Wednesday, March 06, 2013

Naak naak, who's there?

[So, Kindle magazine asked me to do a piece for their cover spread about women “reclaiming” their bodies, and I obliged with this series of vignettes about the Nose. (The essays in the issue are about various body parts.) Still a bit unsure about what I was trying to do exactly, and it reads like a mix of personal anecdote and po-faced social commentary from the “look-at-me-I’m-such-a-sensitive-male” catalogue. But hopefully it isn’t a complete... stinker.

Post title courtesy that adroit punster, Baradwaj Rangan
]


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My favourite photograph of my wife Abhilasha is, of all things, an X-Ray - a profile of her face that shows the outline of the nose and the jaw clearly enough, but with one tiny, jarringly non-organic substance visible in the nasal region. You feel like you're looking at an embedded metallic chip from a dystopian story about people being monitored by a totalitarian government.

 
Illustration: SOUMIK LAHIRI
Learn the context though, and it becomes funnier. Two years ago Abhilasha had a nose encounter of the weird kind. She had been wearing one of those small nose-rings that looks very compact on the outside but which comes with all sorts of complicated paraphernalia that lies just out of sight: a tiny cap screw, a bolt, and for all I know a warehouse supply of ball bearings and rotating-gear wheels too. Anyway, over time the little screw somehow got embedded in the wall of the nose, with the skin closing over it – and she discovered this only when she managed to remove most of the ring and realised something was still lodged inside, where only a surgeon’s delicate tools could reach.

Hence the X-Ray. Hence a quick appointment with the local clinic, where all of us had trouble keeping a straight face. (Surgeries involving a family member are not normally things to be laughed at, but.) Hence the giggling doctor – and I tell you, a big burly Sikh surgeon teehee-ing like Tinkerbell as he exits an operating theatre is a rare sight. Eventually Abhilasha came out looking sheepish, a small bandage-gauze awkwardly attached to half her proboscis. “Aaj tumne hamaari naak kaat ke rakh di,” I told her with the sternest expression I could muster.


It seemed the obvious thing to say. After all, we are the smugly liberal ones, right? We have grown up hearing – and superciliously shaking our heads at – those melodramatic pronouncements in Hindi movies. We feel we can use them in humour, even though we know they so often assume much darker expression in the real world: as condemnations, to suppress rights and freedoms; that they can even be a matter of life or death. A few months earlier, we had read the story about Bibi Aisha, the Afghan woman whose nose was cut off by her husband and in-laws when she tried to escape them after years of abuse. Aisha did eventually gain a measure of freedom – and became a poster-child for commentary on sexual oppression when she was featured on the cover of Time magazine – but one can safely assume that thousands of other women aren’t as lucky.

However, this attempt to construct otherness – to not acknowledge the large spectrum that links our own presumably enlightened lives with the uncivilised lives of "those" people – is self-deceptive. Years earlier, Abhilasha herself had been on the receiving end of a more serious “naak” denouncement. It was during one of her first stints in journalism. An unexpected “graveyard shift” happened to arise during a week when her parents were out of town and she was staying at her maasi’s house. Destined to be stuck in office past midnight and reluctant to disturb a household that had old people living in it, she decided to stay over at a friend’s who lived nearby – after having informed her aunt, of course. It was the practical thing to do in the circumstances. But the next day, when her mother returned, hell broke loose: there was screaming, there were wails and imprecations.
What were you thinking? What will they think of us? What kind of a job is this? And that damning sentence: “Naak kaat di tumne hamaari.”

Two things worth noting here: one, that her parents seemed less concerned about what she had really been up to the previous night, and more concerned about what their relatives would think; deeply upset that the situation had been such that others knew. And two: Abhilasha’s mother had once been the principal of a small school and had in her younger days written short stories that might be described as feminist laments for the ways in which women are made to live in the shadows of men. Her apparent volte-face when it came to her own grown-up daughter seems like a classic case of a victim of patriarchy becoming absorbed into the system.

Here was an urban family that hadn’t thought twice about giving their daughter the same level of education as their son, and about encouraging her professional ambitions. But that didn’t erase the Lakshmana-rekha: it was untenable to stay out this late, to fail to be the Good Girl treading a straight path from office to home.

*****


The other “lakshmana-rekha” in the Ramayana – the one that doesn’t get described as such – is the clean slash Rama’s younger brother made across Surpanakha’s face with his sword, severing her nose and setting a chain of events in motion. It’s easy to see why this ambiguous episode has lent itself to so many literary retellings and alternate psychological explanations. In a short story titled "Surpanakha", for instance, the novelist and poet Amit Chaudhuri casts Rama and Lakshmana as posturing bullies, unable to deal with the idea of a woman as a sexually autonomous being. “Teach her a lesson for being so forward,” Rama tells his brother chillingly when Surpanakha propositions him; the words echo “punishments” meted out by patriarchal societies to women who dare express sexual desire.

Lakshman came back; there was some blood on the blade. “I cut her nose off,” he said. “It,” he gestured toward the knife, “went through her nostril as if it were silk. She immediately changed back from being a paradigm of beauty into the horrible creature she really is. She’s not worth describing,” he said as he wiped his blade.

“Horrible creature...not worth describing.”

To see that Time photo of Bibi Aisha is to be reminded of why the nose is so key to our perceptions of human beauty as well as personal dignity. Try looking at the photo with your finger awkwardly blocking out the missing organ, and you get a hint of inner radiance and poise; you see the forthright, proud gaze of someone who survived an ordeal. And yet, without the nose, the illusion becomes difficult to sustain – the organ is, to put it simply, central. With a gaping hole right in the middle of the face, the resemblance to a death-head is inescapable, and we are uncomfortably reminded of what we are beneath our hubristic ideas of our own beauty.

The nose is also, of course, the breathing apparatus – directly associated with the most fundamental activity of human existence. And in the “naak kat gayi” context, it can be an uncomfortable reminder of what existence is for so many women around the world. It means being the repository of a family’s or society’s “honour”, someone whose “transgressions” – real or imagined – can shame everyone around her. It means being custodian and possession, goddess and slave, at once. It means you have no identity as an individual, only as a symbol or as an object. As Nivedita Menon points out in her fine new book Seeing Like a Feminist, the obsession with a woman’s “honour” lies at the heart of the belief that rape is “a fate worse than death”; that once a woman has been “shamed” thus, she is a blot that society must purge itself of. (Or even marry off to the rapist so that a non-consensual sexual act is retrospectively legitimised.)

Something else Menon’s book discusses at length is gender performance: how women have internalised aspects of behaviour expected of them – keeping their eyes averted, focussing inward, occupying the least possible space in public places. Interestingly, an inversion on the Pinocchio story – Pinocchio’s Sister: A Feminist Fable, written by Abraham Gothberg – features a girl whose nose grows longer when she tells the truth, a metaphor perhaps for how women are often forced into living up to an ideal rather than being true to themselves.

*****


I offered a morbid view of the nose-ring at the start of this piece, which is perhaps unfair. Nose-rings can of course serve graceful decorative purposes, enhancing a woman’s aesthetic appeal (and why not a man’s too?) and making life more colourful and attractive generally. But beauty and ugliness can go hand in hand, in much the same way that many festive rituals can be celebratory fun while also being subliminal ways of maintaining a regressive tradition. I have friends – women among them – who cluck their tongues exasperatedly when I say that the large nose-ring worn by Indian brides in certain traditions reminds me of the rope threaded through a buffalo’s nostrils, used by its master to lead it about. And apparently I’m being a wet blanket and a grouch when I spell out my feelings about customs like the “nath atarna” – the removal of the nose-ring – which is often a euphemism for the end of a woman’s virginity. Or the sight – so touching to many eyes – of an adult woman sitting on her father’s lap during a wedding ceremony (the nose-ring prominent on her face), an object waiting to be transferred from one man to the other.


Of course, in many such cases, the custom is “harmless fun”, containing a sense of irony, with young people joking about the implications of what they are doing even while they are doing it. But it is useful to be aware of how firmly embedded certain ideas are in our social framework; how they become part of our everyday lives and assumptions, and are propagated by even the most innocent-seeming aspects of our popular culture. Consider the suhaag-raat scene in Yash Chopra’s Kabhi Kabhie, with Shashi Kapoor removing Raakhee’s ornaments one by one as she sings in memory of a lost love. On the face of it, this is a tender scene from one of our most beloved romantic movies, and the film is trying hard to present Kapoor’s Vijay as a caring, sensitive man. (It’s a terrible performance, incidentally – the actor has absolutely no clue how to play this scene, and can one blame him?) But think about what is really going on here and it becomes a little icky: a woman, who is in love with another man, is about to be bedded by a husband whom she barely knows (and in the patriarchy, deflowering is of course code for “possessing” – she is now his). The last ornament he removes is the nose-ring, as the song ends and the scene fades to black; it is as obvious a symbol as all those Hindi-movie shots of bees buzzing around flowers whenever two lovers draw near each other.

Metaphors for virginity aside, the author-mythologist Devdutt Pattanaik has noted the many ways in which a woman wearing a nose-ring may be perceived. “The scientist said it has no scientific basis. A rationalist mocked her for mutilating her body in the name of beauty. Another rationalist pointed out that it was an ancient acupuncture technique. A feminist said she was sporting the symbol of patriarchy. A secularist said that made her a Hindu.” And so on. At the end comes the kicker: “Everybody saw the nose-ring. No one saw her.”

In a better world we would be able to see the whole person, as opposed to a cluster of disjointed parts. Perhaps it will happen one day.

16 comments:

  1. As Nivedita Menon points out in her fine new book Seeing Like a Feminist, the obsession with a woman’s “honour” lies at the heart of the belief that rape is “a fate worse than death”

    Haven't read Ms. Menon's book. But if that is where she stops with her reasoning, then it is a disappointment. The fear of "rape" is possibly an outcome of an obsession with "honour", yes. But it doesn't stop there. Obsession with "honour" exists because loss of "honour" has consequences that are real. The chief among them are fatherless babies and mysterious illnesses (better known today as STDs).

    In a traditional society where life was pretty cheap (expected life duration of 30-35 years), one can understand why the rape of a 25-30 year old was regarded as a fate worse than death. It meant one of two things -

    1. Either a fatherless baby to be reared by the single mom and her dad who is possibly nearing his grave

    2. The girl possibly becoming an easy elimination candidate for prospective grooms.

    Either outcome can seem more miserable than death for families 200 years ago when death of a relative occurred every other month and hence didn't seem like a big deal!

    Ofcourse in modern urbanizing societies with high life expectancy and less familiarity with death, nobody is foolish enough to regard rape as a fate worse than death. Yet, old attitudes persist in certain sections of society. And only time can eradicate those outmoded attitudes!

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  2. I quite liked this piece overall (cliched statement , but I am mentally conditioned to like everything you write ) , just some minor observations of my own:)

    Two things worth noting here: one, that her parents seemed less concerned about what she had really been up to the previous night, and more concerned about what their relatives would think;
    As a woman , I can sort of see where this comes from and it may sound a little odd , but I actually can understand why the parents were so freaked out . Most progressive parents are completely helpless when it comes to the "society" , the "others" , mainly because this is one area where all their progressiveness is being judged and put on a pedestal (as in , if a Hindu girl elopes away with a man of another religion , or a girl divorces her husband on grounds of incompatibility , the "others" instantly put a blame on how the parents should have been "tougher" with the girl and not given her liberties and all that jazz) . A tiny fraction are actually "tough" enough to not be bothered about such things , but some others aren't . I agree its sad and completely uncalled for , but then , we have gotten this far today . I can only hope for a day when we get even farther.

    As a person who has been wearing a nose ring for almost her entire life , I have to admit I had to srunch my own nose at your "insensitiveness" to poor Abhilasha's condition :) . I had my nose pierced as part of a ritual and many of my cousins and friends too . Most of them got rid of the ring when it seemed to interfere with their day to day lives . I myself have hated it when I was in my late teens , but not anymore . It may start out as a symbol of patriarchy and Hinduism and all , but almost all of us have the opportunity to get rid of it when we want to. That said , I have also come across a lot of women who have got their noses pierced and wear these attrociously large and flashy rings and carry them with absolute elan .

    P.S. That Kabhi Kabhi scene ruined the beautiful song for me . I need to go see something nice now to get rid of that image . Shashi Kapoor , why this kolaveri ???

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  3. I am mentally conditioned to like everything you write

    Prashila: oops. It seems subversive conditioning operates at levels other than societal customs! I'm so sorry.

    Seriously though, it wasn't my intention to pass a blanket judgement in that passage about the parents' reaction. (Maybe it came across that way.) All of us live in society and interact with it in many complex ways - that's understood. And for all my apparent smugness/liberalness/call it what you want, I can't begin to predict how I might behave if I had a daughter growing up, going out, partying and working late hours in the world we live in.

    Of course in modern urbanizing societies with high life expectancy and less familiarity with death, nobody is foolish enough to regard rape as a fate worse than death.

    Shrikanth: wrong. Social conditioning plays a larger and more influential part than you think.

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  4. oops. It seems subversive conditioning operates at levels other than societal customs! I'm so sorry.
    Haa haa . Absolutely . But then digressing from the topic here , I remember being severely offended by one of your old posts on babies and all the comments on it and that when I actually share your sentiments . That is probably one place where my mental conditioning disintegrated completely.

    I can't begin to predict how I might behave if I had a daughter growing up, going out, partying and working late hours in the world we live in.
    There you go :). And now I need to get back to my work . Have a good day.

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  5. And for all my apparent smugness/liberalness/call it what you want, I can't begin to predict how I might behave if I had a daughter growing up, going out, partying and working late hours in the world we live in
    Sorry to butt in, but isn't this another kettle of fish altogether? From "in the world we live in," I'm inferring that you'd be worried for her physical safety, which is very different from worrying about what the neighbours will say or the whole "naak kaatna" thing as such. Nothing to do with being liberal or otherwise.

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  6. Radhika: you're right - I confused two different thought processes in that last comment; the sentence "And for all my..." didn't quite follow from the ones that preceded it.

    At the same time, the two things can become muddled in certain contexts. We often see this in public discourse where an expressed need to take basic measures/adopt cautions for your own safety in a highly imperfect world (and this should apply to both men and women as potential victims of crime) becomes conflated with victim-blaming, or the placing of conservative restrictions on women's freedoms. Different imperatives collide in these discussions. In some cases, the suggestion that women need to be "careful", or not stay out too late, or dress a certain way, is an obvious cover-up for a deeply conservative/repressive attitude that wants to maintain a societal status quo. But in other cases, pragmatic suggestions made by genuinely liberal people can be misinterpreted as being restrictive.

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  7. Not a stinker at all; in fact it resonates on many levels.

    In Kabhi Kabhi you see Rakhee waking up all smiles the morning after, which is credible. It is also something of a cop-out. It would have been a very different story if Rakhee's character never warmed up to her husband

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  8. Moulding defragmentation (can't I just call you R_____?), thanks! And phew. I now know as many as seven ladies of taste and discernment who have liked - or at least not disliked - the piece.

    Anon: oh yes, a hugely embittered, man-loathing Raakhee would have made that film a very different experience.

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  9. Count that as eight, Jai. I liked it too, puns and all.

    BTW, you are not alone in finding some nose rings look like cattle-controllers. Wonder if you came across this: http://faridabadmajdoorsamachar.blogspot.in/2010/11/identity-and-complexity-of-identity-3.html
    which says "Nathna means to control. Making an hole in an ox's nose and taking a rope through it was called natha. The actual rope in the ox’s nose was called ‘nath'.

    So... that '80s hit of Mussarat "Laung Gavacha" was about a woman losing her virginity and not knowing where she lost it, eh?

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  10. Shrikanth: wrong. Social conditioning plays a larger and more influential part than you think.

    Social conditioning yes. But that conditioning is not a random exogenous factor but a result of historical experiences which may or may not be relevant in the current milieu.

    the novelist and poet Amit Chaudhuri casts Rama and Lakshmana as posturing bullies, unable to deal with the idea of a woman as a sexually autonomous being.

    Interesting interpretation! Obviously appealing to feminists. Fine. No hard feelings.

    But I interpret it rather differently. There is no dearth of romantically inclined, sexually aggressive females in our old Aryan myths. Eg: Amba, Urvashi, Satyavati, Kunti, Devayani etc. So I don't buy this theory of punishment being meted out for the expression of romantic desire.

    Surpanakha's case is unique in that she is not like any other adventurous epic era female. She is not an Aryan and this makes a BIG difference in 800 BC when the Aryan tribes are expanding down south encountering strange indigenous tribes in the process.

    Ramayana, in essence, is a fictional account of the white man's expansion into Southern India. This Aryanization of the South was probably a long drawn process that happened over several centuries. Perhaps these centuries were very violent and littered with instances of inter-racial conflict, an example being the Surpanakha episode.

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  11. Oh Jai. I wish we'd talked about this in person because Amrita and I would have offered up some very enthusiastic descriptions of the, er, power of Shashi's performance in that scene. We both rank it as one of the steamiest moments in Hindi cinema. :)

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  12. Manto seems to have written on the type of noses 'Naak ki Kismein', which are available here in Urdu script: http://www.paklinks.com/gs/culture-literature-and-linguistics/404944-naak-ki-qismain.html

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  13. Lovely piece, Jai. Do you remember that episode in the 'Ek Kahani' or 'Kathasagar' series on DD where there is a married woman who has to wear heavier and heavier nose rings that her in-laws force her to, in order to broadcast their growing prosperity?

    Can someone confirm if the song 'Jhumka gira re Bareli ke bazaar mein' is also referring to losing virginity?

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  14. Nikhil, Cullum Tod: thanks.

    Cullum Tod: no I don't remember that episode, but I've been reading a little more about the subject, and apparently the perceived link between nose-piercing and hymen-piercing in some traditions is more pronounced than I had thought.

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  15. Have always been following your blog even though I do not comment much. But I could not resist appreciating this brilliant post this time. Really enjoyed reading about the 'naak' - such a forgettable body part. But you wrote wonderfully about so many things regarding women revolving around this organ!

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