In a few days I will leave Oxford. It would be more than six months that I have lived here, and liked most things about it. Am I sad about leaving it? A bit of yes - I have met some good people, had some good conversations, made some fond memories - and a bit of no - I go back to a land I love. Or, maybe, it is not a land I love, but a land where I feel I belong. ('Love' makes it sound more emotional and sentimental than it really is.)
On the first day when I met the other Fellows at the Reuters Institute, I was asked if I have ever wanted to live in a country apart from India. I had said no. The answer had not required much thought.
A few days ago, I was asked a slightly different question, but on similar lines - would I like to work in any other country apart from India? The answer, again not requiring much thought, was no.
Years ago, more than a decade in fact, my then boyfriend had been rather hurt when I had refused to accompany him to the US when he was making plans to study for an MS in that country.
When I was even younger, 11 or 12 I think, I had wept (in secret) at the prospect of my family migrating to the US.
So, I can claim with some degree of certainty that this is one thing about which I have been rather consistent.

My family has had (from my parents' generation onwards) several members who have made other countries (mostly the US) their home. I have grown up meeting these relatives - some of whom are very close and much loved - once every two years, or, if lucky, once a year. I have grown up wearing clothes and shoes made in the US (before all their factories moved to China); our house is full of bric-a-brac, cutlery and crockery that says 'Made in England', and I have heard stories of snow-covered driveways, log fireplaces and carpeted rooms for as long as I can remember.

Now, I have friends who lead the very lives that my uncles and aunts once led.

And now, more than ever before, I wish not to ever lead a life like theirs.

This is not to say that I disagree with every one who has ever lived away from their home country. This is to say that I am sure each one of them have their reasons, and that I don't have any. This is also to say - in a rather old-fashioned way, perhaps - that I feel I belong only in India. And no, this has nothing to do with patriotism.

I have lived away from home for a decade. I have enjoyed living in cities where no one knows me, where I have lived an anonymous life amid millions. Living alone has given me the freedom and opportunity to do things that would have been more difficult to do had I been living at home. And I have exulted in that freedom. But now, when I go back home, and walk into a photo studio to get some passport photos printed, the elderly owner looks at me with a smile and says - Aren't you X's daughter? How is your mother doing? We chat about the neighbourhood, as though we have known each other for years. Fact is, we HAVE know each other for years. I had simply forgotten.

It is not as simple as saying that familiarity makes me comfortable. It's not familiarity with a place or its people. It's the knowledge of the place and the people. The knowledge that I have of them, and they have of me. The knowledge that comes from living on the same land, and sharing its history for more generations than we know. The knowledge is a little more in some places, and a little less in some others. And I am fine with both. What I am not fine with is a place where that knowledge is altogether absent.

Putting it very simplistically, I refuse to permanently carry a passport (even a metaphorical one) as proof of identity.

It was with some degree of embarrassment that I realised I have been looking at women's breasts (fully clothed, of course) over the past few months. It took me a bit of time to realise why, though: I was simply trying to figure out if they were women, and not men. Because it was the only way I could figure it out.

Some explanation now.

Women's and men's fashion in this country is at a stage I do not understand very well. (It's a different matter, perhaps, that I do not understand fashion very well in the first place.) So, I am a little tired, for instance, of looking at men's underwear showing above their jeans' waistline - and this is not like a peek-a-boo thing, where only a hint of the Jockey's is showing; this is a good 3-4 inches of all sorts of checks, stripes, polka dots, pink (!!) stuff being flaunted. The jeans of course hang precariously half-way down the butt and I am yet to find out how (or, to what) exactly they hold on.

But, back to the boob-staring. Let me give an example. I was walking along on a sunny day, when someone walked past me, and then ahead of me. I didn't pay much attention, but I saw she was really thin, tall, wore a pair of indigo blue denims, and a long-ish dark sweater. Her light blonde hair was in a loose, small ponytail. A little way ahead, I saw she had stopped for a smoke, the cigarette loosely hanging between her fingers. I noticed she had on a pair of moccasins that I would love to have in my own size. I even contemplated asking her where she got them from. (I love moccasins, and they almost always are for men and are never available in my size.) But I walked on. At a pedestrian crossing, I stopped and she, too, walked up. I looked at her again, this time at her face, only to realise, with a slight shock, that she may not be a she, but a he. Quick check: No, no boobs. Hence, he.

That would explain the moccasins.

Now, the other end of the spectrum.

I was loitering in a library largely populated by undergrads. Lots of new summer clothes and hairstyles. Lots of chatter over assignments and exams. In walked a young guy - or, wait a minute, girl? Hair cropped short in a 1970s' way (very smart and sexy), narrow, tapering jeans, brogues, denim jacket, short shirt, crossed satchel. Overall: Very trendy. But even after repeated glances, I could not make out if it was a girl or smooth-faced guy. Quick check: Yes, has boobs. Hence, girl.

And this has happened repeatedly, because it seems that this particular look has caught on.

**

I am not someone who stands in a queue and decides that the pony-tailed person in front of me has to be a woman. That the length of hair has anything to do with a person's gender is something I have not believed in my adult life. In fact, I have had quite a few arguments where I have aggressively supported the idea of men sporting long hair. (The crux of the argument is that the concept of men having short hair is a very recent phenomenon, and if you look back even a little more than a hundred years, you will see men - across nations - having longer, shoulder length hair. Also, if women have been cutting their hair short, why can't men keep it long?) So, the presence of long hair is not an indication of reduced masculinity, nor is the absence of long hair an indication of reduced femininity.

But the fashion examples that I mentioned have made me rather confused about what I think. I have grown up wearing jeans and my brother's clothes. The only skirt I had as a child and teen was my school uniform. I cringe at pink, frills, flowery prints, lace, bows, bling, and the likes. And yet, I would definitely not like to be taken for a guy by what I wear.

I think men's clothes in general lack imagination and colour and I almost feel sorry for them for their highly curtailed choice. And yet, I don't like the idea of a man who I cannot distinguish from a woman. That man walking beside me, who I mistook for a woman, looked like a woman not because of his hair or clothes... but because of the way he was built, the way he walked, the way his arms swung beside him, the way he held his cigarette. Maybe he was effeminate. But there have been more examples, and explaining them all by calling them effeminate is too simplistic.

So, although I quite hate the fact that almost all the women's clothes you find in shops today are painfully feminine, I don't like the idea, either, of women looking like men (and the other way round). Is there a contradiction there? I don't know.

All I do know is, I wish I didn't have to look for breasts to determine if the person in front is a man or woman.

Part of what I am writing today is what I had written - written, with pen on paper - on a bus journey a few days ago. Part of it is what I have been thinking of for more days than I remember.

(From the bus journey)

For a while now I've been thinking of putting down what I think of feminism. Walking to RISJ one morning, I was, as usual, talking to myself and found myself in a conversation about feminism, what I think of it, and how much my thoughts might have changed in the past decade, or rather, since college.
The first major change that I can think of is the fact that I am less shrill, far less shrill, than I used to be. In fact, I hardly talk about it. And that is probably because I have come to believe that there is very little to talk about really, very little to discuss or debate. The time for that is long past. And talking, honestly, can only do so much, and never more. The time now, then, is to do; to live what we believe. Because not only does that have far greater effect than all the talk, it is the greatest test that we can put our own beliefs and convictions to. It is the only way in which we can know if what we believe in is what can be done. There will be mistakes, and we should be ready for them. But those mistakes, too, are necessary. They are as important.
I had not quite given feminism much thought till I found myself writing an essay on it [for a national competition] in the first year of college. I had not wanted to write it, but, when I had to, I wrote, as its first line: "If asking for equal rights makes me a feminist, then I am a feminist." There had not been any profound thought behind that line. Just that it had appeared to be simple enough, and true. Thirteen years after writing it I still hold it to be true. The only difference is that [my] perception of a feminist has become more layered. More problematic, in a way. In the years in college, I asked 'feminists' questions that they did not like, that they got angry at. I was booed at. But I still could not bring myself to agree with all of what they said.
The one, foremost, aspect that I never liked about a certain kind of feminists - the kind who didn't like my questions - is their blanket hatred towards men. I have never hated men. And, in fact, loved a few of them intensely. Starting with my father. But fathers don't fall in the same category, you might say. But don't they? Isn't he the first grown man most of us have in our lives? And, for many, the man we love the most for a large part of our lives? Do we do so because they are flawless creatures, with nothing that we feel (and know) needs to change, evolve, be different? We love them despite, sometimes inspite of, all their failings.

(and now...)

I have always believed that if men are what they are - good or bad - their mothers should be seen as a strong reason for that. I mean, a man probably refuses to get himself a glass of water at home and looks to the wife or servant for it because, as a child, he was waited upon hand and foot by his family for being the son. The daughter was probably not. The son is naturally expected to do well at studies and, eventually, at work. (Now that creates an entirely different set of unfairness.) The daughter, on the other hand, is - in urban, middle-class families - expected to do well in studies as well, and probably get a job. But does it matter as much what kind of job she gets, how much she earns, and, most importantly for me, if she continues to work for the rest of her life? I am yet to see that in earnest.

And this brings to me the crux of my anger.

As I have grown older, I have seen the number of women friends, acquaintances and colleagues who are still holding down their jobs with the same degree of seriousness, dedication and earnestness dwindle. And there is no fixed pattern to this. There are women who have gotten married, had children, and quit their jobs for good. Their are women who have gotten married, not yet had children and still quit their jobs. There are women who are not yet married and quit their jobs. Reasons provided are abundant: "family pressure" being the most ambiguous and oft-sited of the lot; then there is the issue of "taking care of the child" (so, why is it that the mother is more responsible for that than the father beyond the breast-feeding stage?); and then of course there are those who simply want to stay at home because their husbands earn enough and they don't need to earn at all (to pay the EMI and the bills). And it is this last category of women who I sincerely believe should have gotten married as soon as were legally eligible to do so and spared the seats in their colleges for men who probably needed those seats and the consequent jobs much more.

A little too rabid? Really?

Most of the women I know who have done this have had some of the best education available. They belong to a miniscule minority of the privileged classes who have had access to schools and colleges of quality and repute. They have, no doubt, put in a lot of hard work to remain in those schools and colleges and not get kicked out. And that makes it all the more puzzling. What happened to all the effort that went into that college degree, that post-graduation? And you know, that argument about how much it has enriched them as a person (like attaining an enlightenment of sorts) is bullshit. Their children will probably learn their first letters and numbers at a play school, and not from their mothers, and go to tuition classes for most of their school lives.

And the reason why this makes me so livid is because one of the reasons why women who still choose to work are paid less than men is because of all the women who choose to quit. Look at it from the point of view of an employer. A woman walks in for a job. The employer is always trying to figure out if she is married/has a child, simply because it will give an idea of when she might leave. Why pay her more? She will leave anyway. Whereas the chances of a man sticking around are more, because he has to earn for his family.

Leaving aside all these arguments - which, of course - have many sides and shades to them, I just have one question in mind: Exactly what does it do to a person's self-respect and self-worth to know that he/she is living off someone else for the rest of their lives, despite being completely capable of not doing so? How would I feel if, at this age, I had to ask my parents for money so that I could eat out, watch a movie, buy a book or a pair of jeans? Quite unimaginable, isn't it? Then how is it any different from asking my husband for money to buy every piece of clothing, every meal, every movie ticket - every god damned thing - for the rest of my life?

Choosing to earn my living is not about proving a point to anyone, it is simply about self-respect.

My problem with writing is before beginning to write I begin to read.

And by the time I am done with my reading, all that I wanted to write about not only feels terribly unimportant and trivial, but my head is crammed with so much more, that all I can do is take deep breaths. And make some more tea.

So, walking back from the seminars this afternoon I met someone I am getting to know a bit, but I don’t know if I will know him much more. He is a bit shy. And likes to get his back scratched.

Somehow, cats seem to find me wherever I am. I have, for four years, thought of writing about the bizarrely friendly cats of Mahim, who rub their heads against the legs of perfect strangers and purr contently when lifted (instead of clawing the skin off their hands). Then there were some cats I encountered on my last stay in England. One of them was called Monkey. Monkey? In Pune, of course, there was Puni, who sauntered in through the open door — tail held high — one day. And in Calcutta… ah well, we believe cats find their way to our house my following directions on their address books.

And then, coming back to my room here, I read about the depressing state of affairs in the world (some too far for most to care, and some close enough but most still don’t care enough to do anything about them). And then I see some smiling faces on Facebook (they are always, somehow, smiling, isn’t it?), bemusement at some recent political mess, some inanities, some links to interesting pieces, smatterings of ‘activism’ (if that’s what you call posting, sharing, and liking status updates about actual activities that you are not attending yourself), and the news that yet someone else you know has had a baby. The world is just the way it has always been.

People are leading lives that they know and are familiar with, making a (decent?) living, trying to find comfort and hope amid constant change and threats of uncertainty, while becoming ever increasingly players in a mechanism that continues to crush them in body and spirit.

It is strange, if you think about it. This self-defeating struggle for survival.

Last evening, I spent a while at a coffee shop on Trafalgar Square.
It had been quite a few hours that I had left Oxford, travelled to London, met a former senior colleague for lunch, browsed through the National Gallery, and, having nothing to do till a lecture at the BBC House, found myself doing something I do without much effort: Sitting with coffee at a café, which, almost as a criteria, has a large window overlooking the road.
Perched on a high stool, facing one of the many traffic signals that encircle Trafalgar Square, I heard a man next to me tell his friend, “Why does everyone seem to be running?”
Now, where have I heard that before, and about which city?
Looking at the throngs that crossed over from one side of the street to another, in tune with the alternating green and red traffic lights, huddled against a nasty, biting wind, trudging towards the Underground station, it felt all so familiar. The mass of humanity, the evening rush, the day’s fatigue, the promise of home an hour or so away, the unfriendly weather… some things are just the same, no matter where you are.
Yes, the streets are so much more clean, and the air is so much more clear. But some other things are so much still the same.
On the way to Oxford late at night, I saw a large hoarding ad for an investment company. It had the photograph of an Indian man on a cycle, wearing a large Rajasthani turban, a small boy riding pillion, holding on to a laptop. They were riding through the dusty and sunny countryside. Seeing that ad on a highway from London, made me realize all over again where I really want to be.
After all, rush hour feels pretty much the same everywhere I guess.

Walking back to my room a couple of nights ago, I realized that for the past five-and-a-half years I have lived in one-room homes. ‘Accommodation’ sounds more befitting than ‘home’, but when I have lived in an accommodation for four years, I think it does (reluctantly) qualify as home.

The room that I now live in is very similar to the one in Leeds. And very, very different from the one in which I lived in Bombay. Here, solitude feels like the way it technically should. It has all the accompaniments and qualifiers you can think of. In Bombay, solitude is a state that exists amid claustrophobic crowds; the crowds that push you deeper and deeper into solitude, while, at the same time, threaten to yank you out of it.

Living in a single room for so long also makes me realize how little you really need to live with. Apart from a clutch of things, everything else is, honestly, distractions. Distractions we willingly stuff our lives with, to make it look full.