The beta of becoming

Blame it on a sleepy mood in the morning. Or the fact that I am doing too many tech stories for Mint (here, here and even here). Or a beautifully grey-blue morning in Bangalore. Or just the bellboys, who I love putting blame on anyways. Today morning, I woke up convinced that I am a program in its beta stage. Do I hear you laugh? Let me convince you.

TNAlphabet-Letter-B-shadowI am continuously changing, evolving, becoming something else.  Everything about me is in a flux–physical, mental, emotional, intellectual and all the other lulls. My source code is constantly being tampered with. By me, the things I read everything, by a man on the streets I don’t even know, by the potent combination of conversations and caffeine, by media, the movies I see, the videos I flick through on youtube, even innocent tweets. All of these are constantly tweaking my self, my insides, fusing, fastening, gripping, loosening, doing the salsa with my minds.

It’s interesting times, yes. It’s also revolutionary times inside me. I am becoming something else. I don’t even know what yet. What will I eventually turn into? If I look one step ahead, I am scared. There’s nothing but darkness there. A big, black hole of missing code, yet to be written.

Sometimes I am a developer of this conundrum of minds, senses, thoughts, ideas. Sometimes, I am an observer, one of them, helplessly watching from the sidelines as someone tampers, hacks into the deepest core of me, damaging, changing me forever. Sometimes I feel like binary numbers which have stopped making logical sense. Sometimes I feel like god, comfortable and enjoying the organic growth, celebrating the way the beta is shaping up. The way me is becoming, constantly changing, adjusting, tweaking to the demands of users, observers, critics, editors, friends, writers, developers, and opinionators.

I am an immortal beta who will never really become.

Same sex feminism

Let me not ramble on the concept, but show you what happens. Friend A and Friend B meet after a long time. Both have been college mates and are in their late 20s or 30s.

‘Where are you working now?’ asks friend A; trying to make friendly conversation.

‘Oh, I am doing nothing. Family takes up all my time,’ answers friend B vaguely.

‘Oh, you left your job?’ asks friend A.

‘Yes, I couldn’t take the stress of taking care of a child/home/husband/in laws and working,’ says friend B now, her eyes flitting uncomfortably from one side to another.

‘But, B! You have to take control of your life! You cannot sacrifice your needs, yourself for your family! They will have to adjust,’ says friend A, concerned, proudly single, living alone in a two bedroom apartment and earning in lakhs.

Friend B looks at the table corner, trying to find a flint of dirt there and feeling that her life sucks.

Of course you would have figured out that the conversation is between two females (I really don’t see men asking these questions of each other or even being concerned about this–tell me if I am wrong). Friend A is a traditional feminist, with a successful career and a ‘living for myself’ mantra. Friend B represents everything the traditional feminists protest against—family bindings, sacrifice, traditional woman roles. They are of the same age.

But this blog is not about who’s wrong or who’s right. That would be belittling both their choices. This is about how women are the ones expecting women to fit into an idea of feminist role or into an idea of traditional role. It’s not the men. We don’t need them there. Women are the protectors and keepers of roles—be it traditional or liberated roles.

Traditionally (and still), it was the mother/mother-in-law figure who ensured that the girl would play a certain role. The elder woman is in this way a spokesperson for our patriarchal society—for the roles set for women, for decorum, for morality. (Beautiful shown by this old National Geographic cover.)

Feminism was a protest against these traditional roles in society. The women wanted equality, the women wanted to be the superior sex, the women wanted to work outside and to have freedom of choice. Some years (or decades, depending on which country /area you see) down the lines, feminism has made itself a ‘role’, a comfortable box, to live in. The definition varies, but not that much. It’s defined as exact opposite of the traditional role of women. If you don’t work, you are not a feminist. If you sacrifice your happiness for your family, you are not a feminist. If you wear a bra, you are not a feminist. If you dress sexy, you are not a feminist. If you leave a job and have babies, you are not a feminist. If you don’t distrust men, you are not a feminist. If you do a man’s cleaning, you are not a feminist. If you work in the kitchen, you are not a feminist. Somehow, feminism is defined by all the things that you should or shouldn’t do.

And ironically, it is we, the ‘liberated’ women living in urban cities who are trying to put these boxes on our gal pals, our cousins, our sisters—same age females—and make a judgment on them. Again, no men, if you notice.

I have been on both ends of the conversation. I have played the role of Friend A as well as Friend B. But then I wonder. Shouldn’t feminism be something that just lets you be whatever you choose to be? That doesn’t have rules? Isn’t it about freedom of choice?

Oh, there are loads of disclaimers for the terms used in this blog, but maybe I will leave it open to criticism. Suicide I know, but well.