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In a country where a mother of three babies is a five-time World Amateur Boxing champion, has represented India at the Olympics and won a medal, we recently had the director of Sultan defending his decision to show a pregnant wrestler meekly giving up her Olympic dreams while her husband hops from one international success to another. Because, he said, that is what men do. Conquer the world while women breed. At the Kapil Sharma Show, Salman trooped in with Anushka Sharma and the lady known for her fiery feminist views kept quiet most of the time and only made a mock gesture of defiance when Salman, the man of the hour said, “I was thrown around by the pehelwans..here and there..I felt like a…like a…” There were cheers and laughter and then he said, “I felt like I was dying!”

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Mr Kapil Sharma added to good effect in case you had missed the point, “These days, one has to be careful while saying anything otherwise…” So boys and girls, the rape analogy continues to be a joke and won’t you please laugh and applaud Salman and his coterie for winning the year at the box-office once again. Anushka only mildly protested when her driving skills were mocked but seriously, even women as successful as her cannot really speak their minds fully or claim their rightful space in narratives because they supposedly don’t have the box-office clout of their heroes. Or is that a myth that must be broken sooner than later? And is it ever really only about the money women make? Wasn’t Anushka shamed by trolls for matches she had not played in and only watched from a distance?

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Look at the kind of negativity someone like Serena Williams faces (despite her Grand Slam wins) for her colour, her body type, her gender. When we watched her recite Maya Angelou’s Still I Rise, a current of joy and pain ran through her and flowed to us, reminding us of how much she has had to overcome to be where she is today. It is hard for the world to treat women with respect no matter who or what they become.
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When it comes to judgment and shaming, even America’s white and blond sweetheart Jennifer Aniston is not immune to it. When her marriage broke apart years ago, she was painted as the unloved, sad, little woman who had been left by her man for a seductress who just happened to also be a humanitarian. Then it was presumed that she was left because she did not want to have kids and it was at this point that Aniston addressed the rumours and said that they were hurtful and false.
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For years, she was painted as an unlovable  woman who was left by men because she was too needy, too clingy. And when she married finally, rumours about her divorce and pregnancy rose like storm clouds every week. Pictures of her with speculative question marks against a supposed baby bump, a sweater tied around her waist were published again and again. Earlier she had confounded tabloids because she was not married. And now she was somehow failing because of her inability to satisfy the baying everafter seekers because she had chosen to not be a mother. What kind of a woman did not want to be a mother? What was wrong with her? Or her marriage?
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Aniston’s viral essay in Huffingtonpost.in spoke eloquently about not just how intrusive the media’s gaze was but how those who had nothing to do with her life and her body were trying to appropriate both. And shame her and so many women like her for not conforming to the narrative that has been etched in stone for womankind. They must be this. They must never be that. Their bodies must conform too. Like their minds. And spirits. If someone with Aniston’s success has to face this kind of criticism and scrutiny, imagine what it must be like for those who do not have the clout that fame brings with it.
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Reading Aniston’s lament about the constant shaming that women are subjected to for their bodies and choices, reminded me of a recent incident when someone I considered to be an intrinsic part of my childhood met me after years, looked me up and down and said dismissively, “Lot of change in body and face. Don’t look like a girl any more.”  She asked just how much I weighed and said in a mocking tone how my home town baker who once called me ‘baby’ indulgently would now call me ‘bebe’ (grandmother in Punjabi). For good measure, she described a common acquaintance in glowing terms because she had not changed at all, looked happy, managed work and family perfectly and in short had done everything right. The unspoken subtext being that I had somehow failed the promise I had once shown as a teenager. I was single, middle-aged and I weighed..what 55 kgs or thereabouts!
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So yes, there is an appalling lack of grace in the way women are treated even sometimes by each other. Women are seldom if ever given grace marks in life. As a career woman who chose to work from home after the birth of my son, I have been often crudely reminded of how little I earn compared to those who are now in a “bigger league” by those who have no idea about how much I earn not just monetarily but in terms of life experiences both within and outside my home. And as a working mother ofcourse, one is compared to those women who have raised a family to the exclusion of everything else.
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If your life template is different from everyone else’s, people find it hard to slot you and figure you out. Why are you not competing? Why are you so damn self-assured if your success does not scream from the rooftops? Sometimes you are targetted in personal and professional equations because you stand alone and don’t give a damn about being judged. If you are a woman, how can you not care about being judged? You must care so the barbs come, sometimes disguised in the garb of well-meaning advice (You need a good job. A man. A good career break). Sometimes directly at what is considered to be your vulnerable spot (Oh, you must be so restlessly creative because you have no private life.)
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Post this recent attempt at shaming, I took a while to process what had been said and realised that most of the mean-spiritedness we see in people comes from a toxic cycle they themselves are caught in.  Particularly the cycle of pleasing, resenting, pleasing and resenting. In the case of most women of a certain generation, there was no escaping this cycle. They were wives and mothers first, human-beings second. Today after more than five decades of mothering her kids, this wonderful, beautiful woman who was trying to belittle me, feels alone and bereft and uncared for. She was supposed to be a powerful, respected matriarch at her age but she is not. Her Math has not worked and when she sees a younger woman who has broken free, she feels perhaps confusion, resentment and anger.
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After the initial rage, I felt only compassion for her because how can a person validate someone  else when after a lifetime of giving of themselves and loving, nobody validates them? This is the root of the issue. Women are taught to earn validation by service. By the success they have made of their married lives, their child rearing skills. And their success must translate into neon signs to make them immune to judgement. But well, as Aniston’s case proves, even mega watt success won’t protect you against finger pointing and speculation. When women become breakaway spirits, they live on their own terms and that is hard for a lot of onlookers and bystanders to take. I could tell the weight watchers,  salary sniffers and those who are concerned about the psychological health of women like me, that there are many kinds of families. Joint. Nuclear. And Unique. I am part of a unique family. I could tell them about the joy of having the time and the energy to be creative. The fact that I have raised a child and that I write. Paint. Run a website. Do Yoga. That I listen to music as I decorate my home. That I introspect away from the addictive sounds of Whatsapp and Facebook Messenger. That I do not chat needlessly online to numb my pain. That when my phone ceases to work for weeks altogether, I don’t care. I clear the litter of my cats. Read. Dream. Filter judiciously who steps in my mindspace and my life.
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My 18-year old tells me, “Your biggest achievement, mom, is that you are free!” Well, I am free. I could say all of this but I still won’t convince the shamers that I am happy. And successful. Because I decide my worth. Not them. It is not an easy life. There are tough days. But not one day of regret and unaddressed, ‘What ifs?” I am not afraid of looking too deep into my life. I don’t run away from it. I live it. The good, the bad and the ugly. With my eyes open.
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So to those who judge and shame, I would say this. Women like me do just fine, thank you. You have no idea where we are coming from and where we will go. And you are not supposed to. If you think conformity to rules equals perfect happiness, introspect. If you see a lifetime of fulfilment stretched before you, enjoy it and good luck to you. But if you see loneliness and a muddled need for something, anything..please pause. Find something that makes you happy and hold on to it for dear life instead of telling women who have broken away that they have failed at something. They don’t need your approval. You have no say in their life story. In their happily ever after, like Aniston says. Your opinion does not count. Try to find your peace. Find it. But not at the expense of those who are no longer a part of your cabal and are no longer keen to check your boxes. They are gone. Try to live with that knowledge.
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Reema Moudgil is the editor and co-founder of Unboxed Writers, the author of Perfect Eight, the editor of  Chicken Soup for the Soul-Indian Women, a  translator who recently interpreted  Dominican poet Josefina Baez’s book Comrade Bliss Ain’t Playing in Hindi, an  RJ  and an artist who has exhibited her work in India and the US and is now retailing some of her art at http://paintcollar.com/reema. She won an award for her writing/book from the Public Relations Council of India in association with Bangalore University, has written for a host of national and international magazines since 1994 on cinema, theatre, music, art, architecture and more. She hopes to travel more and to grow more dimensions as a person. And to be restful, and alive in equal measure.