Posting some of the entries from my old blog, which I took down .... kept some of the more interesting stuff through ....
India inc – the future is male
Reading the Economic Times week long effusive coverage of their “CEO Roundtable” summit made me feel distinctly uneasy. Initially I couldn’t work out why this seemingly innocuous self congratulatory tirade was making me feel squeamish, and put it down to my usual aversion for pompous bluster (remember the English rule – ‘no boasting’). On being bombarded by yet more coverage of this event this morning, I decided to think more carefully about why I’d chosen to quickly turn these pages rather than studying them more intently, and it suddenly hit me – of the 8 corporate heavy hitters chosen to represent India’s finest business brains here and overseas, all are men and the coverage of the event distinctly male oriented. The photographs and accompanying captions underline this testosterone enhanced theme – showcasing the talent of the various male delegates with captions describing their activities as “networking’, ‘making a point’, “talking shop” and “riding the wave”, whilst the event’s seemingly solus 'heavyweight' female attendee, Sudha Murthy, is described as “sitting pretty” and a couple of other attractive women delegates as representing “the beauty quotient”. This breathtakingly sexist coverage is striking in its audacity, yet I guess even more incredible that readers probably wouldn’t even notice the male bias, which makes it all the more sad. And then we come to the Economic Times Awards - "raising a toast to the locally fearless, the globally restless". Every award taken by a businessMAN, excepting the obvious category of "Businesswoman of the Year".
If the 'thoughtleaders' of this country, who by definition set the standards for attitudes and the zeitgeist of a nation are treating women as purely decorative fluff then what hope for women of India?
Visiting London
ts only August, and yet England has already put its brief flirtation with colour far behind it. When I was there in May, the shops were bursting with vibrant colours and neons so vivid that window shopping placed a strain on the eyes. It looked as if someone had taken a huge pot of multicoloured paint and splattered it recklessly around, bringing an uncharacteristic intensity to England’s usually drab High Streets. Hope was in the air, the richness of colour clearly setting an expectation for a sizzling summer, when those delightful bright strappy tops and garish floral dresses could attire gently tanning bodies.
Ripple dissolve to a mere 3 months later, and the message is out – the weather has returned to its typical pre global warming awfulness – lashing rain, gloomy skies and bone freezing wind chill. And so, the high streets have regained their characteristic muted tones – grey, brown and black, with a dash of regal purple thrown in (this season’s ‘hot’ colour, for the second year running). In equally typical fashion, the English are perversely enjoying this opportunity to moan. They also seem to have forgotten that up until fairly recently, this drab summer weather was very typical. Since I left England, in 2000, the summers have undergone a transformation. My annual July return (for birthdays of sister and granny) have been characterized by gorgeous weather, which I’ve waxed lyrically about on more than one occasion on this blog. I recall a wedding at Regent’s Park zoo circa 2003, when temperatures hit 35 degrees plus, sending the champagne bubbles coursing through the veins at a faster rate than normal. I remember burning my feet on sun seared pebbles on Budleigh Salterton beach in 2004. I nearly suffocating inside a bus jammed with sweaty commuters in 2005 as the scale climbed into the forties. This was not usual weather for England, and certainly a far cry from the limp seasons of my memory. A few decent, quasi tropical sultry summers later, however, and it seems that the whole of England is in denial that the weather has ever been less than fabulous. This collective amnesia is striking by its consistency. When indulging in the typical English habit of bemoaning the weather (whether good or bad the English will moan - the theme of the last few summers was the unpleasantness of the heat) my friends and family this year claimed that an English summer has never been this dire, that summers are good ‘these days’ and were struck dumb by a collective indignancy when I suggested that actually, this weather was kind of normal for England. I had committed the vast faux pas of accepting rather than challenging the climate, a 7 year absence from the motherland breaking in-built social coding. For if the English cannot talk about the weather, then how else are they to conduct any kind of interaction given a national condition which renders them (us) in a permanent state of social awkwardness?
I was also struck, on this visit, by a change in my attitude towards popular media. What I had missed so very much about the British media landscape including the celebrity gossip, the ever more ridiculous reality TV shows and the pages of indignant editorial on any given topic only served to fill me with ennui this time. I think perhaps the limits have been reached and madly over-recycled. I watched the X Factor for the first time (the ‘new’ and almost identical version of Pop Idol) and was overwhelmed with cynicism at the obviously manipulated sob stories from the plucky young singers who had overcome terminal illness / been nominated by dying fathers / were pinning all their hopes upon winning the X Factor to rid them of a life of endless grinding poverty. Simon Cowell was irritating, Danii Minogue (the new judge) was brittle and grating with that awful Australian accent, and Louis someone or other was seemingly well loved by the public but I’d never heard of him, and he was terribly dull. I read all of the gossip magazines, and yawn, they were STILL full of tales of Kerry Katona the catatonic mother, Jordan and her unfeasibly large breasts (and her incredibly named new daughter Princess Ennuiiii or something similar) and of course now the other Wags who I know not from Adam. Even the newpapers were full of last season’s stories (the disappearance of ‘tiny tot” Maddy and the rise of violence on the streets). Sigh. Nothing there to appeal to an appetite jaded by a diet of Saas-basu and Bollywood.
Still, England’s contrary weather, muddled seasons and boring media were a welcome brief break from Bombay’s consistently damp monsoon humidity, mindless newspapers and no TV at all (I haven’t yet got cable installed). I was taking advantage of the fact of two holidays in one week, and a bank account bolstered by the windfall, to escape to London for a few days. I planned to shop, and took a near empty bag with me in order to do so. I was overweight at the airport, my fat suitcase jammed full of sausages, bacon, boxes of wine. And I return, delighted in the knowledge that not only is the end of the monsoon just about in sight, but also that joy of joys, purple is the colour of the moment, and therefore I am the girl of the moment.
Facebooking it
There’s a new word on the tip of everyone’s tongue and top of their Favourites list. That word is Facebook. Originally the province of teeny America, Facebook has done what all of the other networking sites have failed to do – give credibility to the concept of social networking, even amongst the die-hard cynics. Admittedly, when I first received an invitation to Facebook, I deleted the invite immediately. But when I met up with friends, normal, interesting people who asked why I wasn’t on Facebook, cos ‘everyone is’, I of course joined up, not wanting to miss this cyberparty. Facebook is without question too cool. Highly addictive, sexy interface, new applications, add-ons launched daily, and opportunities to reconnect with friends from all over the world. And 150,000 new members a day, apparently. I’m poking people who I haven’t even seen for 10 years or more, checking out their pics, catching their news and swapping stories. I’m spying on people, seeing what they’re up to, and what they are watching / listening to / talking about. I’m also joining mad, bad and crazy groups, hunting for people to fill jobs, advertising my car, and getting superpoked (I’ve been variously bitten, licked, bumped and I’ve had a few sheep thrown at me).
All well and good. But as with all addictions, Facebook has its downsides. Apart from the temptation to surf during office hours (it’s surely only a matter of time before the office firewall swallows this site) it poses a set of interesting 21st century dilemmas. Is it really healthy to collect friends like commodities, jealously checking out the long friends lists of others and wondering why our own is so pitiful in comparison? Once rediscovered, are old friends simply re-discarded once that initial euphoria of reconnection is over? Is the Facebook divergence of business and social lives going to end badly for most? It’s the latter that I really have trouble with. Collecting friends has always been something I’ve instinctively done. I’m a compulsive networker, rarely to be found without a contact in any city when travelling, getting endless highs out of introducing people and seeing new friendships take off. Of course these friends come and go, and these relationships shouldn’t be over-estimated – they are fun, social, superficial connections, which may open doors to more meaningful interactions but which normally remain in bubblegum territory. Occasionally necessary when you want to escape from life, keep conversation light and on the frivolous side. Other, more serious friendships don’t require to be kept sticky via the glue of a social networking site, those are friendships which anyway will never be replaced. And as for discarding old friends once the thrill of rebonding has worn off, well if they’ve lasted 10 years or more without contact, they’ll last another 10. It’s the rather incestuous mixing of work and pleasure that makes me a little uncomfortable. On the one hand, there are the fun party pics, the crazy comments, the invites from bars lounges and clubs, the Heather is “hungover after a big night” daily status updates. On the other there is the slightly squeamish realization that one’s office colleagues, bosses, influential business types may also be scanning your profile. Keep it real, honest and fun, but keep it under control. I guess that’s the way to go.
A spoilt child
My new maid is a dream come true. She came to me through a friend, and in 3 days ahas already changed my life for the better. She breezed in on Sunday, took one look at me and at my house, and took control. A whirlwind of activity, accompanied by a stream of nonstop hindi which I let wash over me, replying in the brief spells when she paused for breath. She peered into my fridge and kitchen cupboards, clearly unable to understand how I managed to live for so long with a couple of battered saucepans and a lot of fancy glasses. She went to the market and returned with ingredients for cooking daal, chaval and some nice fresh sabzi. And lots of gorgeous bright spices, a small pressure cooker, lots of tiny plastic pots to keep everything in, and some other strange objects one of which I think is for rolling out rotis. My kitchen has finally become indianised. I jumped with joy when I returned home to a fridgeful of delicious home cooked healthy food. My friends will be so impressed, they've rarely seen food in my house, at least not outside a pizza box.
The other complete delight which came along with my new house is four teeny tiny kittens and momma cat. Despite being tiny bags of bones, they manage to make the entire lift shaft ring with their piteous mews. Luckily I was well stocked up with Whiskas (both the wet and dry variety) after the temporary residence of Fat Diego the spoilt ginger persian. SO I've been feeding them every day and hoping to make them a little plumper. Funnily enough, I discovered that the other firangs who just moved in are doing the same, so these little waifs are being doubly fed. I found one of the little beggars atop the front wheel of my car this morning, clinging onto the tyre with sharp claws, a second from being squished under said wheel as my driver advanced the car. Thank goodness the watchman spotted the quivering thing, and I managed to pull him (her?) off. I'll have to remember to check the wheels every morning.....<
Beauty salon
heaven is .... reclining in a deep comfy chair, whilst your temples are firmly kneaded and a rhythmic pressure applied all over your aching cranium, hot coconut oil sinking into your tender scalp replenishing every tired and hungover nerve. And as if this isn't pleasure enough, at the same time both your feet and hands are being massaged and manipulated, dead skin scrubbed away and nails perfectly shaped.
This is what India does so well, complete dedication to the beautification and relaxation of the chosen few, who still manage to moan and whine throughout their hour of being pampered and plucked. The Indian Beauty Parlour is an institution. Unlike the Thai salons which have popped up on every street in Bangkok and which range from piss poor to pretty good (but generally average), the Indian parlour is a haven of perfectionism and attention to detail. When threading the chin, lip and eyebrow, the skin is closely scrutinised in case any rogue hair dares to remain, and is whipped out accordingly. When waxing legs, arms, chests (indian ladies have a tendency to hirsuitism) the wax is lovingly applied and even the ripping out of hair is managed perfectly and almost painlessly. Well, perhaps not painlessly, but compared to my waxing experiences by the hairless Thai's (cold wax and subsequent plucking of stubborn hair with tweezers) its a breeze. Manicure and pedicure is taken to a new height of perfection (and accompanied by a delicious massage of both arms and legs) and of course then there is the has to be experienced to be believed Indian head massage. First the hot oil (coconut, almond or olive) is soaked into a cotton wall ball and rubbed all over the head. The bliss as you feel it soaking into the parched cranium and nourishing the aching roots. Then the head is vigorously massaged, pummelled, pressed, rubbed and scratched, your shoulders are given a similar treatment relazing every hunched tense muscle, and finally, the piece de resistance, a vibrating, buzzing machine arrives which is rubbed all over your head neck and shoulders, making your eyes cross in ecstacy and vibrating all the way through to your teeth.
And once every muscle in your face has been relaxed with a gentle circular rubbing movement, loosening frownlines and easing skin parched by the humid weather, you are led off for a rejuvenating hairwash and subsequent blowdry. Half an hour later you emerge sparkling glossy and with a spring in the step. Nails freshly painted and twinkling from your sandals. Hair swinging in one glossy sheet around your face. Facial muscles relaxed and aiding an expression of pure contentment. And a dent of only $20 in your wallet.
Its like some form of Chinese water torture …
.. drip drip drip goes the tap in the corner of the dirty room, as the beads of sweat roll in tandem down the oily face of the shabbily dressed bureaucrat shuffling self importantly through reams of yellowing papers. The line of foreigners in front of his desk is growing longer and longer with every minute that passes, a varied assortment of dreadlocked and bejeweled bodies pressed urgently together, caught between the urge to push aggressively to the front of the queue in Indian style, or to wait patiently as they have been taught at home. I breeze confidently to the front of the line, avoiding the evil looks and heavy sighs, and the room rings with the rattle of cheap goan jewellery, as the foreigners bristle at the fact a fellow westerner seems to behaving like an indian. After all, I am smug in the knowledge that I have a Contact in the visa department, access to a Name which should speed my path towards a final declaration that I can live and work in India legally. Sweating Bureaucrat number one gestures vaguely in the direction of a corridor outside, as I manage finally to reach the front of the queue and blurt out my contact’s name. Again he gestures, angrily this time, irritated perhaps by the fact that I have managed to bend the rules and usurp his small man authority. I walk purposefully outside, searching for a door with my contact’s name. Past rooms full of men smoking, gesturing aggressively to me, telling me to go back into the main room. Head up, dupatta swinging, I carry on undaunted. Into another room crammed with scruffy men dressed in various shades of brown, bashing away at aged typewriters surrounded by towers of yet more yellowing papers. Again I blurt out the name of my contact, and I am aggressively directed in the direction of a door marked “visitors room”. Finally it appears that I’ve found my target, or at least come across the secretary of the man I’m looking for. He looks me up and down with distaste. A pale English girl wearing glasses (for that serious look) and bindi (for that “I love India” look), sporting a strange fusion of east and west – jeans, heels and a billowing kurta with dupatta. Again I mention my contact, and the friend of a friend who is connected to this important man. His brow furrows, and it looks as though he is going to ask me to leave. He is shouting at me in “hinglish”, no doubt outraged that I have managed to penetrate this inner sanctum. With a smug flourish, I produce my business card, and the card of my friend. The words “Lintas” and “Vice President” on my card seem to calm him, and he is visibly relaxed when he sees the words “Standard Chartered” on my friend’s card. The promise of hefty baksheesh flits before him, and he allows me to take a seat upon the grubby couch. As I wait patiently, he flicks slowly through his copy of the Times of India. Slowly, scanning every word on every page, impervious to the vibes of frustration which I am sending his way, through the smoky, humid air. My smugness however is premature. It appears that I am in the wrong office. After an hour an a half languishing on the grubby sofa, pretending not to be affected by newspaper reading bureaucrat who is exercising the limited power he has over this helpless foreigner, I am sent back outside to see one of the same bureaucrats occupying the tables which I had earlier smugly circumnavigated. Again, I adopt my fixed grin, which masks a set of teeth firmly clenched. Alas, Sweating Bureaucrat number three tells me, with a half grin on his face which belies the apologetic tone of his voice, that I am in the wrong building entirely, that the place I have now wasted 2 hours in is in fact for Delhi residents only.I jump in a rickshaw and we career across town to the correct place. Its hot and I’m sweating, and my composure is fast fading, but still I keep smiling. I even smile at the rickshaw driver when he overcharges me, which prompts him to charge me the local rate instead. Justice done, I enter the outer sanctum of the (correct) Foreigners Office, where I am assigned a number and told to wait. There don’t seem to be too many people waiting, and I assume I’ll be whisked in and be out in time for a cool languid lunch at the hotel. Wrong again! It soon transpires that this is only the holding area for the utter chaos which is the office proper. My number is finally called, and I make it to the correct office. I can’t even begin to detail the frustration of the next hour, but it includes … being pushed and shoved on arrival, fighting my way to the front, being handed a form and told to wait, identifying another “contact” who my friend had told me to meet, trying to get to him, being told too sit because my standing was “looking odd”, running off to another contact who was unable to help, getting lost on the way back, arriving back in same packed hall, being given another form, waiting and standing and sitting and sweating and overhearing the visa officers conducting every and any excuse to reduce hapless foreigners to tears of frustration .. all the while dying to use the loo and totally parched. Finally, I make it to the front. As all around me fight to get their forms seen, the man behind the desk snatches my pile of photocopied papers, scribbles on a couple of pages, throws the lot back at me and turns to someone else. Some time later (by now the minutes are melting into hours and even days) he grabs my form again and begins to interrogate me about the TV ads that Lintas have made. Smoothing his oiled hair back, he breaks into a wide, nicotined smile, smowing only a couple of broken teeth … “I am maybe being model for you, no?”. “Yes, yes” I say, “very possibly. You never know”. This appears to seal the deal. With a flourish, he throws the forms back to me yet again, and tells me to “come back at 4pm, I am looking at your files until then”.
Why I'm in love ....
... with a city. Bombay to be precise. I've been thinking about this all week .. pondering the attachment that this city, and indeed this country, have upon me, the hold which I don't think will ever leave me. I feel like a lover. in the throes of a long love affair, unable to leave, unable to survive without my omnipresent fix of this city. Irrational, incomprehensible, and completely emotional. I remember the exact moment that Bombay took my heart. I'd arrived late the previous night into Bombay... driven slowly through streets choked with ragged people, rickshaws spewing out obnoxious fumes, and a general cacophony of sound, sight and smell overwhelming every sense. Usual India stuff, I'd thought, as I contemplated my future life in Bombay. I woke the next morning to a blinding bright cerulean sky, cloudless and luminous in its intensity. I was picked up from the transit flat I was staying in at Kemps corner, and driven to the office. As we entered the lanes of cars weaving haphazhardly across lanes, I lost myself in the contemplation of life in this new city. As we suddenly swung a left into Marine Drive, past Chowpatty, I looked up and saw the curving expanse of Marine Drive ahead. In that very moment, inspired by the vast beauty of that arc stretching far into the distance, and the sun glinting off the immense stretch of ocean, something inside me just ... dislodged. I fell in love with this view, with this energy, with this bright expanse of possibility and my future never seemed brighter. I know that there are cynics who believe that my emotional reaction to Bombay is simply one borne from the comforts of the expat, living in a smart area, with all mod cons. I know that there are those who will never truly understand what it is to feel something for a place. But remember that every city in the world, every town, village, farm and even the humblest dwelling is held together by the energy of the people who live there. And Bombay's inhabitants, though often poorer than we can even begin to imagine on this side of the fence, are the most positive, inspiring and intensely giving people I have ever had the privilege to meet and spend time with. And that lifeforce simply fills Bombay's atmosphere, infusing the city with an electricity which overwhelms and invigorates. No other city I've ever spent time in, has had this kind of effect upon me. Forget Hong Kong, Singapore, London, LA, San Francisco, Jakarta, Manila, Bangkok, Rome, Paris. All intense and interesting in their own way, but always somehow leaving me a little cold, compared to the passion I feel for my Bombay.The depth of feeling I hold for Bombay is recharged with every experience here. Though life here can be intensely frustrating, difficult and often despairing, small events and incidences drive my love deeper every day. Walking out of my building after a quick chat with the ever smiling doorman, and catching a glimpse of the boiling ocean at the end of the street. Setting off in my tiny car, bumping over potholes, past the Haji Ali mosque extending for a mile into the sea, on a trip to the suburbs. Sitting in the parlour having my toenails painted fuschia pink by a sweet tempered man lost in concentration on getting the brush strokes of polish perfectly even. Lying on my bed as the humid air wafts gently around my bedroom, being massaged by my massagewallah with homemade ylang ylang, lavender and sandalwood oil. Walking into a private party and being overwhelmed by the welcome from virtual strangers, making friends all night long and engaging in long and earnest conversations with complete strangers. Watching the sunrise over Bombay's coastline, seeing the light gradually turn from indigo to the brightest baby blue. Sitting in the office, listening to the heated debates emanating from every corner, one moment in English, the next in hindi and then an indecipherable mix. Dancing to the latest hindipop remixes, pretending to be a bollywood star, grinding and bumping and preening. Stuck behind a lorryload of boys chanting, smiling and waving, as they transport their ganesha idol to the sea for immersion. Sitting in the back of a crowded movie theatre, as the cellphones ring, the conversations get louder, the cheers and moans annotate every moment of the hero and heroine's burgeoning love affair. The list is simply endless. And at every moment, every time these small events take place, they add to the emotional connection I hold for this city.
Men in Crisis?
Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away, a beautiful princess, hidden away from an exciting social life, parties and strong handsome young men by less attractive women all jealous of her beauty, waited sweetly and patiently for her prince to come. And come he did, galloping through the dust and the mud to sweep his lady off her delicate feet. Broken free from her chains, the princess flashed a glimpse of her pearly white teeth through rosebud pink lips, sank gratefully into the strong, capable arms of her prince, and was carried away on his sturdy white charger to a life of happy ever after. Long gone are those uncomplicated, fairytale days when women sat at home simpering sweetly and waiting to be romanced and taken care of by a strong, financially independent prince. The waiting and sighing and fluttering of eyelids was all part of a complicated but necessary ritual designed for women to prove their innocence, test their man’s endurance and finally bag that big, expensive wedding, frilly meringue dress and a series of beautiful children to fill that fabulous house. All clear symbols of a woman cherished, adored and cared for, and the envy of her less fortunate single girlfriends. These were the good old simple days. When men were men – true to their hunter gatherer roots, brave, fearless protectors of the weaker, fairer, emotionally dependent fairer sex, in a land where sharply defined roles provided behavioural guidance for both men and women. We are moving into a world where traditional gender based roles are shifting, and where conventional codes of masculine and feminine conduct are becoming hazy and obscure. For now women are more driven than ever before, often making more money than their partners, moving quickly up the career ladder and through the so called glass ceiling which limited women’s progress in a male dominated workplace. Working women are fast becoming economically independent, juggling their lives, and thus moving away from the emotional dependence which they once had on men. No longer simply defined by their reflection in the eyes of the beloved, women are redefining themselves and their sense of self worth. We can no longer rely on archaic stereotypes to guide us through a modern world where the sexes are not only battling, but often reversing gender typecasting. Conscious that they no longer need to rely on a man for financial or even emotional security, women are raising their standards, realizing that they can afford to be fussy, and that there is simply no need to settle for second best any more. According to Esther Daswani, former model and Mumbai socialite, “Women have grown incredibly, become aware of themselves. They are looking good, they are confident, they are walking into jobs. At a party all the women are looking fabulous, all the men are standing pot bellied at the bar, talking about business. Women are leaving men behind”. In the post “Sex and the City” era, its no longer embarrassing to be single, and women are holding out for an intellectual and physical equal. Gone are the days when fat balding unattractive men could count on a bulging wallet and a hefty bank account to secure them a pretty partner - these days its men who are being left on the shelf. Marriages are happening later and later, if at all, and its hardly surprising that the birth rates in Asia are at an all time low. Most men rhapsodise (in theory) about a woman who knows what she wants and who doesn’t require endless games, long convoluted and expensive courtships, and the frustration of having to wait until marriage to consummate the relationship. No longer stigmatized by the archetypal virgin-whore paradigm, women are experimenting sexually, calling the shots in bed and moving through casual sex partners. A woman can easily meet a man in a bar, take him home, have sex with him, and quietly slip out in the morning, leaving a note behind her if she feels like it. The modern woman is not content to dumb down her natural intelligence to appear sweet, helpless and in need of protection. Women have demanding standards, emotionally and physically, and they are enjoying the feeling of being in control. With this clear shift in the delineation of roles, with the move to sexual and economic equality, men are no longer in control when it comes to the dating game. The boundaries of control and responsibility are shifting even for men already settled in relationships. As their careers take off, women are driving themselves to excel in the workplace, putting in long hours, and men are having to take on more responsibilities at home – organizing meals, and even looking after the children. It feels an unnatural and unwelcome change for many men and it causes huge friction in many homes. Women still juggle their roles, balancing work and family life, but gone are the days when a man could return from a hard day in the office and expect a hot meal to be waiting on the table. These days women are expecting their man to take their turn in the kitchen, to give them a soothing backrub after the stresses and strains of their working day, and to be a willing listener as the events of the day are sifted through. One would logically expect this new female confidence, self sufficiency and the resultant balance in the way relationships are playing out to be a positive and progressive development. Men can now date strong, intelligent women without having to pile on the charm or play out the long waiting game. They no longer have to be prepared to invest emotionally in every relationship – sometimes a girl just wants sex without strings, and isn’t afraid to ask for it. Finally husbands can share the burdens of managing a household and caring for kids. Men no longer have all the pressure of climbing the career ladder and succeeding in the workplace. Plus, they can confide in their autonomous and emotionally stable partner who not only knows what she wants from life, but understands the societal pressures to succeed in the workplace and before one’s peers. But this new world of fast changing gender stereotypes is fraught with angst. Men seem to be navigating this new territory with difficulty. Not only have men always been confused about what women really want, but now they are bewildered and unsure about how to behave, how to respond, how to deal with conflicting demands. Some women use their emancipation to conveniently change roles whenever it suits them, a seemingly random act which only serves to confuse men used to consistency and sweetness. Indian men in particular, used to women playing traditional roles, find this behavioural to and fro-ing confusing. According to Niketan Madhok, model, “As women are becoming more financially independent, they become more demanding. They are not always balanced. Some women have lost it! 10 years ago men were getting away with bad behaviour. Now we’re seeing similar traits in some women”. The new man is expected to be simultaneously strong and vulnerable, generous and successful, macho and now metrosexual, unshaven and wearing a pink shirt, but the confusing part is working out when to turn on which button. Your average guy is no longer sure what he’s supposed to be, and often too steeped in years of conditioning and social stereotyping to be able to make a smooth transition into this brave new world. Many male egos simply cannot cope with being displaced, with handing the breadwinning baton to the traditionally more passive female, for this has defined and shaped his very identity for centuries. Even today earning less than a woman is socially unacceptable for many men. Whilst there are some men secure enough in themselves and in their own abilities to be able to proudly applaud their wife’s achievements, there are other, less confident men, who battle with a confusing emotional rollercoaster of hurt, frustration, bitterness and depression. For these men there’s a crisis of masculinity, and a feeling of being threatened by women’s emancipation. According to Toffael Rashid, Global Marketing Manager for Unilever - “For men who are secure – its great to finally meet women who are challenging, substantial, and not just a pretty face. But for insecure men – this emancipation threatens the only thing they had to fall back on. Now they have to woo and win their woman, and often they get knocked back”.Women have always had support systems, and been able to express and share their emotions – with their girlfriends, their mothers, their peers. Men on the other hand bottle their feelings up, more often than not turning to drugs or alcohol to vent their frustration. Undermined by women financially, outsmarted by women from college days onwards, and finally asked to measure up to ever increasing standards, many men simply cannot cope. According to Anthony Clare, author of “Masculinity in Crisis”, ‘Suicide is between two and five times more common in men than in women in Europe. The rates of male suicide in all age groups and in most countries have shown a striking increase over the past 30 years, and this is most dramatic in the 15-24 year age group’ The rate of change which male and female roles are going through leaves one wondering where this gender bending phenomenon will end up. Right now, women are at a developmental stage in building their own emotional and financial independence. They are assertive to an extent, but they haven’t lost their femininity. They like to be in control, but they also like to be looked after. Men are hanging on by their (manicured) fingernails, and except in extreme cases, seem to be managing to keep up with the rate of female change. But just how far will this change and its emotional ramifications go? Women, according to some men, are becoming more and more emotionally manipulative. They are using and abusing their new found freedom, demanding attention when it suits them – choosing to turn the emotional tap on an off according to their whims, and even resorting to infidelity. According to Niketan Madhok, “this is the price women are paying for not handling independence in a mature manner. They are not handling themselves well, and they need to understand why. They need to think about the motive behind that financial security – is it to give you confidence and a strong personality, or to give you the liberty to screw around? You would expect an independent man to be faithful to you, and this is what you should do”. Women should accept and understand that its difficult for a guy who has been used to being in a dominating position to suddenly turn around and accept a new status quo overnight. Its tough on the ego to see an intelligent, smart, savvy socially conscious women flying high, when you’ve been used to being calling all the shots. Especially when that successful woman is rejecting your advances, or has suddenly ended a relationship when you thought everything was going well. Women are also going to have to learn to balance their lives. Whilst men may be struggling to cope with the stresses of internalizing their emotions, according to Niti Patel, successful Mumbai based boutique owner, “indian women should not forget the basic Indian values. We have been taught simple, good ethics, and for lots of women, a bit of arrogance tends to come in, which can be dangerous. I’ve been married for 5 years, and it doesn’t mean I shouldn’t give my husband respect. Balance and respect is key in any relationship”. Certainly things have come a long way since our princess sat wistfully and prettily in her ivory tower waiting for her prince to come along. But if women jump too fast towards financial and emotional independence, want success on their terms in the office and in relationships, want to call the shots whilst being cherished and adored, earn a fat salary yet expect a man to pay the bills, then life is going to be one long battle of the sexes. The ideal is to find the middle ground, a balance between men and women which complements rather than contradicts, plays to each other’s strengths and brings out the best. Now maybe that’s a fairytale.
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