, ignorant of the beasts. Oh wait, I have read The Beauty and the Beast, and Mary Shelly's Frankenstein, calling those men beasts and monsters wouldn't be fair, might be like an insult to the poor beasts, correction - ignorant of the cheap-A-holes-ill-mannered-mentally-inferior-individuals.

My plan was to continue ignoring, but I am 21 and my family has invested some real money in educating me and my teachers, their time. I thought I mean, if I am not going to raise my voice against this, the future generation will curse me like I curse the ghosts of corset-wearing-sickly-looking-petite-Melanie Hamilton-type-women.

And so, within two seconds, I turned back and I was subjected to another remark, I thought - never mind sir, taken; given your earlier remarks on my body, no different than those of all the other women you know, say, the one who pushed you out of her womb some years ago, I understand you're not a rational human being. But then, instead of apologizing, they decided to argue with me, needless to say, an unreasonable argument 'twas.

I stood there, arguing, raising alarm, trying to hide the fact that I am shaking, exploiting my voice-box and get this - not a hint of shame in their eyes. Also, for a cafe so crowded it was Bizarre-ness personified when I figured no one is stepping forward, not that I needed them but dude, a group of six versus a 5 feet myself! You must have a really shallow sense of self to not raise your voice in a situation like this. Hope you guys at the cafe slept well that night, not.

I shook my head and went away because A) My phone's battery was dead, thanks Apple. B) I had realised that no-one else is calling the police. C) I had realised that for other people, those men had not committed any crime.

As I walked away, I was shaking inside, their smiling faces, their audacity had left me striped of my dignity and my strong self. Was this for real, I was thinking, was I paying the price for being a woman, of having breasts and a vagina? I have to fight to be able to walk on the street? No one decides, where I walk, how I walk, I don't even believe in having different countries, I don't even believe in the man made boundaries, if I had to cross the effing national border, I would. This world's not a man made thing, this world's mine and yours, of men and women and I shall walk, hop, jump, run and dance on it at my will! I am just walking down the street and you're passing comments, crazy or what?

I give tuition to some students and the other day my student who's in 2nd class complained to me about this another nursery girl at the tuition who was staring at her. She said it made her uncomfortable. A girl staring at another girl, both below 18 and the one being stared at, was uncomfortable! Imagine what it must be like for a grown up girl who knows who is staring at her and why, and it was then when I decided that I am making a real bad, scary face when someone stares at me the next time because I wouldn't want my students to feel uncomfortable walking on the street when they're my age.

The social media is flooded with theories which say that men will be men, they will get distracted, they will stare and they will turn their faces at the site of women, but what are you suggesting? That human beings have no control over their senses? Bizarre.

For the first time then, I felt helpless, like a kitten stuck on a branch, except I wouldn't want to call myself a kitten, I'd like to call myself a cub may be, at the least. Not that cats can't be strong and fierce but, I'd like to believe that if I can take all the society's BS for so long, I must have the strength of a lion.

I turned back, borrowed a phone and called a PCR. One hour later when they reached, I wrote my complaint, inquired about the cafe's CCTV cameras and questioned directly the man who was working there ; amazing liar I tell you and sure a gossip guy. Why I say a liar and a gossip guy you ask? Well, because when my friend went there the next time with a hidden voice recorder and asked about the incident, he re-told the entire story he had denied being a part of, in an extremely detailed manner, almost like the way I'd talk about my favourite novel, the story of a 5 feet myself arguing with a group of 6 feet tall guys. I reached home by 10 in the evening, got from my mom all the scoldings in the world for not being patient ; skipped dinner because I wanted to assert the fact that I was angry with her and slept with the fear that they'd hunt me down, torment me somehow and kill my life-long dream to become something, to make a difference in someone's life, to be an inspiration.

That set the theme for the rest of my summer but I thought, if my grandmother could raise six children all by herself, have a job and travel the world in the times when most women weren't even educated enough to write their name and know their age, I could totally pull this off.

One can't be a Melanie Hamilton in this century, in my opinion. One sure can learn patience and goodness and whatnot from her and these characteristics might help us when we're stuck in the traffic and our knees are on fire but to fight such lowly-misbehaved-superficial-shallow beings, taking inspiration from Scarlett O'Hara and fighting against all the odds seems like the best option and it might just prevent our future generation from cursing our ghosts, otherwise, the-submissive-insult-taking-weak-oblivious-women we would be called.

And that's that. The time, I looked back in anger.

Revelation #StoriesFromTheTrunk

Diana, while coming back from work, picked up a bottle of champagne and called Mrianne, her collegue and her confidante. Mrianne was on a long leave for she was working for her personal project which she wasn't supposed to be working at, in the office. Diana wanted to meet Mrianne for she knew that her life was changing, bit by bit, and for good. Diana had broken up with Ron on a 'trivial matter', a 'trivial matter' - Ron's term, but for Diana it was a question of survival. 

   She had valued choice and freedom all her life, she had grown up on those terms, she had chosen Ron over many- many dear things and all that, without a moment of regret. But this morning, when she was talking to Ron over phone she knew she'd be calling Mrianne over for a glass of champagne. Not that she wanted to celebrate, she simply wanted to put an end, not with the purpose of starting afresh, just with the purpose of putting an end. 

   She had taken that decision the moment Ron had spoken his very first words on the phone that morning, she loved his voice but hated the authority he spoke with, she loved the way he spoke, but hated what he spoke. She started to think about all the possible ways she could have given him a hint that he had any power over her. She lost track of Ron's words, and dismissed the idea of giving him any hints that might make him feel like he has power over her. It was too strong a word for her and too strong an idea. The idea of an individual having power over the other amused her 'how could he possibly think that it is all right for him to talk to me with such authority' she thought to herself, until now, she had completely lost track of what Ron was saying. She knew for a fact that she had to put an end to her misery, she did not speak with authority with him and he wasn't supposed to do that either. She knew she was going to end it.

   While Ron spoke on the phone, she smiled , for her it was like a revelation. She thought of all the stories she had heard about, read about. Stories of love and war, of men and women. She laughed and stopped herself from dramatizing her own life while Ron spoke on the phone, she found Ron still speaking continously on the phone while she imagined calling Mrianne over. 

   She had already started to like the change in herself, so much that she smiled while making breakfast for herself, rewarded herself with extra honey on her bread, shook her head with amusement, called herself muddleheaded and left for work. The day seemed shorter than ever and before she could even realise, she was on her way back home, calling Mrianne. 

"Ashamed of being a Hindu, not."

 India has a very long and lengthy history of communal violence but at no point of time have I felt ashamed of belonging to a particular religion, and why should I? Is it not a well known fact that life is sacred and no religion makes it okay for an individual to take another individual's life?

    I was never ashamed of belonging to a particular religion, what has however surprised me time and again is that there survives a human being who so completely, so blindly follows one religion, worships one God and still has the time and the energy and the heart to hate another religion, conspire against it and kill others not of his type.

   What harm can a building do? You build a temple, a mosque, a church, employ a priest, a man of the God who talks about Him, read from the holy books and interprets them for you - people visit these building and buy religious commodities from other people and the holy man too makes a little amount of money and runs his family. In this scenario, if people get what they want, a place for their peace of mind and others make their livelihood, would I be wrong in suggesting that it's a business and would it be that strange? Would it not be a yet another, well known fact ?

   Who are these people then, who are benefited by burning down the houses to rubble, who are these people then, who are so insecure about their religion that they are creating hardships for the others, what incentives, what gifts, what gold, what glory, what have their own religion given them that they are so much against the other person's God?

   If Fortitude( dhairya ) , Forgiveness( mahopeksh ) , Restraint( gupti), Purity (pavitrya ) , Control over sense organs ( samyam) , Intelligence ( avgam ) , Knowledge ( abhiyam ) , Truth( satyat), Absence of anger (akrodh) are the ten characteristics of Dharma, how exactly are they, the Dharmvirs, those who follow the principles of Hinduism.

   If according to Mahabharta, "..that man is a wretch who is not fulfilled with jealousy at the sight of his enemy's prosperity" are not all these men wretches?

  If these people inflict violence on other people, cause harm to them and if they don't follow the principles of their own religion, why should we associate them to Hinduism or any other religion for that matter?

   These are the hypocrites who wish to use the religion they are born with as their weapon for their selfish purposes, for money and needless to say for power. These could be the illiterates who have not  understood their religion themselves and the lessons of hatred have been passed to them by the rich and the powerful, the jealous and the wretches, these could also be the small children, the young minds who do not yet understand the purpose of religion in their lives, could these also be the pseudo - religious youngsters in their 20s or 30s who have been manipulated, shown a dream, promised land and other resources in return of their 'duty' to the religion, by these wretches?
 
   Sometimes, these are the needy, working for the rich and the powerful, an example of which we saw in Kashmir in 2010 where locals were paid Rs. 400 - 6 US dollars - 5 Euros - per week to pelt stones on the security forces - Why would people choose consciousness over hunger?

http://timesofindia.indiatimes.com/india/A-stone-pelter-in-Kashmir-gets-paid-Rs-400-a-week/articleshow/7173104.cms?referral=PM

   When Tom Hanks, in the movie Cast Away is stuck on an island, alone and  thousands of miles away from his homeland, he rests his faith in a non-living thing, in a football. That non-living thing acts as an embodiment of the belief he had in himself and helps him get through the difficult time. That is what religion is all about, resting our faith in something or somebody, it's about getting one through his rough days, rough times, it isn't meant to be used as a reason for violence. Religion is not about violence, it never was. I know because my grandmother has never uttered a word to me about communal violence.and she has read and understood the principles of Hinduism herself.

    In spite of all the efforts of the elderly and the spirituals in my family I don't often offer my prayers to the God, if there is any. I don't go to temple, don't fast and neither do I sing religious songs but I know for a fact that I am a better Hindu than any of those who are and have been behind the communal riots in Ballabgurh, in other parts of this country or abroad and so, if there is anybody who should be ashamed for their religion, it must be them.

http://www.huffingtonpost.in/2015/05/30/ballabgarh-riots-muslim_n_7475094.html
  

I Took The Ladder

27th May, 2015


There are days when more than one thing goes wrong and today, was just that day. Even those who don't believe in signs and in the universe tend to doubt themselves when things like these happen. One starts to think and re-think about the rules of the universe. When I got up after writing my exam today I realised that the universe has been trying to tell me something, I am sounding like Rohda Byrne, I know, but these incidents, in themselves didn't make sense, really, but together, they did.

#Sign1 - The stupid law of gravity acting smart. 

Spilled a glass full of mango shake on my clothes just before leaving. 

#Sign2 - The realisation that my next buy should be a compass. 

My motor skills suck and that's no secret but my uncle's motor skills weren't working  either, he got confused and we ended up using the best navigation available, the roadside-navigation-service-providers, the-choor-choor-naan-guys. 

#Sign3 - When hard luck struck real hard. 

I entered the university, walked till the centre and waited there for 15 minutes for the exam to start, just when I was going to enter, I checked the list and realised that the rooms have been changed. 

#Sign4 - The sucky motor skills of the lift. 

Went to the next centre, took the lift for the third floor, pressed the button '3' two hundred crore times, it took me to the basement, yeah.  

#Sign5 - Laddar to the rescue. 

Reached the centre, sat on my desk and realised that I'll have to climb a laddar, cross a bridge, go straight from the roundabout and then take a boat from between the forests and walk another mile to reach the desk -_- The space between the bench and the desk seemed more than the distance between Jack and Rose after Jack's death. 

Sign6 - Feeling sinking in.

Somehow after changing my position 20 crore times, I adjusted and realised that two of my new pens weren't working, I had to fill 30 odd pages.

Sign7 - Killed my vibe. 

The half sleepy invigilator made eye contact with me as if I was doing something shady and by then the feeling had possessed me, completely. I knew for a fact that it's not my day and I should probably just sit quietly, write my paper and get out of the hall as soon as possible and so I did. Rationality is something I have always believed in, but it's my brain which acts funny sometimes, or is it that my brain is programmed in a way to draw meaning out of everything  everything?

Her universe #StoriesFromTheTrunk

It must have been around 3 in the morning when Molly got home. She was again late from her work and her fifteen year old son had fallen asleep. She opened the refrigerator and took out a can of beer, she closed her eyes and sighed, silently. She looked at the beer can and thought to herself, had she failed as a mother?

   She took a sip and thought, had she been too selfish in filing for the divorce? She opened her eyes and found herself crying, she had always hated crying, pertaining to the stigma attached with it. ' Women have a shorter and a shallower tear duct than men ', she had read that somewhere, she reminded herself that she is still radical, it was the tear duct that was at fault. She was trying to comfort herself, was overthinking every bit, but what else could she have done? She had realised that she was falling apart, piece by piece. She knew that she could not deal with the guilt all by herself, but she was, all by herself. She had chosen this life and had she not been sorry for her son, she would have been content. According to her, this life with emotional outbreaks and guilt was much better than the life she had been living with her husband.

    Johnes was everything Molly was not and this was why they got together at first but once they were done discovering each other they could not bear each other. Their ideology, their philosophy for life was way too different. Their son, Peter had no idea about the differences but as he grew up he too thought that it was better for both of them to separate, although he was only fifteen years old, Molly had always thought that he had an old soul. A soul which has seen everything, understood everything and was in a fifteen year old's body just so that he could stand by her.

   Molly used to believe in the universe until her divorce, post divorce, she could not stop blaming herself, the only thing she did not want to give her son was, a life without a father but she could not do anything about it. She felt helpless and tired ; mentally tired. She could perform all the duties of a father but she could never replace the touch of a father.

   She knew Peter was understanding enough that his parents can't live together and that was what was eating her, she knew Peter wouldn't crib, she knew Peter wouldn't say a word for he understood her mother more than her she understood herself, but she also knew that that could be his parasite too. His own suppressed desires might start feeding on him one day, and what will she do then?

    She was so completely torn between her son's desires and her freedom, she could not deal with her own self anymore. She sat on the rocking chair and finished her can, she stared at the wall and cursed the universe until she fell asleep.

The Suffering #StoriesFromTheTrunk

The Day He Froze, Again.

It was 5 '0' clock in the morning. He got up and started thinking about the day that had passed. He closed his eyes hard and tried not to recall the moments. He was terrified, sweat dripping off his forehead, his eyes blood shot, his lips white and his cheeks scarlet with the realisation of the gravity of the situation.

 At 5 in the morning, this was all very surreal for him, he tried to get up from the bed, stretched his hand to reach for his specs which were kept on the metallic bedside table, next to the Father's day card his son had made for him. He couldn't recall keeping his specs on the table the night before. He figured his wife, Martha would have removed the specs while he was asleep, and kept it there. He hastened with it, took his legs out of the quilt slowly, trying not to wake Martha up. His legs had been cold even under his quilt.

   As he keeps his feet on the carmine carpet, he feels a relief. The carpet was warm and comforting. He takes a deep breath and tries to block the memories of the horrible incident of the previous day, he stands up, his hands hanging from his body like that of a dead person, his steps, firm, his head, steady, his eyes, blank and his pace, slow. 

   He walks to his son's room and keeps the palm of his hand on the bed and feels the quilt, he sits on the messy white table lying beside the bed and keeps his head on the pillow as if, trying to smell his son. He finds the bed empty and gets up from the table, slowly, moving away from the bed, the memories of all those fifteen years, coming back to him, bit by bit. He sits on the floor and presses his hand hard against his mouth, trying to sob without making a sound, taking in all that had happened.The lose of his ten year old son, who had died fifteen years ago in a car accident on the 6th of October 1998. For him, it was the 7th of October.

   He had been waking up at five in the morning, feeling like it's the 7th of October 1998 since fifteen years. He had not been able to forget and move on even after Martha's several attempts. Martha felt that she was luckier, she did not have to go through the pain, the agony, the suffering of losing a son, every morning, like her husband.  

**********