FEMINISM: A CRONY OF CAPITALISM

‘Period. End of Sentence’, a film about menstruation won big at the Oscars. Some folks cheered loudly but others have been quibbling about it. The arguments raised, pertaining to exploitation in the making of the film and careless dispensation of faulty statistics, got me thinking. Nowadays, it is becoming increasingly obvious that no matter how well intentioned the feminist cause may be, inadvertently it has served the interests of big business above all else. 

Is it so terrible to use cloth instead of pads while menstruating? Padmen who make a fortune selling sanitary napkins have informed us that cloth is for curtains and civilized, empowered women are better off using their more expensive product. After all, pads are far more comfortable and convenient, even if they are not biodegradable. Besides why should women bother about the environment when it is doomed anyway? It is simpler to vilify cloth, even though it was good enough for our grandmothers who certainly were not unfortunate, illiterate, and miserable savages who did not know better. I remember an older woman who explained that in the good old days, they would all have a box filled with clean rags that were used, washed, boiled, dried, replaced and reused every month.

Of course, I am not advocating that we go back to the days of restricted movement while menstruating, with the stigma thrown in for good measure. But I am merely pointing out that cloth wasn’t too bad and sometimes, women like to take three days off from their never –ending chores and workload. Therefore, if there are ladies out there who prefer to use cloth, perhaps we should just leave them alone instead of making condescending movies with sad music about their wretchedness.

This applies for innerwear as well. I was told that earlier, women belonging to the lower castes/classes were ‘not allowed’ to wear blouses or bras and it was only in the latter half of the British reign that they were emancipated. But surely those ‘poor, unfortunate’ women weren’t exactly complaining? In certain parts of the country, like in Kerala it was perfectly acceptable for ladies to go about their work, topless which had to have been ideal given the sweltering conditions. Then came the dark day, when marketing ploys were successfully employed to convince the female of the species that the smart, sexy and sassy among them were the ones who bound their breasts behind the satin, lace and underwire reinforced lingerie that Victoria’s Secret had helpfully purveyed at an exorbitant price. And of course, the civilized thing to do was to conceal these behind tailored blouses!

Don’t even get me started on beauty product hawking conglomerates who decided that the only use they have for feminism is to cash in on it. Women are told that their social currency is tied to their ‘natural beauty’. Therefore rather than devote themselves to their studies, personalities or jobs to get ahead in their lives, it would behove them to make looking good, a full time job. Today, if a girl is not exquisitely groomed and expensively branded out from head to toe, then she may as well go back to the cave she supposedly emerged from. Bring out the war paint, ladies, it is time to free feminism from the chains of consumerism! 
This artcile was originally carried by The New Indian Express.

POETIC PROMISE OF A LOST TALE

Book Review: Paul M.M Cooper’s River of Ink

Paul M.M Cooper’s River of Ink, is the tale of reluctant revolutionary – a poet who believes that poetry makes nothing happen. Asanka is the court poet of King Parakrama and was enjoying the high life when the ruthless Kalinga Magha, usurps the throne of Lanka, and sends his existence plummeting into a world of endless turmoil. Forced to accept the tyrant’s order to translate a Sanskrit text on Shishupal, into Tamil (a dubious decision, given the bloody history between the Tamils and Sinhalese which is scarcely touched upon) he discovers that words do have power and may just triumph where the sword has failed. 

It is a potent premise. Yet, it falls well shy of delivering the goods. Perhaps, it is because while Cooper is clearly earnest and sincere in his attempt to chronicle a slice of Sri Lankan history, his alien sensibility constantly jars in the otherwise colourful narrative he has almost brought to life.

For instance, it is hard to buy the typically thankless character of the wife, Madhusha who just refuses to be understanding while her husband is carrying on with a comely maid. She walks out on Asanka, helping herself to his money and leaving a curt note. I did not believe it for a second.

 Women of that era, used to the perks of a cushy life, did not usually go traipsing off into the surrounding war – torn country in a huff, like the feisty belles so admired in contemporary times with their husband’s money unless they had an especial desire to be gang – raped and murdered. Besides, Madhusha was a country mouse with no taste for life in the capital city of Polonnaruwa. It seems highly unlikely that she would know how to write.

Kalinga Magha is equally problematic since the author seems keen to portray him as a savage with a poet’s soul. A Genghis Khan meets Oscar Wilde if you will. When he is not lopping off heads, gouging out eyes, and supressing rebels with an iron fist, the tyrant is keen on promoting his brand of art and indulging his appetite for pretty young things. Which is why it hardly makes sense that he would want to marry the lowly maid sans the maidenhood, the very same one, Asanka is so passionately in love with, instead of ordering her into his bed. This sort of thing makes it all seem hopelessly contrived.

Cooper has clearly done some research but in the chapter on Yudhisthira, there is an error. It is written that the grand horse sacrifice was conducted after twelve years spent in exile, the unhappy result of a lost game of dice to the trickster, Shakuni. In Vyasa’s epic though, the Pandavas went into hiding after Duryodhana’s attempt to burn them alive at Varanavata. The horse sacrifice is performed only after the Pandavas are spotted at Draupadi’s swayamvara and given five small villages to start afresh. The infamous game of dice and exile came after.

In this fashion, The River of Ink, meanders on along its improbable course while clumsily setting up a twist that the discerning reader can follow through to its conclusion, almost at the moment of its introduction. A valiant if disappointing effort from Cooper. 

This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express which you can read here.

Book Review: Karen Campbell's RISE

Scottish police – officer turned novelist, Karen Campbell’s Rise opens with the protagonist, Justine on the run from her psychopathic pimp/lover, Charlie Boy, with a big chunk of his money stuffed down her pants. It is a cracking opener, packed with tension and evocative detail. Shortly after, Justine blunders into Kilmacarra and straight into the heart of domestic turmoil and political unrest.

Campbell is a talented writer with a gift for creating characters that are honest, flawed and likeable. Justine witnesses a hit and run and she is sucked into the troubled marriage of the Andersons, whose elder son is the victim, when she is roped in to babysit their younger son, Ross having passed herself off as a certified nanny. Thanks to the peculiar circumstances in which she finds herself, Justine is in a place where she can either be the guardian angel who delivers them from evil or a satanic figure who is the harbinger of doom.

The drama plays out very well set as it is in the 2014 campaign for Scottish Independence and is chock full of narrative tension and emotional high notes. Till the bitter end, Hannah Anderson is convinced, Justine is nothing but trouble, come to tear her family apart. She and her husband, Michael have a typically troubled marriage. He is a former clergyman who currently serves as the local councillor. She is the writer who cuckolded him. They have two young sons and the duo are trying desperately to put together the pieces of their marriage not suspecting that the upheaval in their lives has only just begun.

Michael is being pestered by a ghost and Campbell lifts this conceit out of the morass of all things ludicrous with consummate skill and pathos. For instance when he finds out about his wife’s infidelity, he winds up swallowing his outrage: “Her grief melting him. Making him take his own and fold it smaller and smaller until he could tell himself that it was unimportant. Selfish even.”

 A particularly poignant theme in Rise, involves the tendency of overprotective parents and caregivers both to encumber their charges with the baggage from their lives, thereby inadvertently putting them in harm’s way. Little Ross is a child who has the love of his parents and Justine both, yet he is the one who is pummelled when the parents are fighting tooth and nail and it is his life which is endangered when retribution catches up with Justine. His plight is moving, heart – stopping and entirely hopeful.

Charlie Boy is a terrifying antagonist and seems to have been modelled along the lines of a rabid dog – all infected fury and savage brutality: “If he finds her…if he starts kicking, he won’t be able to stop.” His presence in the course of the narrative is fleeting and yet, packs a wallop in terms of sheer, unadulterated menace.

However, despite the fact that Rise has so much that works in its favour it fails to really soar, especially after the glorious opening and engaging middle portions. Inexplicably running out of steam, it sputters weakly over the finish line. The plotlines are resolved with varying degrees of success but it is all rather disappointingly pat. This, despite the fact that Campbell rises above literary cliché and refuses to settle for easy solutions.

Rise can be counted on to get a rise, all the way to the fag end, when it falters and leaves the reader, inexplicably deflated and unsatisfied. 
This review originally appeared in The New Indian Express and can be seen here.