Poornima Manco

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So what’s in a name?

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A famous cricketer in India, Yuvraj Singh, gets married to his sweetheart, Hazel Keech, a model and actress. During the wedding ceremony, Hazel’s name is changed to Gurbasant Kaur, by the Sikh priest performing the ceremony. He is the ‘Guru” of the family, and both Yuvraj and his mother, follow his instructions to a T. As does the new bride obviously.

From Hazel to Gurbasant, what is in a name after all? A rose by any other name would smell just as sweet Shakespeare claimed. Yet, let’s examine this a little closely. Our names are the repositories of our identities. Our histories, our backgrounds, our cultures are all tied in with our names. Is it quite so easy to discard them and don new ones?

As most little girls would attest, the first sign of a crush is to link one’s name with the object of one’s affection. Signatures are practised with flair. Surnames are dropped with nary a thought. But this is all play. When it comes to the actual doing, post marriage, many women choose to keep their original surnames. The reasons could be professional or personal. It’s a name they are used to, have had their entire lives, have earned their degrees on, and refuse to compromise on, at that juncture.

Years ago, my mother had a run in with an American boss’ wife. In correspondence, she had unwittingly referred to her by her husband’s surname. The lady was livid, and insisted that this was rectified immediately. My mother was confused. In India, in the 80’s most women donned their husband’s name after marriage. This current trend of double barrelling names or even keeping the maiden name did not exist. When we discussed this at the dinner table that night, we wondered if the lady was some kind of a bra burning feminazi. In actual fact she was just a qualified professional who refused to be pigeon holed by her husband’s name or accomplishments.

Later, in the nineties, a cousin of mine called off an engagement, and settled on staying single because, not only had the future husband and in laws demanded that she become a stay at home wife, but had also insisted that she change her name to his. This was a doctor who had put several years of study to gain her qualifications, only to have her attainments and her career be subsumed by his. She wasn’t having any of it.

Contrastingly, a school friend did what Hazel has done, and took on a new name- first and last- to please her husband who did not much care for her original name. She seemed happy with her decision, and to this day, doesn’t see why it should have been a big deal at all.

When I got married in the late nineties, I did what most good Indian brides did back then, and adopted my husband’s last name. Would I do it today? Maybe. Maybe not. I was still discovering who I was back then. Today, I am farther along in that journey, and am comfortable with the name I have. It has become a part of my identity.

Would I have changed my first name? Not a chance. It’s a name that was picked out lovingly by my mother. It’s an unusual name, and much as it has been a pain in the rear, career wise, and living in the West, with it getting mangled beyond recognition, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Which brings us full circle to Hazel. Hazel, who had an ugly altercation with some bank officials a while ago. They refused to recognise her name as Indian, and release her monies to her. Who argued, leered and embarrassed her to the extent that she took to Twitter to lambast them. Would Gurbasant have had the same problems? Maybe their Guru was exorcising those demons by christening her with a more Indian than Indian name. Or maybe he was just exercising his clout. Either way, Hazel, going forward will be Gurbasant Kaur, and more power to her.

Critics will carp that a woman’s surname was never hers to begin with. It was her father’s and then his father’s before that. Quite when this tradition of taking on a man’s name began, I do not know. What I do know is that whatever one chooses to do with one’s name- keep it, take on another, change it by deed poll- it should be one’s own decision.

What lies in a name is a lot more than meets the eye. And I doubt very much that we’d like a rose to be called a cauliflower.

Dead Man’s Folly

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On a cold and blustery Chicago morning, I make my way to The Field Museum of Natural History. I had been hearing a lot about it’s exhibition of China’s First Emperor, and His Terracotta Warriors. In 1974, an accidental discovery of a terracotta statue by a farmer, led to one of 20th Century’s most important archaeological finds. I am intrigued, and wish to see for myself what had been unearthed from the site.

I have been accused by my daughters of being a museum lover. It is an accusation with merit. To me, museums, just like libraries, are hallowed places. Places where the human spirit finds joy and sustenance. Over the years, they have been dragged to museums all over the world. From the amazing Museum of Egyptian antiquities in Cairo to the exhaustive British Museum in London to the humbler Pondicherry Government museum, they have seen weapons and coins, artefacts and costumes, mummies and dinosaurs, and somewhat reluctantly absorbed the knowledge housed within. Or, at least I hope they have.

After having taken a somewhat circuitous route planned for me by Google maps, that entails circling back upon myself, walking past residential areas, through deserted parks, past a sullen waterfront where unmanned boats bob upon swollen waters, I find myself walking through a children’s aquarium. Abandoning Google maps, I decide to rely on good old fashioned common sense and make my way to the imposing building next door. Sure enough, that is The Field Museum.

When elephants and dinosaurs jostle for limelight in the lobby, you can be sure this is no ordinary edifice. Feeling a bit lost, and very very small, I asked a guard for directions to the Terracotta exhibit.”Take a left”, he says dismissively. And so I do, and there it is.

It is not a large exhibition. In actual fact, it takes me less than 40 minutes to cover it. Regardless, it is fascinating.

The story of the First Emperor of China goes thus: Qin Shihuang ascended to the throne at the tender age of 13 amidst the chaos and conflict of the Warring States period (475-221 BC). Seven States had been embroiled in centuries of warfare for regional dominance. Qin, while ostensibly proclaiming loyalty to the Zhou dynasty, had already started making inroads into conquering vast tracts of land. By the age of forty, Qin (pronounced Chin) had conquered and united all the warring states, built a network of roads to facilitate commerce, standardised writing, created a unified currency, and also built a Great Wall, the precursor to the present Great Wall of China (the majority of it being constructed during the Ming Dynasty). It is no wonder that that the name China is derived from Qin.

However, while undoubtedly being a hugely influential ruler who shook off the the title of King, to assume the grander appellation of Emperor, he was also regarded as a tyrannical despot, with an obsessive fear of assassination. From this fear of death, arose his need to find the elixir of life, for which he undertook several journeys and employed various quacks and healers. None of them however, were able to provide him with the key to immortality, and he reportedly died ingesting mercury pills made by his alchemists and court physicians.

From a relatively young age, Emperor Qin undertook the task of creating a mausoleom for his afterlife, the kind of which had never been seen before or since. A palatial tomb that housed all his worldly treasures, and paid homage to his position as divine ruler of China.The mausoleum complex was built to mimic the Emperor’s world and was filled with precious goods, such as musical instruments, weapons, armour, jewellery, and models of warriors, officials, and entertainers, all intended to ensure the emperor’s place in the next world. To guard his mausoleum he commissioned an army of terracotta warriors, some as tall as 6 feet, each handmade and painted, with facial expressions and features distinct from one another. To create these 8000 odd figures of horses, archers, charioteers, infantry and generals, it is estimated that at least a 1000 convicts and conscripted men would have been pressed into service. In all, it would have taken 700,000 labourers approximately 40 years to complete the terracotta army and tomb complex.

For 2,200 years this complex covering 56 square kilometres remained uncovered and untouched, until the fateful discovery. Most of it still remains unearthed. Excavation and restoration of the figures is ongoing, and from a historical and anthropological perspective, remains a veritable gold mine of information.

Yet, some things remain unchanged.

The Great pyramid of Giza, the Pantheon in Rome, the Taj Mahal, all display humankind’s pre occupation with death. Wittingly or unwittingly, these mausoleums become a legacy and a reminder of the fragility of life.

Qin, much like the Egyptian Pharaohs, believed that as and when he made that final journey, he would be able to surround himself with all his home comforts in whichever realm his royal personage resided. We now know that death doesn’t allow baggage. What we do not know, and make leaps of faith to comprehend, is exactly what happens to us after death.

Christians believe in Heaven and Hell, with a waiting room of Purgatory. The Hindus believe in Reincarnation, a cycle of life and death, punctuated by Karma. The Buddhists believe that a life of good deeds could lead to an end to the aforementioned cycle and a fast track to Nirvana (an end to suffering and rebirth). The Muslims believe in a judgement day by Allah, where you either head to Paradise (Jannah) or get cast into Hell (Jahannam). Judaism is rather vague on the details, with some believing that souls will join their ancestors in the Ever After, and others believing that a retreat to a place of solitude like Sheol might occur. Atheists believe that once life ends, then that’s it. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust, and no soul travelling nonsense. These are but a few (over simplified) belief systems that exist in the world. The one thing they all agree upon is that mortality is a guarantee.

What then to make of Qin’s extravagant mausoleum? A dead man’s folly? A vainglorious attempt to burnish his after life? Or, should one, with the hindsight afforded by 2,200 years, see it as an amazing testament of man’s ability to harness power, resources and creativity to conceive and construct that which outlives his own paltry existence on earth?

Qin’s futile search for immortality might have ended in a carriage on the road at the hands of his own physicians. But his bequest to the world is its own kind of athanasia.

Life is the childhood of our immortality, said Goethe. Perhaps, we, just as much as China’s First Emperor, would do well to understand this.

A NO means NO

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Rarely has something made me chomp at the bit, and try and spill out on screen the anger, the sheer disgust that I feel at the rampant sexism that is being condoned and perpetuated. This week however, a combination of world events and news items have made me take to my laptop in angry defiance of a world gone mad.

It started with a video clip that surfaced of the Presidential hopeful, Mr Donald Trump. By this time, almost everyone (unless you are living under a mushroom) has heard the obnoxious and nauseating remarks he made about women, secure in his power, wealth and celebrity. This “locker room talk” had him cavalierly discussing how he could force his attentions on any woman, and not be rebuffed. This was a man who displayed zero respect for the female species, regarding them as playthings set upon earth for his consumption and entertainment. His own daughter was not spared, as he declared he would date her if she was not his offspring. A misogynistic megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur. Just what the world needs right now!

Then came the news article of Ched Evans’ acquittal. For those who are not aware of this case, Ched Evans is a footballer who was accused of rape by a 19 year old waitress. Four years ago, this inebriated woman had sex with his friend, and Ched invited himself over to this party. As per her claim, she blacked out, and had no recollection of giving consent to this menage a trois. At first, sympathy lay with her, and Ched was prosecuted. On appeal, however, this conviction was overturned. Why? Because the judges allowed details of the young woman’s past sexual behaviour to be introduced in court. At which point, the jury determined that Ched Evans was not guilty of rape. Never mind that he took advantage of a drunk woman, while ostensibly engaged to be married to another. In an even stranger twist, it was his fiancee’s family’s money and clout that ensured the admission of new evidence. Here was a woman who stood by her man, no matter how repugnant his actions were.

This brings to mind the case of Brock Turner, the former Stanford University swimmer, who sexually assaulted an unconscious woman behind a dumpster. This shining star was given a six month sentence in prison for what his father claimed was “20 minutes of action”. He was released in September having served just three of those six months. In the meantime, his victim serves a life sentence filled with fear, hurt and degradation. Justice served?

Finally, the last headline to emerge from Egypt was from an Egyptian law maker, Elhamy Agina, who claimed that female genital mutilation is needed because Egyptian men are ‘sexually weak’. So if a woman’s sexual appetite were to be reduced through this brutal practice, she would be better equipped to stand by her man. What is FGM? Female genital mutilation involves the removal of the clitoris, inner-and-outer lips of the vagina, and the sewing or stapling together of the two sides of the vulva leaving only a small hole to pass urine and menstruate. Typically FGM is performed with a razor blade on girls between the ages of four and 12, traditionally without anaesthetic. The primary purpose of FGM is to inhibit sexual pleasure in women, but it comes with severe complications like excessive bleeding, infertility, urine retention and can prove lethal. It has no medical justification whatsoever.

Isn’t it ironic that men from all walks of life, all cultures and all strata of society seem to think that a woman’s body is theirs to control? That a woman need not give consent, and does not deserve any sexual gratification of her own.

Not all men are brutes, and not all women are Madonnas. Yet the power balance is decidedly skewed in favour of the male species. It is time to reiterate that a no means a NO! It isn’t a yes couched in a flirtatious, teasing negative. That a woman must verbally consent to having sex before a man proceeds, and that she has every right to withdraw her consent at any time. That being drunk and vulnerable is not a free pass to be violated. And lastly, mutilating a woman, physically, mentally or emotionally is nothing but a sick power trip, a bastion of the weak and cowardly.

A dish best served cold

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So it’s the end of Brangelina. And thank goodness we can finally put that awful, media produced moniker behind us. Sad as the break up is, it isn’t particularly surprising, given that most celebrity unions don’t seem to last a creditable length of time. There are of course, repercussions. The children, the assets and the carefully cultivated images that will be dismantled publicly. Just as their union was a three ring circus, the dissolution will no doubt be an equal media frenzy.

Why then has Jennifer Aniston, who’s clearly had nothing whatsoever to do with the split, been getting so much coverage?

Karma.

Karma, that elasticised bitch that rebounds in your face when you least expect it. For over a decade, while Angelina set out to become the next Mother Teresa, wiping her slate clean of all wild child behaviour, poor Jen was relegated to the position of the rejectee; forever seeking love and never finding it. Poor Jen, who despite all her career success, her good looks and undoubted talent was a loveless, childless spinster.

Angelina on the other hand, didn’t just have Brad on her arm, she had the entire United Nations under her roof. Her multi racial adopted children were a testament to her beautiful and brave soul. Her double mastectomy another courageous move that we stood in awe of. This was the poster child of modern womanhood. Team Jolie were winning, and how!

Then it all fell apart.

Out came a thousand memes, each one with Jen’s knowing grin underlining what Team Aniston were gleefully shouting from rooftops:

What goes around, comes around.

He who laughs last, laughs longest.

As you sow, so you reap.

Except, Jen had said none of the above. No doubt, she must have felt in some way vindicated. However, she has moved on. A new marriage, a successful career, and a fulfilling life. Brad and Angelina’s split might have produced a wry smile, but poor Jen was probably way too busy to indulge in a victory dance.

And so, contrary to the belief that Revenge is a dish best served cold, the best revenge really is to live one’s life, and live it well. Karma will take care of the rest.

Get your Streak on

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I stumble in my heels, mentally cursing my choice of footwear. These shoes are not made for walking aimlessly around Regent’s Park, trying to locate a gaggle of naked women. My phone rings, and it’s Becca, concerned and distracted at the same time. “Where are you? Wait- I’m just getting painted. Yes, yes, walk towards the fountain with the urns at the bottom.”

As Regent’s Park contains various fountains, it takes me a while to locate this particular one. Forty minutes later, I see an orange arm wave out to me from behind a bush. Then a leg emerges, and then, all of Becca emerges, grinning broadly at me. “You made it!” We air kiss, and she waves off the bemused bystanders with a shrug. She is in a bikini, painted orange from top to toe, completely unfazed.

She leads me to the rest of the group. Conny beams up at me through the eyelashes being painted on her. Jonny is sponging orange paint on Ali’s bum, Sheina is getting a full frontal paint job while Reggi is having her legs striped. Teresa sways over to me, a slinky tigress in a black dress. I can almost hear her purr. “Welcome darling! So glad you could join us.” I chortle amiably. There’s no way I could have missed this.

Many months ago, I nearly did. When this audacious scheme first originated in Becca’s mind (as they invariably do), I was amongst the invitees. Fancy running naked through the zoo with us? A shudder went through me, and I very politely declined. Naked. With body paint. In front of strangers. In a zoo. Nightmare scenario.

Yet, as the months went by, and the charitable contributions poured in, and the Facebook posts got wilder and more exciting, a part of me felt like this was something special. Something different, and interesting, and brave. I wanted a part of it. Even if it was just as a bystander. So here I was, imbibing the Prosecco, and photographing women in various states of undress.

It’s not everyday that you see naked women being painted in a park. Understandably there are many many curious looks. Most people look, and then look away. A few looks linger, a few voyeurs linger even longer. Some take up permanent residence in the tall grass in the distance. A small child stands dumbstruck half a mile away. The music is blaring and then Tiger Feet comes on.

Ali starts dancing. Sheina joins in. Then the rest. They dance in tandem. Some in kaftans, some completely starkers. I snap away, infected by the joyous energy of the group.

We munch on cocktail sausages and crisps. Drink lukewarm bubbles. Swap stories and laugh the afternoon away. Each lady is beautiful and unique and amazing in her own way. They are all different shapes and sizes. The one thing they have in common is a body confidence that is wondrous to behold. Emboldened by each other, dedicated to raising funds for this worthy cause, they do not allow any body anxiety to get in the way of having a marvellous day.

Ali semi squats in front of Helen sans her scanties. Now her bottom bits are being embellished. Slap slap the brush slaps on black paint. Ali winks at me. Such sangfroid. I’m nearly jealous, but rapidly realise that I definitely do not want my parts on display. Such courage I do not have. I resume my role of observer/reporter with relief. Time’s ticking and I indicate to the girls that perhaps we’d better make tracks towards the zoo. A rapid clear up ensues.

Tails and paws emerge. Our tigresses are well and truly ready to streak. But first they must gently trot towards the zoo. Displaying phenomenal feline grace, they hoist their backpacks and pull along their cases. The Prosecco has added a sparkle to the proceedings, and as I bring up the rear, I see them being accosted by the paparazzi. “Ladies, ladies…this way. Pose. Smile. Roar. Claws out.” For added effect, Sheina drops her wrap and gives them an eyeful. This is what sexy looks like! They are still picking their jaws off the floor, while we collect our wristbands and enter the premises.

There are around 200 runners, and roughly about that many spectators. The run is only 350 meters, but it is a streak, and from what little we’ve glimpsed of some of the other runners, some haven’t even bothered with the paint.

There are banners lining the path with cheeky slogans like ‘Llamas rarely wear Pyjamas’ and ‘Ants don’t wear Pants, and neither do You’. Nudity is de rigeur, and much like at a nudist beach, its the ones in clothes that stick out like sore thumbs.

While waiting for the race to begin, the four of us supporters/helpers, sit and chat with one another. We talk about conservation, of the delicate eco-system balances that are being disrupted world over, by raging development, callous culling and complete extermination of certain species. Each animal has its rightful place in the food chain, and contributes to it in so many known and unknown ways. Removing it from the chain affects every link, and ultimately causes an imbalance that affects all of us.

Critically Endangered and present nowhere else in the world, the Sumatran tiger is one of those species most vulnerable to the social and economic changes currently occurring in Indonesia. After Critically Endangered, the next level on the IUCN Red List of Threatened Species is Extinct in the Wild. The next and final category is Extinct. The ZSL’s work in Indonesia is focusing on developing sustainable livelihoods for the local communities, protecting peat forests from destruction and countering poaching activities and resolving conflicts betweens tigers and humans.

“Would you do something like this?”, asks Helen. “Perhaps next year”, answers Michelle,”Yes, I think I would now”. I am reticent. We discuss body issues. How few there are on the Continent, and how riddled we are by them here in the UK. I am no prude but acutely conscious of my shortcomings. Could I do something like this? I’m still pondering it when the announcement that the race is beginning comes on.

We wait in excited anticipation. The curtain goes up and with a roar of approval from the spectators, the naked runners streak past us. Some have cute paw prints all over them, some have nothing but a tiger mask on their faces, others are painted as tigers too. But our girls lead the charge. Seven beautiful, glorious, brave women storm ahead, paws pounding, tails swinging behind them, radiant, laughing, glowing. Ali’s magnificent breasts defying gravity. Jonny’s perky bottom, swaying in rhythm to the music. They wave as they go around. Then come around again and again.

We yell, we scream, we take pictures and laugh. A runner catches our eye and comes over to pose with us. He puts his arm around me, wearing not a stitch but a smile. “Looks like you’ve pulled!”, Michelle whispers conspiratorially, giggling. I laugh and whoop as one runner does his eighth turn, and another runs by with a frame around his naked torso. I’m surrounded by boobs,butts and schlongs, and it suddenly occurs to me that to the animals, we must be the ridiculous species, covering ourselves up with bits of cloth.

At long last it’s over. The runners and spectators are shepherded towards the enclosure of the twin tiger cubs, born in June this year. They can see first hand how their contribution is helping protect this species last numbered at around 300. I bid my lovely tigresses goodbye, and head home.

My Whatsapp is saturated with messages the next morning. The girls are all over the papers, and online news. They are fizzing over with excitement and pride at a job well done.

What’s more touching, however, is the unspoken bond that they have forged through this experience. A madcap exploit that will have them chuckling well into their twilight years.

Postscript: The girls have raised over £3000 with the number still rising.For anyone wishing to contribute, please visit:

www.justgiving.com/fundraising/FlyingTigers

The politics of hatred

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I am not naive. I understand that not everyone can get along with everyone else, all the time. That’s a Utopian ideal. Yet tolerance, respect, and understanding is not too much to hope or ask for. Having been on the receiving end of racism (subtle or blatant), I can tell you it is one of the most humiliating, demeaning, soul crushing things that one human being can do to another. It makes you question your own worth and your place in society.

Post Brexit, there has been a rise in reported racist attacks. From terrorising mothers and children on the streets, to hate mail, to arson and death threats, Britain’s exit from Europe has been viewed by certain quarters of society as carte blanche to launch a hate-fuelled, bigoted vendetta against anyone who is perceived as “foreign”. That someone could be just as British as the person attacking them, but if they have an unpronounceable name or a different skin colour that is enough. Farage and UKIP have unleashed a monster that will be very difficult to rein, as years of hostility and simmering resentment has now found a voice and a direction. And it’s not pretty.

On the other side of the pond, Black lives matter are crusading against years of police brutality and discrimination.Leading from the assumption that all black men are thugs and criminals, the police shoot first and ask questions later. In most instances, they are never called into account for their actions. Racism is rife and protected.

Hatred and fear, more often than not, stem from ignorance. Different is construed as threatening. From perceiving a threat to a ‘way of life’ to then discriminating against those who ‘appear’ to be threatening this way of life is a short walk towards Xenophobia. A contagion that can affect the most educated to the most ill educated.

For all those who are truly appalled at the goings on, speak up. Speak for your fellow human, whether he wears a skull cap or she dons a hijab. Whether his skin colour is black or her eyes are slanted. Whether he struggles with your language, or she eats with her hands. Speak for them.

Amongst the many qualities that make us human, are the qualities of compassion and empathy. Let us put aside this fear and hatred, this self aggrandisement and reach out to those that seem different. How wonderful it will be to find that they are no different from you and I.