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Tuesday, 27 June 2017

Please save my husband: Jailed Atlas Ramachandran's wife makes desperate plea

In her first-ever media interview, Indira opened up about her fears, hardships and desperate fight to get her husband out of jail.

It is a lone battle for Indira Ramachandran to secure the release of her jailed husband M.M. Ramachandran, founder of Atlas Jewellery.

The 75-year-old gold tycoon from Kerala, India, Ramachandran - who is popularly known as Atlas Ramachandran - was arrested in Dubai on August 23, 2015, in cases related to bounced cheques and has been languishing in jail since then.

"He has been in jail for 21 months now, and his health is fast deteriorating. Last week he was taken to hospital on a wheelchair. I too have health issues. I feel lonely and helpless," Indira, 68, told Khaleej Times.

In her first-ever media interview, Indira opened up about her fears, hardships and desperate fight to get her husband out of jail.

"I am living in constant fear of getting jailed as some banks have initiated civil proceedings against me, too. I don't even have a steady income to pay my rents. But I have to keep fighting to make sure my husband will soon walk out a free man," said Indira, who is staying in an apartment in Dubai.

Comfort to chaos
A homemaker who was never involved in any of her husband's businesses, Indira's comfortable life took a chaotic turn when Ramachandran landed in jail in 2015 for not honouring security cheques worth Dh34 million.

"When security officials took him, I thought he would be back in a few hours. I had no clue my life's biggest tragedy was unfolding," said Indira.

As news of his arrest spread, what ensued was utter chaos. More banks deposited security cheques, and aggressively pressed charges against Ramachandran for defaulting on payments. The business tycoon - who had previously lost everything in the 1990 Kuwait War and rebuilt his business empire in Dubai - was soon embroiled in a legal deadlock.

"Banks were threatening me with arrest. Some people were asking for millions to help. I was physically and mentally broken and did not know what to do or whom to call.

"Our employees were clamouring for money. One day, dozens of them walked into my apartment and refused to leave till their dues were paid. And obviously, without Ramachandran around, many played foul. Diamonds worth Dh5 million in our showrooms were sold for just Dh1.5 million and all the pending dues - including incentives of 200 salesmen and other staff - were settled," said Indira.

Dealing with debts
Indira's real troubles were yet to begin as Ramachandran owed millions to banks, and with her husband in jail, she was responsible for clearing the financial mess. The existing assets could not be liquidated.

But she did not have much to count on. Atlas Group, which reportedly had an annual turnover of Dh3.5 billion, had collapsed like a house of cards. Shutters were down on all his 19 gold showrooms in the UAE. Businesses at their showrooms in other Gulf countries like Saudi Arabia, Kuwait, Doha and Muscat got adversely affected due to cash crunch.

And to make matters worse, Ramachandran's daughter and son-in-law also got arrested over financial issues not related to Atlas Jewellery. "That was a bigger tragedy. And I had to deal with it all on my own."

Daring to hope
But despite all the setbacks, Indira said she was still hopeful her husband would come out soon. She said they were able to sell two hospitals in Muscat and used the Dh35 million to make temporary settlements with the banks.

According to her, 19 of the 22 lending banks have so far signed a standstill agreement by which all legal proceedings have been put on hold against Ramachandran and a new repayment deal negotiated.

"Only three banks are refusing to budge. I am knocking on all doors to get them agree to sign the standstill agreement, so that Ramachandran can be released with immediate effect.

"He is an honest man and had enjoyed immense goodwill in the market for the last three decades. But being held in prison, he is unable to talk to the prospective buyers to liquidate the assets and pay back debts," said Indira. "It is my earnest wish he be given a humanitarian consideration.

"Meanwhile, if I also get into a legal soup before his release, we are hitting a dead-end, with no solution at hand," said a desperate Indira.

(Source: Khaleej Times)

Arundhati Roy’s fascinating mess

On the night she won the Booker Prize in 1997 for her novel, The God of Small Things, Arundhati Roy had a strange and frightening dream. She was a fish being ripped from the water by a bony emerald hand. A voice instructed her to make a wish. Put me back, she responded. She knew she was on the cusp of cataclysmic fame, she later said an interview. She knew her life would explode—“I’d pay a heavy price.”

She has. It is almost impossible to see Roy clearly through the haze of adulation, condescension, outrage, and celebrity that has enveloped her since the publication of The God of Small Things, a gothic about an illicit intercaste romance in South India. She was feted as a symbol of an ascending India, paraded along with bomb makers and beauty queens. Much was made of the author’s looks—she was named one of People magazine’s most beautiful people—and lack of literary background; there was titillated interest in her days living in a slum and working as an aerobics instructor. Praise for her novel was extravagant—she was compared to Faulkner and García Márquez—but it was also frequently patronizing. “There is something childish about Roy. She has a heightened capacity for wonder”—this from one of the judges who awarded her the Booker Prize. (Meanwhile, a writer who had judged the Booker the previous year publicly called the book “execrable,” and the award a disgrace.)

The world Roy conjures is often brutal, but never confusing or even very complex.
Roy appeared to want no part of any of this. She chopped off her hair after the Booker win, telling The New York Times she didn’t want to be known “as some pretty woman who wrote a book,” and donated her prize money to the Narmada Bachao Andolan, a group protesting the construction of a series of dams that threatened to displace millions of villagers. She turned her attention from fiction to people’s movements all over India—Kashmiris resisting the Indian military’s occupation, tribal communities fighting to protect their ancestral lands. She decried India’s nuclear testing (a source of much national pride at the time) and became an outspoken critic of America’s war in Afghanistan. She was praised for her commitment and derided for her naïveté, and faced charges of obscenity and sedition (later dropped). She was invited to model khakis for Gap (she declined) and to march through the forests of central India with Maoist insurgents (she accepted). And now, after 20 years, she has finally returned to fiction with a new novel, The Ministry of Utmost Happiness.

Is novel the right word, though? I hesitate. The Ministry of Utmost Happiness, hulking, sprawling story that it is, has two main strands. One follows Anjum, a hijra, or transwoman, struggling to make a life for herself in Delhi. The other follows Tilo, a thorny and irresistible architect turned activist (who seems to be modeled on Roy herself), and the three men who fall in love with her. But as was true of The God of Small Things, there is more than a touch of fairy tale in the book’s moral simplicity—or clarity, if you’re feeling charitable. Roy will say of a character, “He was a very clean man. And a good one too,” and he is swiftly, unequivocally pinned to the page.

The world she conjures is often brutal, but never confusing or even very complex. Manichaean dualities prevail: innocence (embodied by puppies, kittens, little girls) versus evil (torture, torturers, soldiers, shopping malls). If this tendency felt less troubling in her first book—think of handsome, heroic Velutha, the untouchable, and his foil, the almost comically evil Baby Kochamma—it was perhaps because the narration was trained so closely on children. Given that the central characters were a pair of young twins, Rahel and Estha, it felt natural that the world would be read this way.

Yet to simply find fault with the lack of psychological shading would be, I think, a genre mistake. Roy’s indifference to precisely that problem suggests that something interesting is afoot. Consider the book’s dedication—“To, The Unconsoled.” Note the cover photograph, a grave, and the setting: The story begins and ends in a graveyard. More than a novel, this book wants to be an offering. It isn’t concerned with the conventional task (or power) of fiction to evoke the texture and drama of consciousness. Instead, it acts like a companion piece to Roy’s political writings—collected in books such as The Algebra of Infinite Justice (2001) and Walking With the Comrades (2011). It tours India’s fault lines, as Roy has, from the brutal suppression of tribal populations to the 2002 pogrom against Muslims in Gujarat.

Just about every resistance movement is embodied in a character, and the lives and struggles of these characters intersect. The queers, addicts, Muslims, orphans, and other casualties of the national project of making India great again find one another and form a raucous community of sorts. And this novel—this fable—is as much for them as about them; it commemorates their struggles and their triumphs, however tiny. You will encounter no victims in this book; the smallest characters are endowed with some spit. A kitten, about to be drowned by a group of soldiers, bares her fangs, unafraid to take on the Indian army. At night, a dung beetle lies on his back in the graveyard, pointing his feet to the sky, to help prop it up should it fall. Even he is given a name: Guih Kyom. Even he does what he can.

“I’ll have to find a language to tell the story I want to tell,” Roy said in an interview in 2011, as she discussed returning to fiction. “By language I don’t mean English, Hindi, Urdu, Malayalam, of course. I mean something else. A way of binding together worlds that have been ripped apart.” As it happens, she didn’t really settle on a new way of telling the story—this novel shares the same playful, punny argot of The God of Small Things (more on this later)—but she tries to pull all those worlds into an unwieldy embrace.

It may seem like the pamphleteer has subsumed the novelist. But Roy’s enterprise is less dutiful than it sounds. There is no grudging marriage of art and politics in her work; as John Berger, one of her longtime interlocutors and a formative influence, wrote, “Far from my dragging politics into art, art has dragged me into politics.” Roy’s work conveys a similar spirit. She is a great admirer of the world. Her strongest writing is always at the margins of the main story—the pleasure of finding “an egg hot from a hen,” or this passing detail from The God of Small Things: “A thin red cow with a protruding pelvic bone appeared and swam straight out to sea without wetting her horns, without looking back.” From the fine-grained affection that stirs her imagination springs an ethical imperative—after all, how can one appreciate the world without desiring to defend it? And it must be defended not merely from war or political calamity, but from that natural, more insidious phenomenon: forgetting.

This is the literary tradition that Roy belongs to—and that was intimately transmitted to her by Berger and her other great friend, the Uruguayan writer Eduardo Galeano (she has called him her twin), for whom the great tragedy of humanity wasn’t that we die or suffer or make each other suffer. It was that we forget. And because we are so prone to forgetting—because it is so easy to make us forget—we accept the conditions of our suffering as inevitable and cannot fathom alternatives. (“The world, which is the private property of a few, suffers from amnesia,” Galeano once said. “It is not an innocent amnesia. The owners prefer not to remember that the world was born yearning to be a home for everyone.”)

Like Galeano’s Mirrors, an ode to “human diversity” in which a history of the world unfolds in 600 short stories, Roy’s novel is a compendium of alternatives—alternative structures of kinship, resistance, and romance. Anjum lives in a multigenerational joint family of other hijras; together they raise a child. Later, she and a few other characters move into a graveyard. They sleep between the headstones, plant vegetables, create a new kind of human family that can obliterate the divisions between the living and the dead. Roy has imagined an inverse of the Garden of Eden—a paradise whose defining feature, rather than innocence, is experience and endurance.

To so confidently believe oneself to be on the right side of history is risky.
And what better place to set this graveyard, and this book about forgetting, than in Delhi, Roy’s home for much of her adult life. It’s a palimpsest of a city—occupied continuously for at least 3,000 years, surviving and absorbing the Mughals, the British, the refugees after India’s partition from Pakistan. A city whose own founding myths tell of amnesia, and of the power of texts to resist it. As one story goes, Brahma the creator god suddenly forgot the scriptures. He performed various rites and austerities and plunged into one of Delhi’s rivers. During the monsoon, the waters rose and flung up the sacred texts onto a riverbank that is still known today as Nigambodh Ghat, “the Bank of Sacred Knowledge.” Even the gods may be wired to forget, but we are also wired for narrative, to build what bulwarks we can.

In this context, any notion of a fissure between art and activism would seem absurd. To be both artist and activist, to expend oneself in both places, on the page and in the world, is the duty of the writer. It is to be “integrated,” as Vivian Gornick described Grace Paley; it is to be “a writer in the most comprehensive sense,” as the biographer Richard Holmes wrote of Shelley. But to live and write with the consciousness of this integration is trickier than it sounds.

To so confidently believe oneself to be on the right side of history is risky—for a writer especially. In that balmy glow of self-regard, complacency can easily take root. And good prose demands a measure of self-doubt—the worry that nags at a writer, that forces her to double back on her sentences, unravel and knit them up again, asking repeatedly: Is this clear? Is this true? Is this enticing? This book has a slackness to it that suggests Roy has abdicated some of these anxieties.

Roy has said that she never revises her books, that her essays and fiction write themselves, and that she rarely takes edits. I’ve always interpreted—and enjoyed—such statements as a bit of swagger. It’s dispiriting to see that they might be true. The Ministry of Utmost Happiness is plagued by almost rudimentary errors: There is near-total confusion about point of view. Messages and morals come ponderously underscored. The two central stories never convincingly come together. In the absence of psychological development or real suspense, chapters end with portentous rhetorical ellipses. Worse still, the creation of characters as stand-ins for causes results in formulaic depictions of the very people she is trying to humanize. Anjum, for example, never becomes more than her “patched-together body and her partially realized dreams.”

The voice that carried The God of Small Things emanated from the characters. The elasticity of language, the silliness and sappiness, felt very much like the expression of the twins. It captured their way of being, of merging with each other and the world. Here that voice feels distracting, imported from a different universe. I thought often of Walking With the Comrades, Roy’s account of traveling through the forests with Maoist insurgents. She was full of admiration for their discipline, for the care they took of their woods and of one another. She was awed by how everything in their world was “clean and necessary.” Something of this aesthetic stole into her style in that book. Roy trusted the reader enough to just point the camera, to let us see what she saw: “Three beautiful, sozzled men with flowers in their turbans walked with us for about half an hour, before our paths diverged. At sunset, their shoulder bags began to crow. They had roosters in them, which they had taken to market but hadn’t managed to sell.” Details gleam (a woman’s anklets shine in the firelight) and horrify; she hears the story of three Maoist girls raped by the army: “ ‘They raped them on the grass … But after it was over there was no grass left.’ ”

The epigraph of The God of Small Things is a line from John Berger: “Never again will a single story be told as though it’s the only one.” What’s disappointing about The Ministry of Utmost Happiness is that it can feel like a collection of so many single stories and stock figures—heroic martyrs and tragic transgender characters. Roy has a ready response to the criticism that she isn’t an especially subtle writer. She cops to it directly: “I want to wake the neighbors, that’s my whole point. I want everybody to open their eyes.” I remember something Cézanne supposedly said: “I know what I am looking at, but what am I seeing?” Roy is a champion at waking the neighbors, at getting our attention, and as an offering, this book is a beautiful act of witness. But harnessing our attention—getting us to see as well as to look—that is perhaps a different, and more intricate, matter. It’s a matter of tactics, a matter of art.

(Source: The Atlantic)

The news business is unfair to journalists with children

Many journalists think of their work as a calling. They live for breaking news, scoops, deadlines and remarkable stories. Early mornings and late nights are a small price to pay for getting people the information they need — or even shaping the news cycle.

But the profession doesn’t always feel compatible with having any other serious responsibilities or interests, much less kids who have hardcore deadlines of their own, including doctor’s appointments, daycare pickups and 7 p.m. bedtimes.

If you’re struggling with balancing journalism and parenthood, you’re not alone. Hundreds of your colleagues across the country are grappling with the same dilemma. That’s what Poynter learned after asking 390 journalists about whether their employers are family-friendly.

The survey was designed to gauge if and how journalists are accessing family-friendly policies like paid family leave, telecommuting and flex-scheduling. We also wanted to hear how workplace culture is shaping people’s experiences.

The results are both encouraging and disappointing. On the surface, many of the journalists who took the survey work for companies that offer key benefits and policies. Yet they’re also overwhelmingly worried about their career prospects after becoming parents and say they have few role models in management who demonstrate what it means to have a viable balance between work and caregiving responsibilities.

Their responses also indicate that journalists’ individual experiences are heavily reliant on whether their direct supervisor understands the challenges of being both a journalist and a parent.

If these findings confirm your worst fears, there’s still hope. Experts who study workplace policies say that pushing media companies to embrace work-life balance is an important business strategy for retention, loyalty and productivity. That approach is particularly essential for ensuring that newsrooms are as diverse as the audiences they serve: Female journalists won’t ever reach parity with their male colleagues if senior leadership refuses to acknowledge that journalists also have caregiving responsibilities, which still fall disproportionately to women.

Newsrooms need to envision and implement new ways of assigning and valuing work in order to give all employees — not just parents — the chance to have a fulfilling life off the job, said Brigid Schulte, director of the Better Life Lab at New America and formerly a veteran reporter for The Washington Post.

“When we judge you by how much time you’re willing to put in, how many hours you work, how late you’re answering your emails,” she says, “what we’re really doing is reinforcing this culture that to be a good journalist you pretty much can’t have a life outside of journalism, and we all know that’s not true.”

Even if we know that’s not technically true, plenty of people who completed our survey feel the pressure to downplay their private life and caregiving responsibilities. When we asked participants why they delayed having children, the second-most popular answer after financial concerns was a lack of clarity about how to balance deadlines, hours and family life. People also worried that parenthood would affect their chances for a promotion.

As one survey respondent put it: “It's all about productivity and stories. [W]hat's happening in life is my own problem...just keep that copy rolling.”

The survey, which opened in November, received 390 responses to multiple-choice questions about workplace policies and workload. We also received hundreds of answers to three open-ended questions.

While the number of participants represents a fraction of the hundreds of thousands of U.S. journalists employed in the newspaper, radio, internet publishing and broadcasting industries, the responses help illustrate common concerns and experiences. Those who chose to share the name of their employer reported working at local papers and television stations, big regional dailies, national newspapers, major websites and network and cable television stations.

Here’s an overview of which policies and practices were — and weren’t — common amongst our respondents.

Parental leave: Two-thirds of employers offer some paid parental leave, but less than half of the respondents took the full time allotted. It wasn’t clear whether they went back to work earlier because they received only partial pay or felt they needed to return without taking full advantage of the policy. Either way, only 14 percent of private employers in the U.S. offer paid leave, so journalists may have access to better policies than the average worker.

(Source: Poynter)

Are Hindus vegetarian?

The idea of "vegetarian" diet has spread throughout the world, thanks to many Hindu and Jain immigrants in the USA and the UK and the popularity of yoga. However, not all Hindus are vegetarian. In fact, most aren't. Since vegetarian practices distinguishes Hindus from other communities, and was seen as "quaint" in western societies until recent times, it has become the defining trait of Hinduism, statistics notwithstanding.

Hindus can be vegetarian and non-vegetarian. Hinduism is a plural religion, an umbrella term for many jatis, sampradayas and paramparas, some of whom may be vegetarian some of the time, or not at all. There is no such thing as a Hindu commandment telling Hindus what to eat or not to eat. This obsession with reducing Hinduism to a single behaviour is common amongst two groups of people: loud Hindutva radicals and their sworn enemies, the Hinduphobes.

The story of a Tamil saint reveals Hindu attitudes towards food. Two kinds of devotees visited a Shiva temple: a vegetarian priest who followed all the rituals and a tribal hunter who did not know any ritual. Every dawn, the priest would conduct the rituals as prescribed by the scriptures. At dusk, the hunter would reach the temple and give the deity there all that he had found in the forest that day: flowers, water from mountain springs and the best portion of the game he had hunted that day. The hunter carried the flowers in his hair, and the water in his mouth (which he spat out). The game he would chew to make it tender and offer it to the deity. The next dawn, the priest would find the meat, the bones and the dried flowers inside the temple and would be filled with revulsion. This cycle continued for weeks. On Mount Kailash, Shakti asked Shiva who was the favoured devotee?

Shiva decided to test the priest and the hunter. The Shiva-linga in the temple sprouted eyes. When the priest saw this, he felt it was a sign of divine blessings. But then one of the eyes started to bleed. Thinking this to be bad luck or a sign of divine rage, the priest ran away. The hunter, however, on seeing the bleeding eye, tried to heal it using forest herbs. Unable to stop the bleeding, he decided to cut out one of his eyes and give it to the deity. That stopped the bleeding in one eye, but then the other eye started to bleed. So the hunter decided to cut out his other eye. But that would make him blind and he would not know where to spot the deity with the bleeding eye. So to mark the spot he put his foot on the bleeding eye that needed to be replaced with his eye. Just as he was about to blind himself, Shiva appeared and stopped the saint.

Through this fantastic story, we are being told that what matters to the divine is our underlying emotion, not our ritual behaviour? God does not care about social hierarchies, our ritual notions of purity and contamination. God only cares about the human ability to love: the ability to overcome our own insecurities to take care of others in pain. Aham (ego) makes us think we are purer and superior to others. The journey to aatma makes us think that no one is impure or inferior, that everyone is valid and worthy of respect. What matters is not the ritual worship of the priest, but the love of the hunter. Rituals need to be an expression of love, not a mechanistic practice, or a tool to indulge the ego by dominating others.

Different communities in India have different food habits. And there is no one rule. For example, many people think all Brahmins are vegetarian. That is not true. In Bengal, Brahmins eat fish, and sacrifice goats and buffalo to Kali as part of Shakto tradition. In Kashmir, some Brahmin communities offer meat to Bhairava, a form of Shiva.

In South India, Brahmins are vegetarian. Highly educated, well-versed in mathematics, they migrated early to urban centres across India as accountants, journalists and bureaucrats. Exposure to them created the classical "Madrasi" stereotype in Bollywood films, who eats only veg food. This eclipses the vast non-vegetarian traditions of south India.

Some of the most successful businessmen of India are from the Jain community and the Vaishav communities of Gujarat and Rajasthan. They are strict vegetarians. Since many foreign businessmen deal with them, they assume that all Indians are strict vegetarians. Jains are not Hindus (they do not worship Shiva, Vishnu or Brahma), though they fall in the larger framework of rebirth traditions (sanatan dharma). This Marwari and Bania culture also eclipses the vast non-vegetarian traditions of north India.

In Hindu Puranas, Vishnu is a strict vegetarian god, but Shiva eats whatever he is given and the Goddess loves blood. Again this is not a strict rule. For when Vishnu descends as Ram, he hunts deer for food (an idea that many vegetarian Hindus reject rather violently). In Jain scriptures, Krishna is shown as participating in a wedding banquet of Nemi-nath, where animals are slaughtered. Also as Narasimha, the man-lion avatar, Vishnu drinks blood. Shiva being a hermit accepts whatever he is offered. In his Gora-Bhairav gentle form, he is offered fruits and milk. In his Kala-Bhairav fierce form, he is offered blood and alcohol. The Goddess is associated with nature’s most elemental actions – sex and violence. She is offered blood. In Varahi temples of Odisha, she eats fish. Yet, many Goddess temples where she is closely associated with Vishnu, she is vegetarian: as in Kolhapur Amba-bai temple in Maharasthra, or the Goddess on the Hills of Punjab and Jammu. So again, no fixed rule, even for the gods.

Some people equate vegetarianism with ahimsa or non-violence. Ahimsa is a fundamental principle of Jainism and yoga. However, ahimsa is a very complex idea. It means not hurting any living creature in body (tann) or mind (mann). But this does not extend to the act of eating. For all the quest for food involves violence. Farming is a very violent activity involving the killing of many animals, not least the pests. Also ahimsa is closely linked to anekantavada, or plurality, and aparigraha, not clinging to any thing or thought, and to syada-vada, embracing uncertainty. Many soldiers are vegetarian. Many corrupt politicians and crony capitalists who destroy the ecosystem with their industries or exploit workers in their factories are vegetarian. That is hardly non-violence!

Many hermits give up meat to become spiritually pure. They have linked meat and blood to contamination. This is a dangerous idea: it forms the idea of "untouchability" that renders certain people "unclean" based on their traditional vocation which brings them in contact with flesh and blood. Turning "blood" into contamination is the reason why women are seen as "unclean" during periods and at the time of delivery. This disdain for blood as part of ritual purity fuels prejudice of the worst kind. We must be wary of it. Many vegetarian hermits think they are superior to meat-eating householders. This competition reveals delusion created by the ego. We must be wary of it. We must keep reminding ourselves how the Goddess Kali demands blood sacrifice. Does it make the goddess impure? Nature cannot be made impure and all of nature is the Goddess.

Many Hindu supremacists are trying to reframe Hinduism using Abrahamic templates, and so are trying to deny Hindu pluralism. They want to create a checklist of Hindu behaviours. They assume the practice of some dominant Brahmin and trading (Bania) communities as universal. They see "non-vegetarian" as inferior and "vegetarian" as more evolved, a belief that is less scientific and more designed to massage the ego. They deny the meat-eating practices of various non-dominant communities. We must not forget that as per food census, 70 per cent of India eats meat in some form or the other. We must not forget that Hinduism is not what some Brahmins and Banias decide it is, or should be. Brahminism is but a tiny subset of Hinduism, and not all Brahmins are vegetarian.

(Source: DailyO)

Monday, 26 June 2017

Homosexuality wasn’t ‘unnatural’ in the Ramayana and Mahabharata

Would you believe me if I told you that the labelling of certain lifestyles as ‘taboo’ is a product of the modern society?

India has always been an all-embracing culture. The richness of our culture thrives upon its pluralism. One important aspect of inclusivity is to include a broad spectrum of gender identities. Gender and sexuality were never rigid categories, and tales from the Hindu mythology confirm that. Our gods have time and again transformed into male and female shapes/avatars to carry out different purposes. We are all familiar with the androgynous Shiva-Shakti avatar. So when did homosexuality become ‘problematic‘? Or cross-dressing for that matter?

The video illustrates several ‘gender-bender’ stories from the Ramayana and Mahabharata, to appreciate how all entities and imaginations had an important role to play in the larger scheme of things, and live in harmony with each other and flourish.

Meta narratives, actively challenging and subverting the dominant worldview have always existed in our culture. Watch this video to debunk all your myths about a unilateral vision of history.

(Source: YKA)