Shauna Singh Baldwin’s ‘What the Body Remembers’, and Moliere’s ‘The School for Wives’

                 As the explorer-adventurer Allen Quatermain begins his search for the treasures held within the mysterious, purportedly unattainable King Solomon’s Mines (in the book of the same name, by Sir H. Rider Haggard –jokes about his name later), he exerts himself over a landscape akin to a map drawn upon a woman’s body.
 

                 The mountains he crosses are Sheba’s breasts, a river leads down her torso, and deep in the canyon between her legs lies the mine whose depths contain vast hoards of inconceivable diamonds men have only heard about and not seen, and that they will kill for.
 

                 Apart from the fertile, lush, feminine landscape that the men explore, women are practically absent, with the exception of only 2 stereotypes - Gagool (an old crone), and Foulata (a beautiful African maiden the white explorers rescue from ending up as a human sacrifice).

                 The one is shriveled up and wise, and therefore neither a temptation nor a threat (since she is not 'wise' in the knowledge of Western science/ the arts, that is). The latter is the white male fantasy of an exotic, attractive, adoring, feminine slave woman who dies for love. Just to clarify, Foulata’s love is made out to be a crush she secretly nurses for her male ‘savior’ who acknowledges her, but doesn’t consider her worth his ‘attention’ because she is not his equal in any way.

                 And because both women do not fall within the explorers’ realm of what constitutes a worthy love interest or more importantly, a friend (for after all, friendships are forged between equals), neither woman is worthy of the attention of the male characters in ‘King Solomon’s Mines’.

             
                  It appears, the men choose to ignore even what might be available to them (i.e. - courtship and marriage in England), in favor of having a merry boy’s club jaunt in forbidden territory. Quatermain is relieved to observe, “I can safely say that there is not a petticoat in the whole history.”

                  The reason why I mention ‘King Solomon’s Mines’ is because it reminded me of female silences, in a play and a novel I recently enjoyed – Moliere’s ‘The School for Wives’ (1662), and Shauna Singh Baldwin’s ‘What the Body Remembers’ (1999). Women play central roles in both texts, with each writer illustrating their tenuous existences within the systems they are born into. They are present physically, yet are overlooked, spoken for, saved, judged, decided for, by the men who 'own' them. To be honest, they face many challenges still faced by women in almost all cultures whose theories defend sexual equality while practice shows otherwise.

                  Set in 17^th century Europe, ‘The School for Wives’ centers around a 16 year old motherless child (Agnes), whose 43 year old guardian Arnolphe has paid for her education (or to be specific, for the lack of it, because educated women have opinions, and men do not want to be bothered with answering these opinions). So Agnes has been suitably raised in a convent since the age of 4, and Arnolphe gleefully believes she is entirely innocent of the carnal knowledge of the written word. He anticipates the pleasure of tutoring his future wife to perform just as he means her to, and to live only by his approval.

                 ‘What the Body Remembers’ is set between the 1880’s and 1947, when British India was transformed into the countries of India and Pakistan (later to be split into Bangladesh in the 1960s). The turbulent birth of 2 nations, accompanied by much contractual pain and bloodshed on either side of the Radcliffe Line, is the backdrop against which we witness the maturation of Roop, a young motherless Sikh woman, who learns to navigate her life through dint of hard experience, and to lead.  

                 The difference between Roop and Agnes are their existences in the worlds of Realism and Satire.

                 Beautiful, partially deaf, 16 year old Roop becomes the second wife of a high-ranking land-owning Sardar in his 40s, simply because she wants “pretty clothes and lots of servants”. She realizes that this strategy is not easy to live with when it is clear that the Bari-Sardarni (the Sardar’s first wife who has been unable to conceive) has complied with her husband’s second marriage only with the intent of using Roop as a baby-producing machine. Roop is forced to give up her daughter first, and then her son, to Satya.

                  Despite Satya’s attempts to wreck her husband’s second marriage, however, Roop endures, using her native intelligence and acquiescent demeanor as self-protection. In this game whose rules have been written by patriarchal culture, Roop ultimately wins the Sardar’s preference by fulfilling her expected role – that of producing 2 sons and a daughter to ensure the Sardar’s lineage, while being a dutiful, quiet, wife.

                  Satya, on the other hand, prefers death to dishonor, and deliberately contracts tuberculosis, passing on quickly. She makes her choice in a system that expects her to live according to its definition of womanhood. Roop lives on, surviving the birth of 2 nations, to provide hope to an Oxford-educated Sardar, displaced from Lahore to Delhi, in a new, bruised, but optimistic India.

                  Interestingly, the name ‘Roop’ means physical beauty, while ‘Satya’ is truth, both meanings exemplified by the 2 women.

                 Roop periodically remember’s her father’s words as she leaves for her new home, after her marriage ceremony – “Above all, give no trouble.” Giving no trouble – in other words, not perpuating willful dialogues with one’s husband and challenging him – ensures her survival, ironically. Roop notes that beauty – charming smiles, soft words, and an attractively dressed body, are pleasing to her husband. In fact, one of her most common utterances to him is, “I don’t know”, spoken wide-eyed, head slightly bent in deference, with a shy glance at his face, because she knows it pleases him to tutor her and to lead.

                  She understands that her husband’s nightly visits are not about her pleasure, but his. That the strategy of ensuring her own survival through serving him will work, while communicating in a primal, subtle, silent exchange outside the bounds of patriarchal verbal discourse. That her partial deafness, once seen as a handicap to be kept a secret from all, has actually been her strength all along, training her in non-verbal self—defense.

                   Satya, on the other hand, fights being cast aside for a second wife by shrieking, protesting, questioning, and accusing in the only language she has consciously accepted as her own because it is that patriarchal language that defined and approved of her image as a strong, courageous, and intelligent high-born Sardarni. One wonders why Satya doesn’t realize that she would never win an argument in a language that lent her only the power she did not ask for? Truth spoken from a woman’s lips is never acknowledged in a marketplace of constructs. But then again, 'satya' has been just that for time immemorial.

                   Satya is the opposite of Roop, and is contemptuous of this 16 year old uncultured low-born village girl (not even from an old Sikh family like hers) who has unconsciously nudged her from her prime position. She hurts more to think that her husband would choose such a woman, after having known her. What a contrast. What an insult.

                    In an affirmation of Keats' words - “Beauty is truth, truth beauty..” - upon Satya’s death, Roop comes into her own, merging her beauty with the truth of Satya’s thought. She uses her beauty and her silence as tools not just to shield herself, but going forward, to instill courage and a sense of purpose in her weary husband, who has lost all his material wealth during the Partition, and is in danger of losing his sense of self. Roop becomes a version of Satya…a reflection of India itself, beautiful and truthful, as against the rather nebulous beauty and truth of the neighboring self-righteous, self-absorbed, and conceited Pakistan (‘the land that is pure’, ironically).

                     In ‘The School for Wives’, Agnes (whose name means ‘pure’ or ‘holy’) similarly reserves her passionate speech only for the young Horatio, whom fate introduces her to, despite her living in Arnolphe’s gilded cage. Agnes allows emotion to guide her dialogue with Horatio, and discovers that this forbidden passion allows her to operate outside Arnolphe’s semantic realm.

                     Arnolphe has absolutely no clue about the depth of emotions Agnes is capable of precisely because of his expectation that she do or speak only as he wishes. He pays no heed to her utterances because he thinks they do not matter. Needless to say, her silences prolong his ignorance. Arnolphe is cuckolded by fate at the end of the play, when his plan to punish Agnes by marrying her off to an unknown is foiled. Ultimately, Agnes chooses approval over obedience and happily awaits her marriage to Horatio.

                     Rider Haggard’s Gagool and Foulata, Singh Baldwin’s Roop and Satya, and Moliere’s Agnes are all absences in patriarchal systems because they have not written their own selves into power. In other words, their narratives have not been heard and assimilated in the palimpsest of male or ‘written’ authorship in their respective times and cultures.

                    The 2 women who use patriarchal discourse to assert their identities and independence – Gagool and Satya – resort to that bastion of female defiance (defined as ‘hysteria’ by patriarchal psychology), and meet violent ends. Gagool is crushed by an enormous boulder, while Satya chooses a kind of slow but certain death via degeneration.

                     Agnes and Roop, on the other hand, appear guileless, but in fact turn out to be far more effective in furthering their own interests by using their their silences to manipulate the system…they don’t protest their limits but instead decide to strategically extend their domain. Agnes is aided by chance, while Roop (perhaps unwittingly) uses Satya as an effective contrast (as with Jane Eyre and Rochester’s first wife, who has been imprisoned as the 'madwoman in the attic').

                     Agnes and Roop are not just manipulating the system though. They actively create their oral narratives (hence all the more difficult to pin and remove) and bend with the times – the constantly evolving definition of what constitutes their ‘homes’, and in Roop’s case, ‘country’ even. Singh Baldwin, while contrasting the tension from the forces between Roop and Satya – beauty and truth – also paints the anxiety that their Sardar must face as a subaltern (an Oxonian engineer, with his world of Tuesday lunch clubs, valets, motorcars, travel, international objets d’arts notwithstanding) in the face of the Empire that executes a poor exit strategy, ignoring minorities altogether during the Partition.

                     So what does the body remember eventually? The ability to bounce back and to rebuild, apparently, despite any amount of turbulence and uncertainty. To bend without breaking. The collective memory of suffering and the resulting fortitude. Not what is written on paper, by the victors, but more importantly, in the collective consciousness, to be passed on orally between women, from mothers to children, and so on…stories where the beauty of truth instructs the listener to learn from changing times.

Neruda - Love Sonnet XI

I died when I first read this poem.

I still get goosebumps every time I read it.

Here it is, from one of the greatest romantics...'Love Sonnet XI', by the Chilean diplomat-poet Pablo Neruda (1904 - 1973):


I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

Thus Spake Jobs

“Here’s to the crazy ones, the misfits, the rebels, the troublemakers, the round pegs in the square holes… the ones who see things differently — they’re not fond of rules… You can quote them, disagree with them, glorify or vilify them, but the only thing you can’t do is ignore them because they change things… they push the human race forward, and while some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius, because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do.”

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary.”

“If you want to live your life in a creative way, as an artist, you have to not look back too much. You have to be willing to take whatever you’ve done and whoever you were and throw them away. The more the outside world tries to reinforce an image of you, the harder it is to continue to be an artist, which is why a lot of times, artists have to say, “Bye. I have to go. I’m going crazy and I’m getting out of here.” And they go and hibernate somewhere. Maybe later they re-emerge a little differently."

“When you're doing something for yourself, or your best friend or family, you're not going to cheese out. If you don't love something, you're not going to go the extra mile, work the extra weekend, challenge the status quo as much.”

“I think different religions are different doors to the same house. Sometimes I think the house exists, and sometimes I don’t. It’s the great mystery."

'Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can't Stop Talking'

                       “The soul selects her own society…” – Emily Dickinson (1862)

                       The ideal of extroversion, the culture of personality prevalent worldwide today, the pressing call to “sell” one’s ‘brand’, and the relentless categorizing of quieter, more reflective persons as less capable are some topics that are explored by Susan Cain, a self-proclaimed introvert, and a Harvard Law graduate.

                        Far from criticizing extroverts themselves, Cain simply makes a case for those who lean towards introvertism. She acknowledges the importance of diversity in the world’s psychological make-up, and the shades between personality types as well, noting the predominance of some temperaments in some cultures (Americans being more extroverted, while the Chinese appear more reticent, generally speaking).

                        One is introduced to several extroverts, introverts, and those who represent the shades in between both personality types – from motivational speakers to HBS students to evangelists – even as Cain examines the ‘why’s’ and ‘how’s’ of personality types from the 360 degree viewpoints of behavioral psychology, social conditioning, history, stereotyping, pop culture, and so on.

                      Written in an exceptionally easy-to-read, conversational style, ‘Quiet:…’ neither pretends to be an academic thesis upholding introvertism as the formula for success, nor is it a legal case defending introverts as victims of the social Tower of Babel. It is simply a passionate opinion – not a perfect book, but a ‘speaking out’ as it were (and we all know how much that means to introverts!).

                       In a consumer-driven world of instant gratification and self-promotion, one is bombarded with sales-talk and often seduced by attractive packaging. Cain questions the need for constant self-promotion and the projection of one’s best image, to the point of being unconcerned about the value or depth in that image. A typical thought that often strikes the solitary seeker who “wanders lonely as a cloud”. Cain notes, not one who is ‘lonesome’ or ‘anti-social’, but one who prefers quiet time to recharge and re-orient oneself.

                       One might argue that such personality types would not fit into some fields such as entrepreneurship or business management, but Cain points out how leadership at the helm can be very lonely indeed, and how many a time across cultures, its torch has been borne by an introvert. It appears introverts make a difference by offering creative, original, out-of-the-box ideas in all subjects ranging from art (Van Gogh) to hi-tech (Steve Wozniak) to politics (Gandhi) to activism (Rosa Parks).

                        This book is most timely in the 21st century because extrovertism has come to be alarmingly associated with all that is ‘normal’, healthy, sane, etc, throughout schools and workplaces. One wonders if the current emphasis on the extroverted ideal is leading to the isolation of the thinkers in society, and the latter’s increasing frustration with the same.

                         Furthermore, the online virtual space that provides quieter folk an outlet for expression has led to a far lesser face-to-face interaction in society today, compounding the problem of imposed or self-imposed isolation in a way, leading to greater chances of misunderstanding between personality types. Cain addresses these issues and suggests ways of empowering quieter people of all ages to ‘perform’ better in real-world competitive situations where the chick that cheeps the loudest gets the worm.

Ankhiyan Udeek Thiyyaan (My Eyes Long for You)

Berthea Snark, Ph.D. (Psychology)  in McCall Smith’s ‘A Conspiracy of Friends’ tells us that the best thing one can ever do is to follow one’s heart.

Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan similarly sang about one’s overall growth that results from not being a slave to reason and conventionalism.

                   One of my friends said the other day, “The final destination is the same no matter what path you take. It all evens out. Materially and spiritually.”

                    I’m not sure if it all does even out for everyone materially given that we are all governed (in a way) by different factors that have brought us to wherever we are at present. Not everyone dies middle-class, and leaves the same estate behind. Even if ‘estate’ could encompass life skills/children’s education and accomplishments/children’s estates…I think equalizing everyone might be stretching it a bit. How about comparing a successful Egyptian goatherd with a Nebraskan real estate agent or a Singaporean insurance ‘Hall of Fame’-er? I guess it’s a matter of perspective. At the end of the day, one can’t take one’s possessions over to the afterlife…so I agree in that particular aspect, we are all even for sure.

                    I’m also not sure if we even out spiritually at the end, because we all have our own definitions of what constitutes spirituality.

                   But let’s assume the word spirituality in its entirety and wholeness refers to a heightened consciousness of a life-affirming, positive, higher being – the creator, Brahma, Allah – however we know this being or power by our different perceptions. Then I dare to suppose my friend could be correct. Why? Because one can’t assume or judge another person, him/her being as much God’s creation as one is, never mind his/her faith. 

                    Remember the story of the Buddhist monk who realized that he had been wrong to judge a butcher harshly when he himself was in the wrong as an unfilial son? Remember Prophet Mohammed (peace be upon him) who pointed out that a prostitute feeding water to a stray dog would enter heaven, and not a believer who practiced his faith only outwardly, with a cold heart?

                    I suppose my friend could be also considered wrong, depending on how righteous one is about one’s faith…I mean, since each religion seems to consider itself the ‘true’ and absolute message, it would deem all other religions to be simply invalid.

                    The common thread among all our faiths, though, no matter which one is right or wrong (only God knows, after all) is the journey of all souls towards the divine, consciously or unconsciously. The Buddhist monk made a conscious choice upon his enlightenment, while the butcher was living it, unconsciously.

                    The seeking of union with the divine as a means of attaining a higher consciousness both to appreciate and to deal with the physical/material/emotional challenges of this earthly life, is a common yearning. We see it in Christian liturgies and hymns, in Bhakti and Sufi poetry, in qawwalis…In Asia – the Indian Sub-continent specifically – since the 6^th century.

                    Bhakti poetry was originally marked by the preponderance of women poets who sang/chanted their passionate devotion for the divine. Many of these women were of lower castes (Mirabai being one exception), and not always formally educated (some not at all – which makes their talent for poetry and composition all the more surprising…this could spark off a discussion about the poet as 'oracle', Plato and most religions' disapproval of poets as 'dangerous' persons, reason/emotion/regulation/experession, and so on...hmm).

                    These women poet-saints were housewives and mothers (this is 1400 years ago), who exhibited a tendency to disregard cultural ‘rules’ and ‘regulations’ (formulated by upper-caste men). They also disdained the calcification of religion into meaningless rituals in a language inaccessible to the masses. They insisted upon living the ‘householder’ (Grihasta) phase of their lives and shunned celibacy, showing their devotion to the divine through earthly service to their loved ones, with humility and selflessness.

                    Going by French feminist theory, I suppose one could say that these women poets were, in a way, torchbearers for modern day feminists. They questioned religious/social mores, and doggedly sang/wrote their life narratives in their own languages, as per their own rules. In this, they were highly inspirational.

                    During the Mughal rule between 1500-1850, Hindu devotional poetry influenced Muslim poets and musicians to incorporate this poet/saint voice into their writing/song. Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan, the product of 6 centuries of classical professional musicians, distilled the singer’s and the listener’s participation in the performance into one trance through his rhetorical Qawwali lyrics. Here is one popular favorite whose translation I got off the net. I’m not sure if it is accurate as I don’t speak Punjabi. I’ve only copied a portion:

Ankhiyan Udeek Thiyyaan (My Eyes Long for You)

"O my Friend, come to my home,
I’ll welcome You with open arms.

My eyes are longing to see You,
My heart pines for You.

Ever since You have been cross with me,
Even the crows have fallen silent on my threshold.

All the joys have vanished,
The merriment’s gone.

Today I have learnt the meaning of parting.

O my Friend, without You I’m lonely.
What have You where You dwell?

I pace up and down the terrace to look for You.
My soul is without peace and my eyes, worn of patience.

…
Though He is the Creator, He has come to me in human form.

My heart has been conquered and I still pine for love."

                    In my experience, when one plays NFAK’s rendition of this song – even the pop version – it is easy to forget oneself in the beauty of the classical music, the singer’s vehemence, and the message.

                    I hope in 2013, we will grow our inner selves as we progress materially, Ameen. At the risk of sounding stuffy, I dare say the world needs love and ethics, compassion and mercy, the seeking of a higher purpose amidst mindless consumerism and hoarding, as it always has…perhaps now more so.