Tag Archives: equality

Angry Anti-Baby Rant

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Whilst I’d  be the first person to admit I probably have some anger management issues, there are some things that people say which just take me from calm to irate in 0.3 seconds. Castigating me for not wanting children is one of them.

Just because I have a pair of ovaries inside my body does not predispose me to wanting to procreate! It’s a classic case of one rule for women, another for men. I have never heard any man being teased about being broody, or being ruthlessly interrogated for their disinterest in children – it is instead seen as a natural thing for men to have no desire for children and forever remain the single bachelor, whilst women, driven by that mythical entity ‘biology’, naturally all want to snare a man and produce offspring as their most urgent goal in life.

Strangers don’t approach you at parties and, upon assessing that you own an appendix, say, “Oh why aren’t you using that more?” Whether I do or do not choose to utilise my reproductive capabilities is not your business, and therefore I do not have to justify my personal choices to every person who wants to stick their nose in. It’s like a woman’s reproductive potential is public or community property, and all this peer pressure is the culmination of sentient genetics within the general population to ensure the continuation of our species. Well that strategy clearly hasn’t caught up with the world’s current state of over-population.

Planetary sustainability aside though, the main issue is that my personal choices should not be coming under this level scrutiny, as if it’s not my prerogative to make them. Let me use an analogy of sprouts to illustrate a typical conversation:

“Oh aren’t sprouts so great? I can’t get enough of them!”

“Actually I don’t like sprouts.”

‘What? How can you not like sprouts?”

“I just don’t like them. I’ve tried them, and they’re just not for me. I have no interest in them.”

“But everyone likes sprouts. What is it about them that you don’t like?”

“Everything. I just have no interest in eating them. I don’t really think about it.”

“Oh OK. Everyone your age thinks like that though. In a few years you’ll change your mind.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You say that now, but in a few years it’ll be different. You might change your mind.”

“And you might change your mind. You might realise that actually, you don’t like sprouts any more.”

“I would never do that.”

‘How do you know? What you think now could totally change in a few years time.”

“It won’t though.”

“Right..but what I think will, then?”

And then sometimes, depending on the person, they get angry and start really laying into me – like somehow this decision affecting no one but myself is a personal affront to them. I am not going out killing babies, or stealing them, or even commenting on other people’s’ reproductive choices – I am simply disinterested. That is, apparently, near tantamount to a crime.

The part that irritates me the most is the patronising tone. The adage of ‘you’re too young to know better right now’ is still applicable at nearly 24 years old as much as it ever was at four or fourteen. Given that women are now popping out tiny humans well into their 40s (numbers in the UK have now actually exceeded rates for teenage pregnancy) my hopes that the nagging would cease towards my late twenties have been uprooted. It doesn’t look like I’ll ever be ‘old enough’ to know my own mind and possess enough strength of will to overcome my pre-programmed biological urges. Clearly.

It’s a topic I’m sick of explaining, and sick of being hounded about. Even Facebook ads thinks I should be getting pregnant! I could understand family members wanting to see baby grandchildren and great-grandchildren – that’s entirely forgivable and I am sorry that I won’t be providing that to my Nan in her old age – but strangers, colleagues, friends, and others have no say. My life is my life.

And I really do just not want children. It’s as simple as that.

England or India; India or England?

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I’ve now been back in England for seven months, and working for a substance misuse charity in central London for most of that time. My job is ending in March however, so I’m increasingly reassessing whether to stay in my native country, or to return to India. The daily routine of my seven months in Bangalore last year were fundamentally the same as my routine in London since – wake up, commute, work in the office, go home, eat, sleep – but it was the weekends that made the difference. Travelling around the incense bazaars of Mysore or seeing the damage wreaked by the Tsunami along Tamil Nadu’s coast, set against sitting inside hiding from the English rain. By writing this article I hope to aid my decision to some extent, and try to pinpoint the crucial element in each that inexplicably grabs at my heart strings.

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The things I miss most about Bangalore are of course the things I miss most about India: the colour, the smells, the sounds. I know it’s leaning towards a stereotype here, but there really is no easy way to describe and deconstruct such a complex and heady mixture of texture and culture and movement that is the chaotic way of everyday life. Whilst Bangalore has its share of pollution, waste heaps, stray dogs, beggars, corrupt officials, and murders like most other cities on the sub-continent, it also benefits from all that draws so many travellers to this country. I don’t know whether it’s the garam masala permeating the streets that is the secret ingredient, or the hot chai drunk at the roadside as it is best enjoyed; maybe it’s the times when a neighbour or business owner down the street brings round barfi and halwa sweets to celebrate a family marriage. How to distil such a deep-rooted longing for another culture into its essence? It may be simplest just to say that it feels like home.

I like the way that when you wear a sari to work men suddenly start calling you ‘sister’ (instead of ‘foreigner’) and auto-rickshaw drivers forget to extort you. Instead they just flip on the meter and drive straight, as if wearing jeans at any other time would make me forget what it costs to travel to the office. I like that I can cover myself in a different mehndi design every other week if I want and people wouldn’t comment that I’m strange – it’s just part of a normal fashion statement. I like watching the latest Bollywood hit (or miss – take Yeh Jawaani Hai Dewaani for example) to the exuberant wolf whistles and applause of the cinema-going crowd and losing yourself to the story, the songs, and the dances. It’s almost a way of life, and I can be happy in the knowledge that I am surrounded by others who love it as much as I do. 

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More than the clothes and the sweets and incense though is the history, India’s political past, corrupt present, and the complex intersection of class, caste, and religion. The ticking bomb of racial and religious tensions is ever-present – as evidenced by a bomb blast in Hyderabad during my stay, which exploded in a bus station not dissimilar to my local one in Bangalore. It is also responsible too though for a melting pot of cross-cultural influence, when so many groups, sub-groups, political alliances, caste boundaries, and gender roles are shifting and blurring. This fusion space is increasingly occupied by civil society and women’s groups and helping to foster movements like the first One Billion Rising event in 2013.  

Of course I could not forget to mention the temples, the monuments, the festivals, the landscape: attending ceremonies for moving into a new house, ceremonies for reaching puberty, ceremonies for a new betrothal, ceremonies for marriages; doing puja to Shiva, Lakshmi, Krishna, Ganesh – whichever god you need the most to fulfil your desire for a safe journey or a prosperous business venture. The landscapes that on a single train journey shift between horizon-wide swathes of banana and coconut trees, to Ooty tea plantations and later, to Rajasthani desert. India is so vast it truly deserves the name ‘sub-continent’, and I only wish I had enough years in me to make enough journeys across its face.

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The dull winter skies of the London commute are unbearably suffocating by comparison. Emerging from the tube each morning like a burrowing creature covered in dirt and pollution, I see grey streets with grey buildings and everyone wearing black. Everyone. The more days I work the 9-5-London-office routine and the greater numbers of London breaths I take, the more toxic and transparent I feel I become. It’s not just the monotony however. There’s an absence of joy, or kindness, or warmth in the passing of hundreds of faceless people each day. There are more people jammed into buses and streets in Bangalore, but the natural inclination is to assist and accommodate others, not ignore them.

England does have it benefits – the obvious one being fewer lecherous stares and wondering hands for a start. They do still exist though, as I was nicely reminded by a slimy little man on southwest trains last week. More strikingly it’s the absence of such overt sexism and gender inequality in everyday life though, that really changes how I inhabit outdoor space in the UK. The dominant ideology in this culture does not assume that women have no right to occupy public space, and instead allows me to wander unhindered and un-harassed as I please, though I’m sure that if I was to be attacked, we could rely on rape apologists to blame my dress-sense instead of the perpetrator.

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Then there’s the better pay, the better quality of fresh food (meat especially), and the efficiency, for the most part. Commuters might bemoan the national rail service, and colleagues decry local authority bureaucracy, council incapabilities, and ineffectual police forces – but from my perspective we’re incredibly lucky. These services are free, and you don’t have to bribe anyone to get justice, or your entitlements, or be insulted by the guy behind the desk for daring to give him some work. The system does function here, and it’s transparent which is the most important thing.

All in all, drawing London and Bangalore, England and India, side by side is as difficult as comparing chalk with cheese. How do I reconcile that my right to move and do and speak as I like, which I have taken so much for granted growing up, is not only frowned upon but actively discouraged in India? How can I be the outspoken feminist that I am in a country which values duty and respect over equality? The simple answer: shout louder, and alongside the courageous women already doing it.

But what about England. At what point do I accept that English culture doesn’t hold the best value for me? Is it about perspective and the contrast with India, or does it run deeper than that? When can I pass that invisible threshold which tells me that I am definitely going to be happy or not here? I feel like I’m in a constant state of flux trapped between two places and two lives, present in one and always wanting the other at the same time. Coming to the end of this piece I actually feel no wiser, so in my best interests, perhaps a quick trip to somewhere warm and Hindi-speaking would help settle my mind a little…

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Moi, proof I was there!KG Babu's portrait of yours truly