Jayalalithaa Was The Real Modern Woman

I grew up in the nineties in a small town in Northern Tamil Nadu. My friends and I lived a life steeped in Tamil movies, music, art and culture; we studied Tamil literature and political movements in school. I sang and danced to Bharathiyar’s “Kummiyadi” and studied his “Pudhumai Penn” (Modern Woman). It says,

நிமிர்ந்த நன்னடை நேர்கொண்ட பார்வையும்,
நிலத்தில் யார்க்கும் அஞ்சாத நெறிகளும்,
திமிர்ந்த ஞானச் செருக்கும் இருப்பதால்
செம்மை மாதர் திறம்புவ தில்லையாம்

(She stands tall, is steadfast and direct, and is unafraid of the world; the wise educated woman of today does not falter in her way.)

We knew this was just lip service. We were always aware, us girls, that there were things we were allowed to do, and things we weren’t. There was a commonly held definition of a “good Tamil girl” and conforming to it was key to acceptance. You sit a certain way, dress conservatively, keep out of the way of men, take responsibility for household chores, study well, be polite and never challenge authority. In spite of Periyar E V Ramaswamy and his screeds on self respect, equality and the Dravidian philosophy, “Modesty” was the watchword.

And then there was Jayalalithaa. I saw her, in many ways, as representative of the woman who had thrown off the shackles of Tamil Patriarchy. She was shamed relentlessly by adversaries and the press for not being appropriate, for being an “actress”, for not being Tamil enough, for being MG Ramachandran’s (best known as MGR) mistress, for not respecting the unwritten rule that women can be puppets but not true leaders. It was easy to ridicule her, but just as easy to respect her, for here was a woman who had taught herself how to live in a world of men. She was self-taught, she was well-spoken, she was direct and unapologetic, she was erudite and she was steadfast. In her, I saw Bharathi’s imperfect Pudhumai Penn.

She was Chief Minister five times in her lifetime and in mine, and she was the unchallenged leader of one of the two major political parties of my state. Through her political career, whether in power, in opposition or in jail, she gave millions of women across the state the idea that it wasn’t necessary to be subservient. She was clearly a strong advocate for education for the girl child, and as part of the All India Anna Dravida Munnetra Kazhagam manifesto, helped students, homemakers and working women with free bicycles, books, laptops, kitchen equipment, and later, cheap and safe food and medicines. Her freebies weren’t always rooted in the need for votes: she gave women what they needed to make their lives better and to pull themselves out from under the grinding wheel of patriarchy. She made women important in their homes, and important in the political ecosystem. She gave them the ability to challenge authority, an ability that other Dravidian parties had never truly engendered.

Yes, she was probably corrupt. She was vindictive and had a temper. She was authoritarian and secretive, and left a power vacuum because of it. She did not mentor a successor, as her opponent has done. She was not an illustrative ideal, she was real.

Tamil politics is not easy to understand, as an outsider. The seeming sycophancy, the overwrought gestures, the constant anti-incumbency, the openly corrupt politicians, the highly biased reportage, the caste-based vote banks, even the “populism” of the political manifestos- they don’t always make sense even when you do know and understand our culture. 

These past few days, English news channels like NDTV, Times Now and CNN–News18 have had cameras aimed with an almost voyeuristic glee at the gestures of grief and fear of many of her supporters standing outside Apollo Hospitals. On CNN-News18 covering the funeral procession, Bhupendra Chaubey had inappropriate amusement in his demeanour. These reporters have clearly not been able to understand why men and women seem so distressed at the idea of losing a leader they consider corrupt and venal, or even why women cry and beat their chests and their thighs. At the same time, there seems to be overwhelming surprise in Indian news media that my people have not erupted in violence, as if our loss can only be expressed in one manner. 

There is a Tamil word “oppari”. It represents the final dirge, the outpouring of sorrow at the loss of a loved one. It is a depiction of communal grief, usually sung by women. There are no preset words to this, it is an impromptu declaration of genuine emotion. It is sadness and longing, it is sentiment, it is instinctual. It is not circumspect. There is no rehearsal for grief. The women shout, they cry, they beat their chests, they tear at their hair and rend their clothes, just as you have seen on those news channels.

It is natural for us. It is what we know. This is how we grieve. We have lost a part of our family, a part of our identity, a part of our strength.

We have lost. Now let us grieve.