Lady-oriented fantasies

Last month, India’s film censor board refused to give certification to the movie Lipstick Under My Burkha , thus trying to block its release in India. The movie portrays the inner lives — romantic and sexual fantasies — of four women living in a small-town. In its order, the censor board said the film was not suitable for release because it was “lady-oriented, their fantasies above life and has contanious sexual scenes”. I searched several dictionaries, the word ‘contanious’ doesn’t exist. Perhaps, the sanskari men and women at the CBFC (Central Board of Film Certifiction) meant to say “contagious” — fantasies that women could rapidly infect each other with. Or they might have meant contaminant, the fear that the pure heads of non-fantasy-oriented women might be sullied by the knowledge that such escapades exist. Either which way, our cultural wisdom lies in the truth that if you are an Indian woman, the idea of sexual fantasy is a dangerous one.

If anything is not contained, it is this wisdom. It travels with our countrymen all over the world. In London’s desi-dominated suburb of Southall too, women are expected to not have sexual fantasies. And if the universe of women aren’t allowed it, then what of the subset of widows? Tauba tauba , as they say. When Nikki, a young college dropout, accidentally spots a pamphlet for a ladies writing class, she thinks it is for women to write better prose in their letters, or emails, to grandchildren. When the ladies turn up, they are all widows and most of them are unlettered. They are there to learn, quite literally, how to write.

As the new teacher and her students bumble through the first couple of classes, it becomes clear that what the widows would really like is to relate stories. And these stories, it turns out, are ones that the widows had been etching in their heads for a long time. Stories of pleasure; given and taken. There is Manjeet, who relates the story of Sunita, a girl growing up in the shadow of an unseemly mole on her chin. Of course, her mother is worried. Who would marry her, with this blemish on her face? When marriage proposals arrive though, they land on the same day. Two young men and their families arrive — one is seated in the living room, the other around the dining table. Sunita flits from one room to another, trying to imagine the hands and mouths of these prospective husbands running through her body. But she just cannot. They aren’t good enough for her, despite the mole. When they leave, Sunita goes up to the terrace, from where she is visible to the professor who moved in next door, whose hands are the ones she wants on her body. Manjeet relates this tale, eyes shut, while the class listens in wonder, and the only literate student writes it down to be printed later.

Nikki herself is caught between the romantic and professional challenges of her life. She is young and not entirely clear how she could put an end to the stories. The widows aren’t giving up easily. That all of this is going on in the premises of the gurudwara, under the authority of Kulwinder, a woman around whom hangs the mystery and misery of a dead daughter, doesn’t make things easier for Nikki. Nor does the fact that with the recent spate of Sikh daughters dating, and sometimes eloping and marrying outside the community, a self-appointed set of moral police — the brothers — are keeping a close watch on the women, making sure they are not out when it’s dark, censuring their outfits and their activities.

In the meanwhile, the erotic stories flow unabated. Of honeymoons, of young men, of husbands and hotel bellboys, of shopkeepers and in-laws and, in a couple of cases, of other women. The widows couch the unfamiliar in the familiar — referring to melons and aubergines, stars and deserts, until they don’t have to anymore, and are brave enough to describe things by their correct names — lips, and breasts and everything else.

Through moral policing and murder, Nikki and the widows take us through a journey of sexual self-discovery, which even in 2017, sadly, remains a rarity. While I confess that my initial interest in the book was entirely attributable to its provocative title, Erotic Stories for Punjabi Widows , while occupying that space which can ungenerously be described as ‘chick-lit’, the quality of Balli Kaur Jaswal’s writing and the unapologetically bold manner in which she approaches her story make the book an interesting, as well as an important one.

The women, and by this point there is no real need to refer to them as widows — neglected and taken for granted — see no reason to hide their desires anymore. Their “lady-oriented” fantasies, they realise, is as much a part of their selves as their roles as nurturers, care-givers, mothers and grandmothers. That it takes a work of fiction to tell us this ancient fact is but a poor reflection on our society. And if the members of the CBFC were to read this, they would save themselves the trouble of making up non-existent words, seemingly to protect us from non-essential virtues.

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