Poornima Manco

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The Male Gaze

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Some time ago, a reviewer upbraided me for describing a woman in my book with a very ‘male gaze’. The criticism wasn’t entirely unwarranted, as the person describing the woman was a man, and for reasons of authenticity, I had to inhabit his skin and describe her through his eyes. However, her remark got me wondering. How often do we view ourselves and other women through the prism of a man’s expectations?

Many, many years ago, when I was in my early twenties, I came to England on a holiday with a female friend. For a short while, we intended to stay with her male cousin in his house in Kent. I had never met him before, and had zero expectations. But as soon as we met, I could see him sizing me up, and finding that I wasn’t as attractive as he’d been led to believe. How do I know this? I overheard a conversation he had with his friend over the phone where he described me as “disappointing”. As a twenty-something year old, I took his evaluation to heart, judging myself as harshly as he had judged me.

Now when I look back, the only “disappointing” thing I find about myself is that I couldn’t recognise an idiot when I saw one. He was a spoiled, entitled brat, used to women falling at his feet, and the many incidents that followed with him at the centre would make for a very interesting tale. However, I will save that for a future retelling.

Over the years, I’ve come to understand that no one can live up to the ideal standards that men enforce upon women. And I see women everywhere trying. No matter what we tell ourselves, we have internalised these incredibly harsh beauty standards within us and convinced ourselves that we primp and preen for no one else but our own selves. Really?

Don’t get me wrong – for the better part of my own life, I did the same. More the fool me!

There is nothing wrong with wanting to look attractive, to wanting to look your best at any age, whatever your best may be. But it is important to ask whose yardstick are you living by?

Recently I stumbled upon an article describing Kim Kardashian’s revenge body. What on earth is a revenge body I wondered? Well, the article enlightened me. After her divorce from Kanye West, Kim Kardashian had embarked upon a self-improvement endeavour which involved eating a plant-based diet, overhauling her exercise regime and removing her famous bum-implants. Naturally, this sent the netizens into a frenzy, each one proclaiming how “fabulous” Kim was looking post-breakup. A million or more young girls, fans of the canny businesswoman, most likely internalised the message that heartbreak didn’t mean diving into the nearest tub of Haagen-Dazs. Instead, it meant a punishing regimen of readying oneself for the next potential partner.

One can be the most shiny, beautiful self on the outside, but if it does not match up to the inside, it is a doomed undertaking.

Ageism, sexism, misogyny are the favoured sons of patriarchy. I see examples of women bending over backwards trying to adhere to the impossible criteria of youth, beauty and attractiveness imposed upon them by male-led institutions and thought processes. Actresses that starve their bodies and plump their faces, erasing every facial expression while erasing their wrinkles. Pre-teens who wear overtly sexualised clothing because they want to appear seductive. Young girls who pout and pirouette in their smalls in front of the camera, feeding the lusts of perverts, in the belief that they are ‘free’ to explore their sexuality as they will.

The ‘Male Gaze’ has us pinned against a wall, squirming like insects, performing haplessly and fighting a losing battle in the mistaken belief that we hold the cards. We don’t. We never have. But that’s not to say we never will.

Let us reclaim the narrative of our bodies and our minds. Our journey is ours alone, and let it be one that is empathetic to the process of ageing, understanding to the process of growing up, inclusive of every shape, size and colour, and above all, divorced from the ill effects of the male gaze.

 

 

 

It hurts!

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“It hurts mummy!” My daughter sobbed, pointing to her chest, trying to identify the epicentre of her grief, “It hurts here!”

“I know darling,” I tried soothing her, my heart breaking as I witnessed what bereavement could do to a person.

To a bystander, this grief would seem disproportionate. After all, it was only a hamster, a tiny little rodent that had a very short life span anyway. But, to my daughter, little Luna had been her world, a repository of her love and a symbol of life finally turning positive after years of pain and suffering that a series of health issues had caused her. Luna, the Russian dwarf hamster, had been bought for her birthday, after much pleading and cajoling on her part. She’d never had a pet of her own. The first two hamsters had belonged to her sister, the steady rotation of fish we’d bought for her had never really felt like her own pets as I’d been the one who’d ended up cleaning the aquarium and caring for them. So, this pet was meant to be hers alone. And she was as good as her word. She fed her, cleaned her cage and played with her daily.

Luna was a delightful little thing – full of spunk and vigour. She was incredibly sociable, always happy to be held and passed from hand to hand. We filmed her climbing her bars and swinging from them like a Cirque du Soleil trapeze artist. We photographed her chucking all the food out of her bowl and sitting in it. Her antics became a source of amusement and entertainment for the entire household. Even my husband, not a pet person at all, found her to be a sweet little thing.

A week before she died, my daughter noticed her behaving strangely. She hadn’t come up to the second level to drink any water all day, which was very unlike her. Her food remained untouched. When we raised the roof of her little house, she crawled out uncertainly, wobbly on her feet, dragging her hind legs as though injured. Fearful that she might have broken a leg during her acrobatics, we started googling hamster ailments straight away. Nothing definitive came up, but the advice was to have her checked out by the vet. So, we rushed her to the clinic near our house. The vet wasn’t in and an appointment was made for later in the day. All-day my daughter worried about her, scared that Luna was in pain. In the evening we put her in the little pet carrier and once again, carried her to the vet.

As soon as the vet put her on the stretcher, she seemed to perk up. Running hither thither, she seemed perfectly fine, casting doubt on all our previous worries. We were gobsmacked! This was the same hamster that had been dragging her legs a half-hour ago. The vet discharged her with advice to give her a food supplement and just keep an eye on her. We were perplexed but happy that she seemed to have recovered on her own.

For the next week, Luna’s new ‘normal’ was an exaggerated version of her former self. She climbed her bars constantly, throwing herself down like a kamikaze pilot, she started to chew on them, as if wanting to escape her confinement. She also became increasingly nippy, chomping down on our fingers whenever an opportunity presented itself. Her increasingly bizarre behaviour seemed to transform her from a happy, peaceful little thing to an irrational, hyper, angry little mammal. We could not understand it, and I spent hours trawling the internet trying to figure out what was going on.

Then, a week ago, she didn’t emerge from her house all day, once again. Upon returning from her weekly physiotherapy session, my daughter noticed that Luna’s breathing was shallow and that she was curled up like a little ball. The internet revealed that she could be in a state of ‘torpor’ brought on by the cold, and extremely dangerous in little animals. We heated up a hot water bottle, placed a towel on it and tried to warm little Luna up. But it was too late. She had slipped away silently to wherever cute little hamsters go to when they die.

I took it hard because I had grown increasingly fond of her. But my daughter took it even harder. She didn’t sleep all night, crying into her pillow, weeping at the unfairness of it all. “She was just a baby!” she wept. Yes, she was. Less than two months old, Luna should have had at least another sixteen months of life.

My daughter’s back pain has come back with a vengeance, once again underlining how psychology influences physiology. She feels like the Universe is conspiring against her, that nothing seems to be going her way. But more than anything else, she is grief-stricken at the loss of her pet, her darling little Luna Yves.

For people who don’t own pets, this may seem incomprehensible. For people who do, this will be completely understandable. Pets, little or large, become a part of the family. In their quiet and unconditional love, in their reliance on us and their domesticity, they bind us to them in infinitesimally small and unseen ways. When they die, a part of us dies too. When they die unexpectedly and so very young, a part of us is wrenched away in the shock of the arbitrariness of it all.

Perhaps Luna had an underlying condition we were not aware of. Hamsters can be prone to heart issues and/or diabetes. Perhaps her bizarre behaviour was symptomatic of her condition, her ‘nipping’ a way of conveying her pain and discomfort. Perhaps. A lot of questions remain, but we didn’t have the heart to have her little body cut open for an autopsy. Instead, we gave her a little burial in a plant pot, with a beautiful yellow rose plant bought especially in her honour to commemorate the joy she brought into our lives. The little plaque I had made for her notes the date of her demise and how much she was loved by all. It is glued on to the outside of the planter.

Too much? No, not in my opinion. There is a reason that we have certain ceremonies or rituals after death. These are a very visible way of bidding goodbye to a loved one. They are the first steps that we take towards healing. After the pain of the loss comes denial, then anger, then bargaining, then depression and finally, acceptance.

Right now, my daughter is trapped somewhere between anger and depression. The acceptance will come, I know it will. But in the meantime, it is important to acknowledge the magnitude of her loss and to show her that Luna’s little life on earth meant something to us. In time, hopefully, we can bring home another little hamster. But right now, we grieve the passing of our little friend. May she rest in peace.

The Great Leveller

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Prince or Pauper. Young or Old. Death doesn’t distinguish.

Rarely do we acknowledge that with every moment and every breath, we are moving towards our own ends. If life is a miracle, then death is its unsung companion. It lurks at every bend and fold. It stalks us with every near miss and illness. It laughs grimly as we celebrate birthdays and anniversaries and milestones. After all, we have to walk into its arms eventually, and feel its lips upon us.

Does that negate the meaning of all life? On the contrary, as anyone who has had a brush with death would attest, it reinvigorates you into living better, and puts into sharp focus that which is really important.

I lost a friend and colleague last week. As memories and tributes have poured in, one fact has stood out in glaring contrast to the others. People have spoken time and again about his kindness. His generosity of spirit was the trait that distinguished him from all others. Not to say that he didn’t have his share of faults and weaknesses, as we all do. However, the overriding narrative has been about his selflessness, his need and ability to help.

The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft interred with their bones, said William Shakespeare. For once, I am in disagreement with the Bard. The good does live on. This is not canonising the dead. This is accepting that each of us has a choice in the legacy we leave behind. Our legacy could be little or large. It could affect multitudes, or only a handful of near and dear ones. Yet, it would be the one thing that we would be remembered by. Choose wisely.

Having seen how quickly life can end, it makes me examine my own self, and ponder whether disagreements and resentments, and standing on points of principle are really as important as I thought they were? I could never be a doormat, and let people wipe their feet all over me. Yet, I need to inculcate forgiveness and empathy, and an awareness that each of us views life and relationships differently. I need to be honest with myself about my own legacy. I don’t want it to be one of anger and hatred.

In his illness my friend reached out to those he had wronged, and those who had wronged him. He set the record straight, and if nothing else, he died with his conscience clear. Perhaps this is a life lesson for all of us.

We do not need to be looking at death in the face to realise the importance of telling our loved ones how much they mean to us, forgiving those we have perceived as our enemies, building bridges that we have allowed to fray, and choosing to live each moment to its fullest capacity.

Live well, Laugh often, Love much.

A trite phrase that contains a pertinent universal truth. Do not wake up to it when it’s too late.

Annus Horribilis

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What a year it’s been!

With the passing of George Michael on Christmas Day, it seems as though we have lost more luminaries in a year than we have in the last decade. From David Bowie to Prince to Alan Rickman to Zsa Zsa Gabor, nearly every month has brought news of another celebrity demise. In and of itself, this would make headlines. But coupled with all that has gone on politically, 2016 has kicked us in the teeth repeatedly.

Pondering the US election results, a colleague had remarked that the pendulum had swung this far right only as a reaction to it having swung too far left. Equal and opposite seems to have been the rule of the thumb this year. Brexit and Trump. Farage and Le Pen. Racism and Misogyny.

Adding an extra glitter to the proceedings have been all the horrific terrorist attacks the world over. From the Istanbul bombing(January) to the Brussels airport attack (March) to the car bombings in Baghdad (May) to the Orlando nightclub shooting (June) to the Bastille Day attack in France (July) to the suicide bomber in Quetta, Pakistan (August) to the Ohio State University Attack (November) to the Berlin Attack (December), to name but a few.

And all the while, the world has watched the plight of the Syrian civilians in Aleppo caught in a civil war nightmare, from a distance, helpless and shocked that a despotic ruler can attack his own people time and again, with nary a murmur from the powers that be. Alliances and political juxtapositions being paramount.

Turmoil, upheaval and change have been 2016’s calling cards.

Governments are mutating, political ideologies are being replaced, humongous talents are bowing out, and climate change is being labelled as fraudulent. Is this the beginning of the end?

Every Century has brought its own kind of change. The world has seen natural disasters, extinction of species, plagues and contagion, war and strife, and it has carried on spinning on its axis. Despite all of mankind’s destructive capabilities, and megalomaniac desires, the world has survived. How much longer though?

With the nuclear codes in the (very) small hands of a man with an easily bruised and (very) large ego, might this be the last decade or so that the world does carry on spinning on its axis? Let’s hope not. Let 2016 be a footnote of sorts in our History books. If it is the year that took away so many and so much, let it also be the year that led us to self awareness, to a perseverance and persistence of belief in the ultimate wisdom and kindness of the human species.

If 2016 has been an annus horribilis, let’s look forward to an annus mirabilis in 2017.

Goodbye, you awful year. We shall not be sorry to see the back of you.

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