The city that I left, not too long ago, in search of a better life, with suitcases stuffed to the brim with clothes that were too big for me and dreams that were bigger still.
The city that I then ran back to, tired, beaten and worn, with barely any fight left in me. It’s hard not to feel like a failure when you’re back in the same place you once declared, “This is it, this is the point where I’m going to change my life.”
If those dime-a-dozen loquacious LinkedIn influencers with half a million connections had rubbed off on me, I’d say this isn’t the end, just another beginning. “Rejection is just Redirection,” they’d parrot, with their veneer white smiles glitching out the pixels on my laptop screen.
As aggravating as I have come to find them, I must marvel at their ability to push out 300-odd characters using the 4-1-1 rule, the 80/20 ratio, the hashtag cluster hierarchy and other soulless digital decrees that seem to value optimisation over authenticity. I scroll past a post with the headline, “To fail is to be human. Here’s how AI can help turn cold leads into offers,” and I feel my lungs tighten the same way they did when I realised the first boy I ever loved was a cryptogeek.
Well, Tyler the Creator once said, “If it’s hard to breathe, open a window,” and as I sit in the balcony of my aunt’s house in the middle of a plantation, in a far-flung corner of the backwoods of Bangalore, I regard his words with a grave solemness. I’ve missed the smell of Luru – the sui generis blend of petrichor, vehicle exhaust and the faintest hint of Indie Mint.
It is only my second day back, but I feel better about my life already. Which is surprising, given everything I’ve had to deal with in the last 48 hours. I lost my phone, and subsequently, access to my bank accounts. Truly amazing where the mind of a twenty-something woman will go once faced with total financial shutdown. Also, I’ve been feeling nauseous all week, and the flight only made the impulse to throw up even worse. Again, amazing where the mind of a twenty-something woman will go when she wakes up to hurl three nights in a row.
I digress.
Comedic tragedy aside, I finally feel tethered again. For the longest time, I felt like I was floating aimlessly in open water, trying to fool myself into believing I had some sense of direction when it was taking everything in me to keep afloat as the waves knocked into me. Sitting in a mostly-empty cafe in Yelahanka, sipping on a bright blue citrus lemonade, was the most present I’d been since March. I didn’t realise I’d been watching myself live through horrifically life-changing events for months, instead of actually letting myself experience them. Maybe that’s self-preservation – my brain protecting me from feeling things that I’m not capable of handling – but I’m not very fond of psychologists at the moment, so I’m gonna nip that thought right in the bud.
Yes, this picture is terrible, but I wasn’t planning on posting it anywhere when I took it.
This cafe was nothing to brag about – imitation limestone walls, mosaic tiled flooring and plastic blue tableware. But with a menu that had an Indo-Chinese section right next to a list of wood-fired pizzas, I could tell this was not ye olde run of the mill homage to Greek dockside eateries. Nah, this was where I was gonna spend the rest of my day. I slunk into a booth by the brick pizza oven, connected all my devices to the ingeniously named “Free WiFi 2.4 GHz”, and kicked off my Converse, my eyes settling on my first drink of the afternoon.
Six hours later, I’d downed a disastrously dilute frozen mocha, stained my lips and teeth with a blue virgin mojito, and eaten my way to the loosest notch of my belt. Note to self – if a place has chicken and egg fried rice for less than 200 rupees, the rice will be doing most of the heavy lifting. That being said, I just about licked the bowl clean. I wish I could say I’d had similar levels of success on the long list of tasks I had set out to do that day, but all I’d done was set up two meetings with people I had absolutely no business demanding face time with, submitted a shoddily put together content plan for a sketchy asset management company, and cancelled my Indian SIM card with no plans of reactivating it.
It was at this point that I became aware of the fact that I was being watched. Looking over the corner of my laptop screen, I met the unblinking stare of a gaggle of girls. They couldn’t have been older than ten, which I brilliantly deduced from the cake on their table with candles that read “1-0”, and were all dressed in pink. No adult in sight, I assumed their chaperone had better things to do than supervise half a dozen children at a cafe where the biggest threat was death-by-paper straw. So, with nobody telling them to mind their P’s and Q’s, these girls could bore holes into the back of my laptop all they wanted.
I suddenly felt the vinyl of the seat under my thighs cling painfully to my skin. Something about being witnessed in the act of trying to piece my life back together made me want to run away. I had to get out of there. I had to leave. This feeling, the need to run, to escape, was all too familiar.
It’s exactly how I’d felt the night before my flight to India. Curled up in my duvet, I lay awake with wet eyes and a dry mouth. My mind was playing all my biggest fears that had come to fruition in a sadistic, never-ending loop. I couldn’t hear my own heartbeat over the drone of “You failed, better give up while you still can.” That night, India was a lifesaver thrown to me, and all I had to do was tread water until I could leave for the airport.
But I was wrong. That feeling was still there. Still festering inside me, demanding to be noticed. And I’d just been pushing myself further away from it in hopes that it would leave me alone.
All I could think of as I waved down a waiter for the cheque was how self-awareness was the worst fucking thing to come out of a decade of therapy.
The chicken was crispy, but so was the egg, and I’m not sure if it was intentional
I wish it took more than a stream-of-consciousness blog post to make me confront my self-destructive behaviour. This post was supposed to be a review, just a few words expanding on the notes I’d scribbled in my journal at BlueBrick Cafe. So to conclude this, here are my thoughts:
Food: Could have been a little more generous with the protein, and maybe it’s because I’m biased, but the lack of a Caesar Salad docked a couple of points. Beverages: Presentation? Fire. Temperature? Ice cold. Flavour? Left something to be desired. Also, as someone who is indifferent to a mocha at best, I probably shouldn’t have ordered one. Ambience: Free wifi, comfy seats, open-air seating with a closed-off party area. It was a really pleasant place to work at, and the playlist of lo-fi covers of pop songs softly playing in the background made me feel like an NPC in the best way. Overall thoughts: I racked up a bill of ₹640. Ultimately, this spot is pretty great if you want somewhere you can sit undisturbed and get some work done. Aside from the odd IT guy and coy college couple, there weren’t a lot of patrons around. With a few friends and a board game or two, I could see this place quickly becoming one of my favourite spots to spend an afternoon.
Glocalisation, a multifaceted phenomenon marrying the concepts of “globalisation” and “localisation”, reflects the complex process by which global products, ideas and practices are adapted to local contexts and cultures (Roudometof, 2016). It underscores the coexistence and mutual influence between global and local dynamics in the modern world, challenging notions of homogeneity and cultural hegemony associated with globalisation (Roudometof & Dessi, 2022). Present across several cultural domains like film, food, music and art (Sedda & Stano, 2022; Musa, 2022; Oh & Jang, 2022), glocalisation also manifests in business, where multinational corporations (MNCs) tailor their products to cater to local interests. With its presence in almost every country, McDonald’s emerges as a trailblazer in the realm of glocalisation, wielding a proven formula that drives marketing strategies while straddling global brand identity and local consumer preferences. This study aims to analyse McDonald’s India’s #FestivalsMakeFamilies advertising campaign through a semiotic lens to uncover insights into how the brand adapts its messaging to resonate with Indian cultural experiences and values. The subsequent findings will inform a broader understanding of McDonald’s glocal communication strategies in India.
Literature Review
William (2016) investigated McDonald’s renowned global market penetration with a focus on its marketing techniques. Operating in 119 countries, the brand was found to blend universal appeal and standardised quality with localised adaptations to its product, prices and promotional strategies. This ‘glocal’ approach with an unwavering focus on brand consistency allowed McDonald’s to adapt to diverse culturescapes, tailoring its products to fit local tastes, preferences and cultural norms while maintaining an omnipresent brand identity (ibid.).
Vignali (2001) conducted a detailed examination of how McDonald’s employs an internationalised approach to customise marketing strategies, rather than a globalised perspective of international markets as a single entity. By grouping countries by social, cultural, religious and economic similarities, the brand carves out a distinct space for itself to dominate market share in whichever country it operates in (ibid.). With vegetarian options to cater to South Asian consumers, halal meat for Middle Eastern and Malaysian markets, kosher food production in Jewish markets and seafood product variations in Japanese branches, the hybridisation of McDonald’s menu aided its success in international markets over competitors (ibid.).
The Indian consumer landscape proved to be drastically different from McDonald’s domestic market for a variety of reasons. As Tilwani et al. (2020) point out, McDonald’s traditional American menu paled in comparison to the familiar flavours of Indian street food, with cultural attitudes fostering a preference for ‘homestyle recipes’ over Western fast food. Non-vegetarian food consumption in India was overshadowed by dietary habits informed by cultural and religious views. Furthermore, the consumer demographic in India is segmented into distinct urban and rural income brackets with a majority being lower middle class, which heavily influenced consumer behaviour. The biggest problem, however, was its public image as a foreign entity disrupting the delicate ecosystem of the Indian market (ibid.).
McDonald’s turbulent entry into the Indian market was quickly improved by comprehensive localisation tactics as per Rangnekar’s (2014) study. 75% of the menu was customised to suit Indian tastes, distinct kitchens were established to separate the production of vegetarian and non-vegetarian food, the company positioned itself as a fine dining establishment to align with societal preferences for dining experiences, and offers were adapted to serve the majority economic class and the cultural ethos of ‘group meals’. Most notably, marketing campaigns localised their messaging as per the demographic in India (South, West, North and East) with regional language use, celebrity endorsements and festive promotions (ibid.).
Research Question
How did McDonald’s India leverage cultural storytelling in its advertisements to appeal to local audiences and strengthen brand affinity to its global identity?
Methodology
This study employs semiotic analysis to investigate the mechanisms of glocal marketing strategies embedded in cultural storytelling in McDonald’s India’s #FestivalsMakeFamily advertisements. A semiotic analysis offers a comprehensive framework for decoding the symbolism used in the campaign to resonate with Indian audiences and allows for multimodal analysis of the interplay of various elements in conveying meaning and evoking desired responses (Kettemann, 2013). Moreover, a semiotic approach will help shed light on how these advertisements shape McDonald’s brand identity and positioning within the Indian market.
The main source of data for this qualitative study is two advertisements released in 2022-23 as a part of McDonald’s #FestivalsMakeFamilies ad campaign, accessible for public viewing on YouTube. While the videos were dubbed in multiple regional languages for McDonald’s India West and South (ET Brand Equity, 2022) the study will focus on the original Hindi versions for analysis. The ad films will be broken down into their constituent visual, linguistic and cultural signifying elements for analysis. After deconstruction, their meanings and associations will be interpreted within the context of Indian culture and McDonald’s brand identity. The findings will be analysed to uncover overarching themes within the brand’s advertising that strategically leverage semiotic elements to appeal to Indian audiences.
Ethical Considerations
The sources of data for this study are available online on YouTube, a public domain. Therefore, there are no notable ethical concerns regarding the usage of data. However, utmost care will be taken to preserve cultural sensitivities when analysing the linguistic and visual elements of the advertisements and presenting the findings of the study to not make generalisations about the communities being represented.
Findings
Advertisement 1: McDonald’s India Ramzan
Visual Elements
The advertisement contrasts the traditional festive attire of most characters with the modern workwear of the three main subjects, highlighting their exclusion from the Ramzan potluck and emphasizing their status as ‘freshers’ who typically cannot afford frequent dining out. This sets up the cultural context, their economic status, and their initial isolation. As the ad progresses, the three employees move from sitting apart to sharing a table at McDonald’s, visually representing their growing bond. The final shots of them sharing a meal underscore their ‘found family’ bond, mirroring the cultural emphasis on communal eating. The meal, featuring local menu items, showcases McDonald’s adaptation to meet Indian tastes, catering to various vegetarian and religious dietary restrictions, especially during the month of Ramzan, showcasing the brand’s commitment to localization.
Linguistic Elements
The initial introduction where the three subjects mention their different hometowns resonates with a lot of young Indian professionals who migrate for better job opportunities, causing intense feelings of isolation. The line “This is our potluck” at McDonald’s reclaims their sense of belonging and transforms the restaurant into a space of connection and inclusion. The line “Despite being away from home during Ramzan, I’m not homesick for the first time” encapsulates the joy of finding a ‘home away from home’ and McDonald’s role in fostering a familial atmosphere and community among the employees. The ad features a chirpy Hindi song with lyrics reflecting the growing friendship between the three subjects, enhancing its emotional tone, and transitions into McDonald’s signature 5-tone jingle to reinforce brand recall.
Cultural Signifiers
The depiction of the Iftar potluck, with other employees in traditional attire, sets up a culturally rich backdrop. The three subjects break their fast together after sunset, a deeply communal and familial act during Ramzan, anchoring the ad in a cultural context. Choosing McDonald’s as their Iftar spot highlights the brand as a vehicle for cultural bonds, and the sharing of chicken wings reflects the importance of communal activities in India’s collectivist society. The ad effectively uses cultural storytelling to position McDonald’s as a place where meaningful connections are nurtured between employed diaspora, enhancing brand affinity among young professional audiences.
Advertisement 2: Meals Make Families
Visual Elements
The advertisement showcases a large family in traditional attire celebrating a festival. The diverse age groups presented underscore family unity and position McDonald’s as a cherished part of family traditions, enhancing brand affinity across generations. The abundance of yellow in attire, flowers and jewellery resonates with the Hindu cultural association of the colour with the deity Vishnu, and ties to McDonald’s iconic golden arches. Similarly, green decorations present all over the house allow McDonald’s vegetarian product packaging to blend in seamlessly, catering to common dietary practices during Hindu festivals. Red ethnic clothing against yellow backgrounds evokes McDonald’s brand colours, embedding the brand in cultural festivities. The ad consists mainly of tight shots of individual activities but shifts to a wide shot of the entire family enjoying a communal meal, portraying McDonald’s as integral to familial celebrations.
Linguistic Elements
Narration is used to evoke emotional connection, starting with “Why do we get so excited about festivals?” The narration then lists out festive activities — traditional clothing, decorations, songs, dancing, and family interactions — establishing a relatable cultural context for Indian viewers. McDonald’s is then introduced into the festive tableau, reinforcing the brand’s integration into cultural festivals. The concluding line “Maybe, this is the reason”, accompanied by visuals of the family sharing McDonald’s food, implies this excitement is intertwined with the food, making the brand a staple of festive celebrations. A track with traditional Indian instruments and vocalization creates an authentic festive atmosphere and enhances the ad’s cultural resonance. The transition to McDonald’s catchy 5-note jingle at the end ties this deeply cultural context to the brand, reinforcing the brand’s integral role in the same and boosting recall.
Cultural Signifiers
The presence of several generations reflects the traditional Indian structure of a joint family. This depiction highlights family unity and respect for elders, resonating with Indian audiences. The final shot of the family gathered around McDonald’s food showcases the brand’s role in bringing families together — an integral aspect of Indian festivals. By linking this cultural norm with the brand, McDonald’s is positioned as a facilitator of community bonding during cultural traditions.
Conclusion
This media report employed semiotic analysis to examine how McDonald’s India’s #FestivalsMakeFamilies advertisements use cultural storytelling to resonate with local audiences and boost brand affinity with its global identity. The analysis revealed the complex interplay of culturally significant themes, signs, and indices with elements of the McDonald’s brand. Striking a balance between standardization (Brand colours, product names, core values) and adaptation (market positioning, product ingredients), McDonald’s seamlessly weaves the brand into sociocultural aspects of Indian society, including religious diversity, regional traditions, and familial structures.
While the advertisements considered target different audiences — with one positioning it as an affordable option for young professionals and the other reinforcing its diverse offering to several age groups and dietary preferences, they are tied together by the overarching theme of McDonald’s being a meal that is best enjoyed with loved ones. This aligns with an integral cultural aspect of the collectivist society in India, especially during religious occasions — communal meals and familial bonds. This study offers valuable insights into the strategic leveraging of semiotic elements in McDonald’s glocalisation marketing strategy to appeal to Indian consumers.
Dating applications have emerged as one of the most popular methods to find a significant other, with over 348 million users creating online dating profiles in 2023 (Curry, 2024). Revolutionising how individuals seek romantic and sexual connections, these platforms offer unprecedented convenience, access to a larger dating pool and significantly lower risks associated with meeting potential dates. However, they pose a unique challenge for non- binary individuals, often having been designed with binary gender norms in mind. While some mainstream dating platforms like Tinder, Hinge and Bumble have made notable strides towards inclusivity by giving users the option to choose a diverse range of gender identities and pronouns (Rahbari, et al., 2023), non-binary users often face systemic barriers on these platforms that hinder their user experience and occasionally encounter social biases that bleed into the digital dating landscape (Callander, et al., 2019). Discrimination, harassment, fetishisation and a lack of understanding from other users create an exclusionary and unsafe environment for gender-nonconforming individuals. Despite these problems, transgender and non-binary individuals continue to use dating apps to form social, romantic and sexual connections, as research points to the comparative lack of opportunities for gender minorities to meet and connect offline (Chan, 2016).
This study aims to investigate the experiences of transgender non-binary and gender non-conforming individuals on dating platforms and their motivations for using the same. The results of this study will inform broader research into the dynamics of online dating as a non-binary individual and help expose areas of improvement for app developers to make their platforms more inclusive to transgender users.
Literature Review
Love Starts with a Swipe
The dot-com boom of the late 1990s familiarised users with virtual social networking, propelled by technological advancements and widespread internet accessibility. Dating platforms like eHarmony and OkCupid, launched in 2000 and 2003 respectively, capitalised on this expanding market, leveraging algorithms and personality tests to match users based on compatibility (Finkel, et al., 2012). The cultural acceptance of online dating grew in parallel to the integration of internet usage into daily life (Rosenfeld & Thomas, 2012).
In the 21% century, online dating evolved to serve specific demographics, ushering in the era of ‘niche dating apps’. Websites like ChristianMingle and DillMil (for the South Asian diaspora) tailored their services to specific communities, enabling users to connect with potential partners with similar cultural backgrounds and religious beliefs. This trend, as elucidated by Tanner (2022), aided the effectiveness of online dating for marginalised groups and offered sanctuary from online harassment and discrimination.
Digitising Queer Connections
Similarly, the emergence of queer dating apps such as Grindr and HER have revolutionised the dating landscape for LGBTQ+ individuals. Miller (2015) notes that, by offering spaces for queer people to express their identities, experiment with their sexual preferences and seek platonic, romantic and sexual relationships freely, these dating apps provide an escape from the homophobia prevalent on mainstream dating sites.
Academic enquiries into these queer dating apps reveal that they not only facilitate social connections between queer individuals but also foster a broader sense of belonging within the LGBTQ+ community. As Fox and Ralston (2016) discovered in a qualitative analysis of LGBTQ+ social media usage, users often turn to these apps to escape the heteronormativity and binary gender norms of mainstream social networking sites and create affirming connections with members of a community that understands and respects their identities.
The Trans-non-binary Dating Experience
While inclusive features on online dating apps allow users to create authentic images — crucial for their safety and comfort in digital spaces — studies show these “non-essentialist” gender categories are predominantly motivated by data collection and revenue opportunities. Bivens and Haimson (2016) explored the tension between users’ self-identification and advertisers’ interests, revealing that fluid algorithmic gender options on social networking sites are often superficial. They found that these options tend to reinforce the binary by grouping ‘custom’ gender options into one category for targeted marketing. This has significant implications for features like ‘filter by gender’ on dating profiles.
Non-binary (NB) identities often encounter higher levels of discrimination and microaggressions in romantic relationships compared to binary transgender individuals (Fiani & Han, 2019). Lloyd and Finn (2017) found that transgender non-conforming identities on dating apps face invalidation, misgendering and harassment. This systematic erasure makes it hard for NB users to feel affirmed in their identities and find matches. Additionally, the prevalent dominance of masculinity leads to frequent hypersexualisation and fetishisation of transgender identities, creating a hostile online environment (Gordon & Cooper, 2020).
Research Question
What are the experiences of trans-non-binary (TNB) and gender non-conforming (GNC)adults using dating apps?
Why do non-binary individuals use dating apps?
What influence have dating apps had on non-binary individuals’ gender affirmation and romantic/ sexual experiences?
What obstacles present in dating apps hinder their usage by non-binary people, and how can app developers make them more inclusive?
Methodology
This qualitative study focuses on the experiences of TNB / GNC users on dating applications. McNamara (1999) identified interviews as the most suitable method of analysis that yields in-depth responses with the opportunity to request more information and clarity if necessary to uncover overarching themes in subjective thoughts and experiences. A semi-structured interview framework was chosen to give the researcher control while allowing a more flexible flow of questions to discern the participants’ experiences, emotions and thoughts (ibid.).
In this study, previous knowledge of the phenomenon being studied informs the initial interview guide, and an informal conversational method aids in establishing rapport and guiding further exploration of perceptions and opinions about sensitive issues (Barriball & While, 1994). Each interview lasts 30 minutes to one hour, accommodating potential distractions and in-depth responses. While the researcher is free to ask additional questions to expand on the participants’ responses and align with their interests, information unrelated to the research questions and themes being studied will likely emerge, so it is critical to redirect the interview to obtain useful data. Before conducting the interview, participants are informed of confidentiality, assured of data anonymisation, and familiarised with the interview format. Interviews are audio-recorded for verbatim transcription to ensure accurate data capture, and recordings are stored in a password-protected system.
Participants were selected based on three criteria: (1) Over 18 years old, (2) Identify as trans-nonbinary/ gender non-conforming, (3) Have used one or more dating apps. Five participants were recruited from the researcher’s network through a purposive sampling frame. The interviews were conducted over Zoom.
Ethical and Practical Considerations
Several measures will be taken during the data collection to ensure the study’s integrity and sensitivity, considering the personal nature of the topic and the vulnerable population involved. Questions about sexual experiences, gender identity and discrimination necessitate building a rapport with participants first to ensure they feel comfortable and safe. Fostering a trusting environment where participants do not feel coerced into sharing personal information and maintaining the neutrality of questions and interviewer behaviour is crucial.
Participants will be informed of their right to withhold information, ensuring voluntary participation. Anonymity of participants is paramount, and identifying information will be anonymised during the analysis of responses.
The potential for researcher bias arises when considering the small sample size of five participants, recruited through purposive sampling. This may also limit the diversity of responses. However, it allows for an exhaustive exploration of each participant’s experience through semi-structured interviews, yielding rich qualitative data. Finally, contacting potential participants through trusted networks and communities, and conducting in-depth interviews while aligning with participants’ availability and comfort is time-consuming. Thematic analysis of responses will require attention to detail to effectively capture the nuances of each interviewee’s experiences and opinions, providing valuable insights into TNB and GNC user experiences on dating apps.
Findings
After interviewing five participants, the following conclusions were reached regarding the experiences of TNB and GNC individuals on dating apps. 80% of participants started using dating apps casually — seeking sexual validation and out of curiosity. Over time, they shifted towards seeking deeper, more meaningful connections, reflecting a maturation in their approach to these platforms. However, all of them focused on building social connections with like-minded people who understood transgender experiences, using the apps to find queer friends and integrate into a supportive community emphasising a sense of belonging that was otherwise lacking in their local environments. The ability to present their identities clearly and build social capital is paramount, underscoring the importance of inclusive and affirming spaces on these platforms.
“Dating apps gave me the platform to find people who share my identity and understand how it feels to be alienated because of your identity.”
– P2, 26, non-binary transmasculine (they/them)
All participants emphasised the importance of expressing their NB identities authentically using the extensive customisation options for pronouns and gender identity but struggled to do so because of invalidation, rejection, ridicule and algorithmic bias against visibly femme individuals. 60% of participants noted the tension between balancing femme and masculine presentations, appreciating the option to include multiple pictures and prompts to explain the nuances of their gender and sexuality, but expressing frustration with societal perceptions of NB identities that deviate from “expected androgyny”, effectively forcing them to present themselves in ways that go against their identity.
Some participants played down their self-expression to appeal to a larger dating pool and to avoid banning and sexualisation. Discussing the binary constraints of dating apps, they explained how the many features to express their gender identity on their profile often fall flat when it comes to being perceived accurately by matches.
“You have to be careful how to present on dating apps because people want you to look like your pronouns”
– PS, 22, transfeminine (she/they)
A unique challenge identified by two participants was the tendency for some transmasculine individuals to list their gender as women to avoid being grouped with cisgender heterosexual (cishet) men which, while protective, led to feelings of invalidation. Other participants echo these concerns, using app features to filter out cishet men — despite their attraction to them — and gauge potential connections’ likelihood to respect their identity, indicating a strategic approach to safely navigating these platforms. Avoiding interactions with cishet men was a common thread, with participants preferring to avoid Grindr due to its pervasive masculine queer culture that hypersexualised femme-presenting individuals.
This reveals a broader issue of safety in expressing gender identity on dating apps – a significant concern for all participants, each highlighting distinct yet interconnecting issues. While individuals employ diverse filtering tactics and profile customisations on apps like Hinge to facilitate safer preliminary vetting ability, encounters with invasive questions, inappropriate images and stalking underscore the risk posed by geolocation features, oppressive heteronormativity and sexualisation of deviant gender identities.
“It’s difficult figuring out which app you should be using as a non-binary person (…) that will give you the most luck meeting people that aren’t predatory”
– P1, 24, non-binary transmasculine (he/them)
The experience with cis men misusing labels to target bisexual and pansexual individuals was also a common thread among participants, which highlights the fetishisation of queer identities. These encounters forced participants who were not attracted to men to further police their activity and presentation, censoring their political beliefs, queer rights activism and gender-affirming pictures online. NB individuals thus have to navigate between safety and authenticity, particularly when transitioning from online interactions to real-life meetings. 60% highlighted the need to present more masculine online out of safety, which creates tension when expressing femininely offline.
Dating apps also often accelerate the pace at which relationships develop, which was noted to lead to premature endings because of the overtly sexual nature they tend to take on. As TNB/ GNC individuals, conversations regarding genitalia and intercourse can negatively impact their gender affirmation. Crossplatform interactions also expose NB individuals to scrutiny when moving from a curated dating profile to an authentic personal social media account, fraught with fears of rejection and ridicule. However, dating apps also play a significant role in the broader social lives of NB individuals, affecting offline support systems and serving as a bridge to genuine self-expression and community building. Additionally, participants noted that their long-lasting and most meaningful friendships with queer individuals stemmed from dating apps, due to their ability to seek out people with shared lived experiences.
“I could comfortably and safely present more authentically non-binary in real life after building a relationship with the person online first”
– P3, 22, non-binary (he/she/they)
A predominant theme across all interviews is the inadequacy of filtering options on dating apps, namely the inability to filter by sexual orientation. A cause of gender dysphoria, participants expressed the frustration for transmasculine NB individuals to avoid mismatches with straight women and gay men, and for transfeminine NB individuals to avoid straight men and lesbians. Safety and moderation issues were another common thread, with rampant sexualisation of non-male identities making it unpleasant to spend time looking for genuine matches.
“I never want that kind of attention from men (…) | don’t feel comfortable putting up (femme presenting) pictures anymore.”
– P4, 23, gender non-conforming (she/him)
Participants also raised issues regarding the usability of these apps, with paywalls restricting more specific filters and customisations to tailor their experience. A final commonality was the desire for safer, queer community-oriented dating apps. The lack of moderation, dysfunctional UI and predominant cis-normativity of existing queer dating apps made them exclusionary for TNB and GNC individuals. One participant even suggested partnerships between queer social events and queer dating apps to enhance community engagement and shed light on an underserved marginalised populace to increase their chances of finding love.
Reflections
The sample size was only five participants, which should ideally be increased in further investigations to generate more diverse responses and gain a better understanding of the experiences of more TNB and GNC identities on dating apps. The sampling frame could have been more precise since this study did not account for the differences in the cultural and regional backgrounds of the international students that formed the sources of data collection.
The questionnaire was lenient enough to allow participants to elaborate based on their understanding of the question, but sometimes explanation was required from the researcher about the specific requirements of each question. This implies a need for stronger wording and fewer open-ended questions. However, what worked well was leaning into the participants’ train of thought, giving the researcher a fleshed-out understanding of their experiences.
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Pole dancing. From its origins in the 1890s “Hoochi Coochi” dance troupes, gentleman’s clubs and sleazy speakeasies, it has established itself as a multi-faceted phenomenon embraced by individuals worldwide for exercise, self-expression, and empowerment. Motivated by a variety of reasons — from social needs for support and community, psychological needs for autonomy and self-acceptance, to fitness-related goals — diverse communities now use this stigmatised art form as a means of reclaiming agency over their bodies and sexuality, and challenging societal rules (Nicholas, et al., 2018; Mottley, 2022; Pfeiffer, et al., 2023). However, beneath its sequinned surface lies a complex interplay of power dynamics, linguistic constructions and gender norms that shape its cultural significance.
Pole dancing culture as it exists today can be traced back to Fawnia Dietrich (Griffiths, 2023), a Canadian “exotic” dancer, who began offering pole lessons to non-performers in 1994 as a way of proliferating the art form as more than just an erotic spectacle. Since then, pole dancing studios, training programs and online communities have become a widespread occurrence, with social media democratising access to the practice to individuals seeking to explore its physical and creative dimensions (ibid.). This shift is reflective of broader societal changes in attitudes towards the expression of female sexuality, the feminine body and sex work. Yet, despite its growing popularity and cultural acceptance, pole dancing has yet to shed its historical confines, remaining a contested terrain fraught with lingering stereotypes and tensions surrounding gender, power and representation.
By critically analysing pole dancing through the lenses of Foucault’s theories of power and knowledge (1978), Derrida’s deconstruction of linguistics (1978), and relevant feminist literature, this essay aims to gain a deeper understanding of how pole dancing intersects with broader discourses of misogyny, sexuality, and embodiment in the 21st century.
The first glaring issue with pole dancing culture rests in its very denomination as an “exotic art form”. First associated with Eastern European, Middle Eastern and North African travelling troupes in the 18th century, the terminology serves as a mechanism to differentiate their performances from socially acceptable and respectable art forms. The sensual nature of their dances — coupled with exaggerated costumes and makeup, courtesy of the Orientalist sensibilities of the period — stood in violation of the predominant ethos surrounding sexual expression, discourse and enjoyment. Using Foucault’s concept of how power operates as a pervasive force influencing knowledge, discourse and the regulation of bodies in society (Foucault, 1978), the term “exotic” — carrying with it connotations of otherness and fetishisation of Eastern cultures — positioned these dances outside ‘polite society’, depicting them as inherently sensual, primitive and inferior (de Lauretis, 1990).
Moreover, Foucault’s analysis of discourse emphasises how language serves as a site of gender power relations, shaping the contours of acceptable knowledge and behaviour (King, 2004) In the case of pole dancing, the discourse surrounding it was, and still is, heavily influenced by prevailing attitudes around the regulation of female desire and pleasure. The use of Orientalist imagery (Said, 1994) in the characterisation of pole dancing underscores how language operates to simultaneously dehumanise and eroticise these artists, reinforce dominant notions of sexual repression and censorship, and regulate and control bodies that deviate from normative standards of behaviour.
The Good, the Bad, and the Deconstructed
Cultural discussions and perspectives were coloured by pole dancing’s label as an inherently provocative form of entertainment catering to the sexual desires of men, which situated it snugly in the arms of the Male Gaze (Mulvey, 1975; 1999). Well into the 21st century, feminist scholars still grapple with erotic dance culture, oscillating between condemning it as a form of sexual exploitation to hailing it as a brilliant reclamation of female sexual agency (Bradley-Engen & Ulmer, 2009).
The former perspective is echoed in the writings of Ariel Levy (2006) in her condemnation of “Raunch Culture’, a term she used to describe the infiltration of contrived sexualities that once existed in the “sex industry” into mainstream culture. Levy argues that pornographic and sexually explicit content is a mechanism for men to exercise their control over female bodies and sexuality, and that to claim female empowerment in the wilful wielding and encouragement of sexualisation and eroticisation is a performative action that happens within the narrow confines of this patriarchal objectification. Similarly, scholars argue that positioning sexual liberation at the pinnacle of the feminist movement ignores and undermines the influence of the backdrop against which it is placed — a society that routinely normalises sexual violence against women and privileges male sexual pleasure (hooks, 1984; Raymond, 2013; Stokes, 2012).
However, others have highlighted how, by subverting notions of idealized femininity, pole dancing culture functions as a site of resistance within feminist discourse (Dodds, 2013). In her review of Mulvey’s work, Studlar (1985) challenges the passivity of female bodies in their objectification, suggesting instead that they are not objects but active holders of the Male Gaze. This critique of female passivity resonates with feminist authors who examined the undercurrents of counter-power expression in pole dancing and sex work, recontextualizing ideas of femininity and sexual agency (Holland, 2010). This decentring of dominant gender binary and sexuality norms was investigated by Jensen & Thing (2022), whose findings revealed an intentional renegotiation of traditional ideas of gender and sexual expression.
Portland’s Pole Palace – Inclusive safe space for exploring bodily autonomy (Image courtesy https://www.pole-palace.com)
Derrida’s concept of deconstruction emerges as a powerful framework to shed light on the shifting meanings of female empowerment, agency and sexuality within pole dancing culture. As he outlined, deconstruction involves the examination of language and discourse to unpack the inherent contradictions and ambiguities present within them. In his explanation of “free play” in linguistics (1978) — the notion that signified concepts are ever-changing and their establishment is deferred — he highlights how words can have multiple meanings that change with time, societal attitudes and hegemonic control over language.
By interrogating the binary oppositions underpinning traditional understandings of masculinity and femininity, modest and provocative, or even the passivity of “looked-at-ness” (Mulvey, 1999) and the activeness of holding the Male Gaze, deconstruction offers a means to understand the fluidity of gender roles and bodily autonomy within pole dancing culture (Whitehead & Kurz, 2009). Since the destabilisation of fixed categories opens up space for alternative modes of self-expression, evolved understandings of gender identity, sexuality, attraction and liberation can be continuously reconstructed as the discourse surrounding the practice changes (ibid.).
As evidenced by history, the development of language used to describe and examine pole dancing culture has undergone tremendous shifts owing to feminist social movements, the development of cultural and racial sensitivities, and technological advancements that democratise access to and encourage participation in public discourse. In line with Derrida’s line of reasoning, as societal norms and expectations changed and evolved, so did the meanings in the language used to discuss this marginalised art form and those who perform it.
In conclusion, modern pole-dancing culture behaves as a microcosm for broader societal tensions regarding essentialist notions of power, gender and sexuality. Peeling back layers of discourse and power dynamics within it reveals a tapestry of resistance, empowerment and subversion that challenges normative ideology and invites critical engagement with the fluidity and complexity of human experience.
Don’t knock at my door, mister, just come straight in Spread flowers, put on perfume and rejuvenate me (Aao Raaja – Gabbar is Back, 2015)
These words, repeated multiple times over an upbeat backing track, create the chorus of Aao Raja, the breakout song from the blockbuster movie Gabbar is Back (2015). Enhanced by close-up shots that follow the hands of Chitrangada Singh’s ‘Rani’, slowly tracing up her legs, exposed waist, chest, and neck as she sensually dances with other female performers, this song is just one example of many that have made popular Bollywood cine-culture their home. Not a novel occurrence, they contribute to a phenomenon unique to South Asian films – the Item Number.
Chitrangda Singh in Aao Raaja (Gabbar is Back, 2015)
In modern India, engaging with sexualised women is either constrained or viewed with societal shame, resulting in clandestine and taboo attitudes surrounding the public perception or imagination of female sexuality (Shah & Cory, 2019). Consequently, due to the restricted, secretive, and alluring connotations associated with these subjects, item numbers emerge as an acceptable means to openly confront and engage with notions of women and sexuality in the public sphere (Shah & Cory, 2019). This essay aims to explore the sexualisation of women in popular Bollywood item numbers, using feminist media theories to dissect how they are represented through the item numbers’ formulaic aesthetic.
The term emerged as common parlance to refer to a cine segment featuring a conventionally attractive woman – often coded as a sex worker, a racy song, a vivacious dance and an atmosphere radiating sexual energy and excitement (Brara, 2010). Tracing the genealogy of this term back to 1950s Bollywood, item numbers referred to the risqué musical performances by Bollywood’s token ‘vamp girls’ – staple fixtures within the film’s cast that provided ribald entertainment to audiences (ibid.). Sexualised by their revealing costumes, provocative mannerisms and suggestive lyrics, these ‘vamp girls’ existed as estranged counterparts to the female leads of the same films their songs appeared in. They were immodest when the heroine was unassuming, brazen when the latter was demure, and – most notably – attainable when the heroine was not.
While their iconic presence on the screen and promotional posters had always brought scores of audiences to the cinema (Brara, 2010), it was only in the 1990s that item numbers cemented their distinctive existence outside their productions due to the widely popular music video channel MTV. As Brara (2010) writes, the infusion of the term’ item number’ into the South Asian lexicon attests to its significance as a “cine-sexual concept that is savoured by spectators, incarnated in contemporary Bollywood films and broadcast by the print and visual media, quite apart from film magazines”.
The Annihilation of Women under the Male Gaze
I’ve become a mint for you to consume, darling I’ve become a cinema hall for you to watch, darling Munni’s degraded herself for you, darling (Munni Badnaam Hui – Dabangg 2010)
The opening shots of the item number Munni Badnaam Hui (2010) starkly encapsulate the concept of the Male Gaze introduced by Laura Mulvey in her influential essay “Visual Pleasure and Narrative Cinema” (Mulvey, 1975). The song begins with a shot of a woman’s navel and tilts up, focusing on her exposed abdomen and breasts and lingering on her face for a fraction of a second before pulling away to reveal a cabaret nightclub full of lascivious men. Immediately, it becomes clear that the initial subject on screen is not a real woman but a cardboard cut-out. In these few seconds, the reduction of a Munni, a female figure, to a mere object of sexual desire is cemented, providing the basis for the aesthetic construction of the rest of the song, reinforcing Mulvey’s argument that films play on erotic ways of looking structured around a masculine perspective, objectifying women through cinematographic alignment with the heterosexual male desire (ibid.).
Freud’s ideas on Scopophilia underpin Mulvey’s concept of the Male Gaze – the pleasure derived from transforming and viewing another as a source of pleasure. Mulvey defines this as an active form of spectatorship, involving ‘taking other people as objects, subjecting them to a controlling and curious gaze’ (Mulvey, 1999). This objectification of the female form necessitates deliberate cinematic, narrative and framing choices aimed at transferring the agency and identity of the on-screen woman to her male counterpart, keeping in line with Freud’s phallocentric theory of woman as a ‘symbol of lack’ and man as the central element of organisation in the social world.
Mulvey (Mulvey, 1999, p. 838) posits that,
“Traditionally, the woman displayed has functioned on two levels: as erotic object for the characters within the screen story, and as erotic object for the spectator within the auditorium, with a shifting tension between the looks on either side of the screen.“
Bollywood’s incorporation of ‘displayed women’ into item numbers, which emerge as disparate cine segments within the film’s plot-driven narrative, marries their twin functions of being desired by off-screen audiences and their on-screen surrogates. As Brara (2010) explains, the insertion of item numbers in films allows for a brief removal of context and narrative flow, enabling this erotic spectacle to exist in a vacuum. This absence of narrative context– or rather, the blissful ignorance of a plot – mirrors the privacy created by conditions of modern screenings, which, as Mulvey (1999) describes, “promote the illusion of voyeuristic separation” and “give the spectator an illusion of looking in on a private world.” (ibid.)
Malaika Arora in Munni Badnaam Hui ( Dabangg 2010)
With reference to Munni Badnaam Hui, the erotic objectification of the woman on screen happens in parallel to the bolstering of the three-dimensional space occupied by the on-screen male, embodying an ego ideal that audiences can liken themselves to. While Munni sings provocative lyrics laced with double entendres, she fades into the background as the male protagonist, Inspector Chulbul Pandey, played by Salman Khan, emerges into focus. While he dances to the upbeat music as well, the treatment of his presence by the camera is in stark contrast to that of Malaika Arora’s Munni. There is no overt focus on his hips, chest or legs, and neither are there fastidious close-ups of his eyes, lips and backside in time with provocative lyrics. His shots are eye-level, pulling the audience into his point of view, while Munni’s on-screen presence is visualised through low-angled tracking shots, urgently guiding the audience’s attention to specific parts of her body. In doing so, once the male protagonist becomes the focus of the song, his presence makes apparent the trivial nature of Munni’s sexuality – an object of desire, but an object nonetheless.
The trivialisation of women is one of the three ways in which, as Gaye Tuchman described in her work “The Symbolic Annihilation of Women by the Mass Media” (2000), the image and characterisation of women are destroyed in media. Through a substantive analysis of the portrayal of women in broadcast and print mass media, Tuchman emphasised that trivialisation, in combination with exclusion and condemnation, contributes to the symbolic destruction of women as a social group through implications of their culturally defined value – or lack thereof – in matters of discourse. (ibid.). I believe this claim also finds pertinence in the restrictive portrayal of the ‘vampy women’ of Bollywood films.
The concept of item numbers birthed a distinct cinematic role in Bollywood – theItem Girl. Unambiguously an objectification – with the word ‘item’ denoting a promiscuous, attractive woman in Mumbai slang (AMS Sexual Assault Support Centre, 2015), these roles are defined by three prominent characteristics: (1) her fleeting appearance on screen, usually to perform the item number, (2) her inconsequentiality to the film’s plot, and (3) her overt sensuality (Brara, 2010; Kamble, 2022; Jha, 2014; Purohit, 2019). The lack of narrative impetus offered by these female roles reduces them to conduits of erotic spectacles that serve to attract audiences, specifically heterosexual male viewers, and catalyse box office earnings (Purohit, 2019). Frequently, the female performer assumes an anonymous identity within the cinematic narrative, denoted solely as ‘the item girl’ within the credits. Tuchman’s critique thus resonates when considering the reduction and subsequent destruction of women in item numbers.
Mulvey’s theory has long since been contented by scholars, citing neglect of alternative feminist perspectives, assumptions of passivity of female audiences, generalisations of masculine spectatorship practices, and overdependence on Freudian psychoanalyst ideas (Gamman & Marshment, 1988). Author bell hooks’ introduction of the concept of the ‘oppositional gaze’ (1992) poses the argument that Mulvey’s Male Gaze primarily reflects the experiences of white women and fails to consider the intersectional differences in engagement with cinema, thus inadequately addressing the experiences of women of colour. Gaylyn Studlar’s work on fetishism and masochism (1985) challenged Mulvey’s determinist views on the subject, claiming that it restricts male viewers to a controlling role, seeing the female as an object to possess but never to identify with or view as a symbol of authority. Studlar (1985) also challenged the notion of women as a ‘symbol of lack’, suggesting that the female is not an object but an active holder of the male gaze.
However, with close reference to the lyrical narrative, camera movements and mise en scene of Bollywood item numbers, the relevance of Mulvey’s theory rings true and clear. As seen in Munni Badnaam Hui, the stripping of Munni’s agency and perspective occurs immediately and overtly by deliberately excluding her face. Her introduction happens through repeated shots of her exposed back, contrasted by cutaway shots of the male lead’s reaction to her performance. These emphasise the power dynamics at play early on – it is the men, taking on the active role of watching, singing and dancing with Munni, with whom lies the agency to further the plot and the ability to be likened to by the audience. This consigns Munni to a ‘bearer of meaning’ (Mulvey, 1999) which is bestowed upon her by the men on screen.
On-Screen Power in the Age of Raunch Culture
When I come and dance with you I’ll shake my hips around Strike down your gaze with mine (Kamariya – Stree 2018)
The focus of feminist media studies has been to analyse how film, television and print reinforce hegemonic power structures. Borrowing from Foucault’s power, discourse and knowledge creation theories, Theresa de Lauretis (1987) explored how power operates in constructing gender and sexual identities and how desire and identity are represented and maintained in discursive practices. In “Eccentric Subjects: Feminist Theory and Historical Consciousness” (1990), de Lauretis quotes Catharine MacKinnon to emphasise how male dominance expresses itself through objectifying the female. By asserting itself as the only “way of knowing”, the male perspective differentiates men from women by eroticising the latter, therefore defining the social, cultural, and, in film, audience perception towards women. An analysis of the item number Kamariya epitomises MacKinnon’s claim that “Men look at women. Women watch themselves being looked at.”
Nora Fatehi in Kamariya (Stree 2018)
An unnamed female performer performs Kamariya, the sole dancer surrounded by a crowd of enthusiastic, drunken men. The protagonist, played by Rajkumar Rao, holds a party blower in his mouth that unfolds as he watches her dance – an incontestable allegory to the sexual arousal he feels. The camera circles her in slow motion as she dances, zooming in on her exposed waist, chest and back, alluding to how the men on-screen pick apart her body with their hungry eyes. A significant detail in her treatment by the camera is how she is portrayed as so sensual that she is unattainable to the men, implying that she holds power over them. However, a closer inspection of the framing of shots in time with suggestive lyrics would show that this power exists within the confines of her objectification by the men on screen and the camera. The control that she wields is a product of her eroticisation. The heterosexual male perspective is thus impressed upon film audiences – the woman is othered by virtue of her sensuality (de Lauretis, 1990).
Jacques Lacan’s theoretical framework of ego formation and identification posits that individuals develop their sense of self through identification with external images or objects. In the context of Bollywood item numbers, the women in the audience are confronted with a narrow and sexualised portrayal of femininity on screen, shaped by the male perspective, through which they may perceive and identify themselves. Over the years, scholarly discourse on item girls’ empowerment within this narrow portrayal has attempted to reframe this objectification as sexual liberation. Shah and Cory (2019) argue that “item numbers intentionally subvert the (heterosexual) Male Gaze” by serving as a means for women to reclaim the narrative, thereby reclaiming control of their bodies and their sexuality. This line of reasoning is echoed by post-feminist scholars concerned with gendered power dynamics that see sexual freedom as the key to female independence and emancipation (Gill, 2007; Genz & Brabon, 2017) and evidenced by an increasing sexualisation of twentieth-century cultural products termed ‘Raunch Culture’ (Levy, 2006).
In her book “Female Chauvinist Pigs: Women and the Rise of Raunch Culture” (2006), Ariel Levy argued that Raunch Culture was a product of unresolved conflict between the women’s liberation movement and the sexual revolution. She defines Raunch Culture as a mechanism through which women may gain power and status in a patriarchal society (Levy, 2006). However, in a misogynistic system wherein she exists as a sexual object, a woman cannot rise above her rank without perpetuating the same system that dehumanises and exploits her body (ibid.). This paradoxical battle seems to wage in the scholarly discourse and ethos surrounding item numbers. The item number as an acceptable means for Indian men to engage with the sexuality of women, as pointed out by Shah and Cory (2019), mirrors its usability as a medium for women to familiarise themselves and freely experiment with ideas of their ‘inherent’ sensuality.
Borrowing from psychoanalytical literature to discuss the sexualisation of women by Bollywood item numbers, the Maddona-Whore dichotomy based on Freud’s Oedipus complex emerges as a significant factor in understanding their success. Referring to the phenomenon of viewing women as two distinct and separate personas – the sexless ‘Madonna’ or the sensual ‘Whore’ – this trope has made itself known in a wide range of mass media (Kimbell, 2002; Greer, 2016). Separating women into these two opposing categories allows men to assign specific characteristics to them, thereby assigning them hierarchical cultural and moral values. Bollywood has historically written the ‘vamp girls’ of item numbers as ‘Eastern interpretations of Western women’ – sexually liberated, immoral, loud and opinionated (Jha, 2023). This characterisation, in complete opposition to traditional Indian ideals of a respectable, ‘good’ woman, allows for and encourages objectification.
While headstrong women in Bollywood films are not scarce, the distinctive feature that sets them apart from item girls lies in how the latter are presented. Item girls are intended to be watched and desired without invoking empathy from the audience, unlike the former, who actively engage viewers emotionally at different junctures in the storyline. This definition holds to date, with the objectification of Munni, Rani, and the nameless dancer from Kamariya wedged into the narrative of their respective films to highlight the opposing ‘respectable’ qualities of their films’ heroines.
To conclude, the intricate analysis of Bollywood item numbers using feminist media theories unravels a complex interplay of power dynamics and objectification that contextualises the societal reception and attitudes towards them. Kamariya’s stint in the upper echelons of Bollywood music charts – similar to Munni Badnaam Hui and Aao Raja – reveals a system that accepts, normalises and celebrates the sexualisation of (certain) women. As Bollywood continues to produce item numbers, their cultural significance and impact on societal perceptions of women persist. The analysis presented here underscores the need for a critical examination of these representations and a broader discourse on the evolving role of women in popular cinema, challenging ingrained power structures and stereotypes.
In the words of Ariel Levy (2006),
“Objectification is rooted in disrespect, condescending views of the opposite gender, and power struggles. When men realize that they have the capability to fundamentally respect women, and women realize that they have the power to present themselves as empowered, fully capable people, raunch culture may moan its last and final faked orgasm.”
Silence of The Lambs, the 1988 novel by American novelist Thomas Harris continues to be one of the finest paradigms of the thriller genre in literature. Hailed by critics, this novel caused waves in the public upon initial release in 1988 and continues to raise hairs on the necks of readers everywhere. Hot on the heels of his first thriller novel Red Dragon, Harris lives up to his reputation as a master of thrillerdom with Silence of the Lambs, a blood-chilling tale of a young FBI agent. Also in this book, Hannibal Lecter, a man who played a small role in the earlier novel, finally takes up the mantle of being the most feared Machiavellian villain in fiction.
In the novel, the FBI have their hands full trying to track down an infamous serial killer nicknamed ‘Buffalo Bill’– an unidentified man who targets and kills young women and skins them. Jack Crawford, the FBI agent in charge of the case, send his young trainee Clarice Sterling to gain insight from the homicidal genius Hannibal Lecter. Dr Lecter proceeds to play mind games on young Clarice, drawing out her deepest fears and playing on her trauma. He agrees to help Clarice track down Buffalo Bill, but on the condition that she reveals details from her life to him. Wary of the intentions of the murderous criminal psychiatrist, Clarice refuses initially but eventually agrees to the terms. He drops nuggets of invaluable information about the identity of Buffalo Bill, and Clarice gets closer to unveiling and capturing the crazed killer.
When Buffalo Bill strikes yet again and claims another victim, this time daughter of a congresswoman, the FBI are driven to desperation and are forced to strike a deal with Lecter who claims he knows the identity of the killer. After dropping several red herrings and sending the FBI on a wild goose chase, Dr Lecter escapes during his transfer out of the asylum, leaving a trail of bodies in his wake. Meanwhile, Clarice Sterling, after following up on the clues given to her by Lecter, finds the man nicknamed Buffalo Bill– who turns out to be the former lover of one of the patients that Lecter treated and eventually killed. She shoots him and rescues the congresswoman’s daughter. The novel ends with a letter written by Lecter to Sterling, congratulating her on her big win.
The novel, although told through a third person’s perspective, is successful in communicating the terrifying ordeal Clarice goes through to hunt down the serial killer. A major part of the book follows her on her endeavour, but this narrative is occasionally broken up with tales of her life before the FBI, and Hannibal’s own experiences as a murderous psychiatrist. Hannibal in the book is Harris’ manifestation of all-knowing, self-aware evil– his success lies in the way he toys with Clarice and the readers as well. Harris’ characterization of Lecter as a self-controlled yet ruthless malevolent force served as the archetype to other popular sociopathic villains in modern literature and film, a character type that continues to unnerve audiences. While the free man on a murderous rampage is definitely an active threat, it is the nefarious villain behind bars that the readers grow to fear the most.
Silence of The Lambs by Thomas Harris paperback
Harris is no novice to the art of terrifying readers. With chapters in the novel dedicated to Buffalo Bill’s hunt for his victims and attention paid to every gruesome detail in describing the murder of Hannibal’s victims, Harris’ descriptions conjure up images to make even the most stoic readers lose sleep. He delves into mundane descriptions of moths, prison cell bars and FBI protocols, and turns what would otherwise be filler chapters into parts of the novel dedicated to creating a world that pulls the readers in headfirst. On the flip side, his nonchalance in the handling of abnormal situations like the discovery of a bloated corpse and Dr Lecter’s cannibalistic tendencies throws the reader for a loop, making them question their judgement of what is morally good and bad, acceptable or abhorrent. The novel’s ending too is ambiguous, leaving the readers stranded in a cloud of suspense and yearning for more of the unimaginably sinister Dr Lecter.
After careful consideration, I would give the novel a rating of 7/10, docking 3 points because of the overtly transphobic nature of the descriptions of transsexuals, and the terming of transgender individuals as mentally unstable. Moreover, the novel’s assumption that gay men are by default perverse individuals who envy and resent women perpetuates several harmful stereotypes about an already villainized community.
The popularity of Harris’ novel garnered international appraisal, and several accolades as well. The novel won the Bram Stoker award for best novel in 1988, The Anthony Award for best novel in 1989 and was nominated that same year for the World Fantasy Award. Lauded by novelists like Roald Dahl and David Foster Wallace, Silence of The Lambs is an incredibly thrilling story bound to have readers looking over their shoulders as they flip through the pages.
I was 16 years old when I switched schools, leaving behind all my friends and the life I’d had in favour of ‘higher education’, choosing to embark on a new adventure. That’s a lie– we moved and my mum didn’t want me spending 2 hours on a bus everyday– not very flashy, but it’s the truth. Also, this story contains mentions of depression and self harm. It’s a happy coming-out one though, I promise, so stick with me on this.
So there I was– 16, depressed and painfully shy. I’d never been one to open up to people easily, and the fact that I didn’t have the school uniform until two weeks after school started meant I stuck out like a sore thumb. The subjects I’d taken were all so alien to me, and my quiet battle with mental illness pushed me further and further away from anyone I could have possibly called a friend. Until she showed up.
Now I’m not one to toot my own horn, but I will admit that I was a good student. For years, I thrived on academic validation. But now, in a new environment, there was competition. Specifically, a girl in my English class. Every quiz we had, every little test that we took, she was always one step ahead. Growing up in a heteronormative home (which has since changed, thankfully) I assumed that the palpitations I felt when I heard her name called out, the reason my hair stood raised when she sat next to me, the reason I couldn’t utter a word when she was in the room was because I truly couldn’t stand her. The first time she said my name, addressing me directly, my palms started sweating and I knew that this girl scared the hell out of me. That is, of course, until I woke up one morning with butterflies in my stomach and her face in my mind. This wasn’t hate.
I didn’t take this idea well. In fact, I rejected it outright, and tried to convince myself that my feelings were misguided. But once I walked into class and saw her smile at me, I knew I was screwed. I, a woman, was I love with…a woman. I knew what this meant for me. The world I grew up in wasn’t kind to people like that. I remember my parents’ disgust when they spat out the word ‘Lesbian’ when I asked who Ellen Degenres was. And I was scared. Terrified that my friends and family wouldn’t accept me. So I decided that I was going to keep this to myself. I would write about it on the notes app in my phone, type out all my ‘deviant’ thoughts on that silly little screen and read them from time to time to see if my feelings changed. They didn’t.
One day, I came home from school to see my phone on the coffee table with a letter beside it. A letter in my mother’s handwriting. She’d gone through my phone– as mothers do– and found every single one of those notes I had written. To summarise, shit had hit the fan. My life at home was hell, with my parents refusing to look at or even talk to me, my school life plagued by the girl I had such strong feelings for and to top it off I had no friends to talk to about this. The six months that followed were the last months I thought I’d live to see.
The funny thing about families is that we are very fickle people sometimes. Mine were extremely orthodox and religious, and believed that people shouldn’t deviate from the norm. When they saw how much pain their beliefs caused me, the convictions they’d held for decades began to disintegrate. It’s been five years since then. My family and I spent hours in therapy, had a lot of uncomfortable conversations, shed a lot (and I mean a LOT) of tears to get to the point where my mother sends me a picture of every rainbow coloured thing she sees with the caption “this is you”.
This was supposed to be coming out story, but I guess I can’t call it one because I never got to come out. Not to the people that mattered most, I guess. I know a lot of queer folk who’ve had their moments robbed from them, and trust me it hurts. To have your sense of identity ripped from your delicate hands and showcased to a word that expects you to defend it is traumatising in a way that colours every conversation you have with another queer person. But I’m here to say it’s not the end of the world. You will find your tribe, people who love and accept you for who you are. Coming out isn’t all there is to you– your queerness lives in every word your speak, every verse you write, every note you sing. You identity is yours alone, and nothing can change that. As for the girl I fell in love with? I didn’t tell her how I felt.
That phrase is something that has been ingrained in the minds of many people, in my case, since I was in kindergarten. For as long as I can remember, I would chant the phrase at the end of every morning assembly. I never questioned it at the time, of course, but over the years I’ve begun poking holes in that statement. IS my bharat mahan? Do I even know if I constitute the people who can call bharat theirs? I realized I wasn’t alone when thinking of these questions when I came across the article transcribing The Idea of India : Romila Thapar and Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak in Conversation.
I found the main purpose of this article in the title itself– unearthing the idea of India. What makes India, India? What makes a person, Indian? Through an eye-opening conversation, Romila Thapar and Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak attempt to pinpoint the meaning of an Indian identity and how one can be classified as such. Taking into consideration the educational, cultural, economic and historical factors on what has shaped people’s perspectives of what it means to be Indian, they manage to answer a few questions surrounding why the “Indian identity” is so ambiguous, whilst also forcing us to consider how existing definitions of it aren’t universal.
The question Ms. Spivak opens with is a simple one, directed at celebrated Indian historian and novelist Romila Thapar– how does one teach the idea of India? Although the question is simple, the answer is anything but. Considering how the independent nation we know today emerged very recently in contemporary history, Dr. Thapar begins with the very first ideas of individual identities that Indians had. They were Indians, simply because they weren’t the colonisers– the British. Being Indian, first and foremost, meant being a native, different from the Europeans, and now it meant being free.
For the Indian diaspora scattered across England and it’s colonies, this was all they had to claim as an identity. However, the migration of the middle class to European and American states allowed them to create their own version of an Indian identity, vastly different to many of those residing within its borders and thus creating an ‘Indian identity’ that exists more or less completely unaware of the happenings in the country. And as for those residing within it’s geographical borders, their sense of ‘Indian identity’ exists purely as a product of one’s own lived experience.
The emphasis on ‘development’ of India in the early days of independence was crucial in the eyes of the government in order to establish an Indian identity, as economic growth was considered the foundation of a concrete society. In doing so, culture, language, religion, and caste-based issues were ignored until they resurfaced, worse than imagined. Smaller Indian identities, those that didn’t fall in line with the larger narrative, risk being considered ‘non-Indian’, if not erased completely. Dr Thapar repeatedly emphasises on how the identity of a place changes with time and the influence of history on the idea of a country cannot be overlooked, which I believe to be the most important part of the article.
Ms. Spivak’s insistence on language as an area of concern unearths the lack of appropriate means to equip Indians– save for the upper middle class– with the ability to question the opinion and perspective of the majority, plunging them into a sense of ‘non-belonging’ as they too accepted the majority opinion. Education being funded and effectively controlled by the state means a strict control over what information gets taught, even if it disregards Nehru’s idea of Social Inclusion, ultimately leading to a hierarchical society based on wealth and caste.
In conclusion, attention is drawn to the interlinkages in society, transcending caste, language and religion, to which answers are needed to establish a holistic idea of what it means to be Indian. As Dr Thapar put it, “… Instead of looking at just the one strand, whether it be economic growth, whether it be caste, whether it be religion, one has to look at the totalities and the intermeshing of that totality which we have ceased to do now. “
Abortion. The removal of an embryo or foetus, thus terminating a pregnancy. That’s the definition of the word by Merriam-Webster, Oxford and Mayo Clinic. Not a baby. An embryo.
When it comes to the big ‘A’ word, people always have an opinion, even when they think they don’t. They’re either pro-life, which means they consider the embryo to be a sacred life form, deserving of the same respect as any other child or adult human being, or pro-choice, which means they support the right for individuals to get abortions. Now, at first glance, both sides seem equally appealing. Pro-life protests killing, so they can’t be all that bad, right?
Wrong.
As much as I would like to end the argument by stating that the life of an already-alive human being is more important than that of something that is yet to be considered a life-form, this topic deserves a more…sensitive hand when being dealt with. The root of the abortion debate lies in whether a male-dominated society thinks a woman is deserving of the right to do what she wants with her body. So let’s begin by examining another topic that makes people uncomfortable- misogyny.
“The abortion debate is more about power and control than the fate of a zygote.”
– Thor Benson, author
Ever since men discovered they could own land and animals, women and female bodies have always gotten the short end of the stick. The agricultural revolution relegated women to the position of property, to be bought and sold like cattle, used as breeders to strengthen one’s lineage. While society has made leaps and strides in women’s rights since then thanks to movements like feminism, bodily autonomy is still something available to only a privileged few.
As a person with a uterus, I’ve been very interested in my country’s legislation regarding the topic of abortion, in the case that– god forbid– I would find myself in a position to have to choose. While it isn’t perfect, Indian laws around medically terminated pregnancies aren’t all that oppressive. It’s legal and can be performed by a licensed professional at private and government hospitals up to 24 weeks post conception. Then why on earth are India’s maternal mortality rates so high?
While abortion IS legal, it’s an unspeakable word in Indian society. Of course, this is to expect from a society that regards women’s sexuality as taboo and unholy. When broached, this subject evokes raised eyebrows and pursed lips. For many women, medical termination of pregnancy is too expensive a procedure, and because of the stigma surrounding the topic, they’re less likely to ask for help. This doesn’t in any way mean that they don’t go through with the abortion. Unsafe abortions end up killing 13 Indian women everyday. Some would argue the simple solution to this would be to just stop having them, which I find to be an incredibly privileged and ignorant view to have.
In a country where violence against women is rampant, thousands of victims of rape, abuse, child sexual assault and human trafficking are impregnated against their will. These women and girls most likely have no means to support the child and all the responsibility that come with being a mother. Forcing her to carry out the unwanted pregnancy to full term will have devastating consequences on her mental and physical health, and the resulting child will probably end up uncared for and neglected. This is something pro-lifers seem to conveniently overlook in their crusade aganst abortion.
“How can we talk about the rights of a fertilized egg when we don’t care enough to see that every child is born into a stable, safe, and nurturing environment?”
– Rebecca Warner, Moral Infidelity
To create a human from inside one’s own body is nothing short of a miracle, and having children is a dream millions of people share. However, not everyone who becomes a parent, wants to become one. Conversely, not everyone who wants to become a parent, can. People could try for years to get pregnant, only to have their pregnancies miscarry due to health complications. Medically terminating a pregnancy can cause immense trauma to expecting mothers. In many situations, an abortion is neccessary to keep the mother alive.
India having one of the highest rates of female infanticide in the world puts us in a unique position here. Due to archaic gender roles and customs, girl children are looked at as losses to the family, and boys as assets. Boys have better career opportunities; boys can carry on the family name; boys bring pride to the bloodline. Girls are expected to know how to flip rotis before they loose all their baby teeth. Girls are expensive, as the system of dowry requires the bride’s family to pay the groom’s family a hefty sum of money and valuables. Girls are unlikely to be sent to school or continue their education once they reach puberty because every second that they are unmarried dips into their father’s coffers. This is a social and cultural problem that requires levels of unlearning toxic bigotry, and in my opinion de-stigmatising abortion would do little to impact it.
It almost seems like abortions are procedures that will happen whether or not they are legalised and made accessible to the public, and the only thing that differs is whether millions of women die due to criminal negligence or have their safety taken into consideration.
And now, to address the elephant in the room. The question and subsequent implications every woman dreads when they enter the gynaecologist’s office. “Are you married?”
The assumption that single women live out lives devoid of sex until marriage is infantile and incredibly ignorant. Yes, women are sexually active and use contraceptives, and yes, sometimes contraceptives fail. And yes, these situations are extremely stressful for the people involved. Some people go ahead with the pregnancy, and end up with a child at the end of it. But for some, maybe a business woman at a pivotal moment in her career or a college student after an unfortunate one-night stand, having a child isn’t something they can or even want to afford. Either way, forcing your opinion on someone because of religious, moral or spiritual beliefs is problematic. Moral policing is something women have had to endure for centuries, having every choice of ours examined under the violating eyes of the patriarchy. The least we could get is control over our own bodies.
“Women deserve better than propaganda and lies to get into panties. Propaganda and lies to get into office, to get out of court, to get out of paying child support. Get out of our decisions and give us back our voice. Women deserve better; women deserve choice.”
– Sonya Lee Taylor, women’s rights activist and poet
“If we make it legal, people would have abortions all the time.” Well, abortions DO happen all the time, 15.6 million a year in India alone. Women don’t go through an incredibly personal, emotionally-scarring, expensive, dangerous and invasive procedure that they are shamed for every step of the way out of boredom. And even if they do, it really isn’t anybody else’s choice to make or judge.
Amidst all this chaos one has to ponder, if men could get pregnant too, would the abortion debate cease to exist?
October 18th, 1998. In the wee hours of the morning, gurgling cries echoed through the halls of the small run-down clinic in the old city of Chennai. Inside the patient ward, paint was chipping off the walls and small cracks webbed their way across the ceiling above the bed where a woman held a tiny raisin of a being in her arms. That shrivelled prune-looking thing was none other than yours truly, thrust into a world that I now had to make sense of for the next 60-70 years ( although let’s be realistic, the number’s probably way lower).
Like a lot of children, I lived my life for the most part without understanding why I did the things I did beyond a superficial level. Although I’d clean my room and eat my vegetables when my mother told me to, I never questioned her instructions– partly out of the fear of meeting the business end of her plastic ruler. I listened to bands that my friends told me were popular and wore clothes that magazines said I looked good in. I never had a problem with any of this, but that was because I’d never put any thought into any of the things I did.
That is until I was introduced to the life and works of a man named René Descartes.
René Descartes
It was then that I realised I was being a passive player in my own existence. If I wasn’t in control of any of my actions, how was I to be held accountable for them? If I couldn’t justify my reasons for having certain opinions and preferences, should even have them in the first place? Determined to find meaning in my meagre existence, I dipped my toes into the murky depths of philosophy and began by questioning every thought I had ever had.
“The first step toward philosophy is doubt.”
– Denis Diderot
Every individual seeks to live their life by a set of beliefs, thoughts and morals they call their philosophy, which in turn dictates their behaviours. In order to fully understand my actions and reasons for behaving as such, I needed to look deeper into what made me who I was and question the effects of my past experiences – and my expectations of the future – on my beliefs.
I think the core of my philosophy lies in building and exploring relationships with other people, and making a meaningful impact in their lives. I’ve always been an empath but once I took a step back and observed my actions, I came to realise I measured my success by the quality of relationships I had with people. Helping people and performing acts of service made me feel like I had a purpose, no matter how small. I truly believe that human connections and forming bonds are what make life worth living, and open doors to new experiences and learning opportunities.
I noticed a lot of my decisions were governed by a very strict set of morals I’ve imbibed growing up in a religious South Indian household. I was always taught that the ‘right’ thing to do would often mean doing something at your own expense. Naturally, this gave way to a lot of self-sacrificing, something I’ve since learned to regulate. No more do I give away my limited school supplies to my classmates at the drop of a hat, but I certainly offer up my seat in crowded buses. It’s an unspoken rule that, if I see someone in need of help or in a position that might call for some assistance, I would– with my limited emotional intelligence and progressively diminishing physical prowess– try to help in any way I can.
Jean-Jacques Rousseau said that human nature is inherently good, and that is certainly something I took into account when forming my own belief system. I am persistent that, if given the chance, even the most rotten human beings would find in themselves a seed of goodness, of charity, of kindness and virtue. Unfortunately, I’m not blind to the fact that in the modern world such chances are few and far between, and humans have historically been known to make morally questionable decisions. (A fine example would be the low-rise jeans trend that took the 2000’s by storm, otherwise known as the greatest crime in the history of sighted humanity).
On a serious note, I believe in giving people the benefit of doubt, because if to err is not human, then what is? Everyone deserves a fair shot at living a happy life, irrespective of the religion, political, economic and social class they were born into. An ideal justice system wouldn’t systemically oppress any one community of people, and I believe true justice takes into account all aspects of a person’s life before meting out judgements. For example, stealing is against the law and is a punishable offence, but stealing baby food to feed your child because the company you work for decided to cut some of the people on their payroll because the pandemic was affecting their profits exposes cracks in an unjust system and shouldn’t be met with a strictly black or white perspective.
As a child surrounded by a very religious family, I had the idea of karma drilled into my head from a very young age. Every action thought or intent would be either rewarded or punished by an omnipotent being in the sky. Surprisingly, this was one of the few things I actually questioned as a child. How did that being get to decide whether what I did was right or wrong? Did they know the whole story? Would I get a chance to explain before I was tossed into the fiery depths of hell? If God was supposed to be kind and forgiving, why was there so much suffering in the world?
Calvin & Hobbes – Bill Watterson
After years of trying to find reason in theism, I arrived at the conclusion that to me, the is no God. However, I do believe that the energy in the universe is constant and that there is a continuous effort to maintain a balance of positive and negative energy. The good energy one puts out into the world would be matched by positive energy directed towards them. Trying to live a good life, and putting more good into a world that seems to be so desperately in need of it, is what I strive to do. I certainly believe that having something to draw strength from is crucial in times of difficulty, and whether it is religion, spirituality or science, they all have the same effect on the resilience of the human spirit.
I am of the opinion that the choices I make today are mine, and while my experiences have shaped me greatly, it ultimately falls on me to act. Free will is a fire that’s burned bright in the heart of humanity since the beginning of time. I am aware that life tends to throw curveballs when we least expect it. However, I’ve read about and been witness to several incidents where people refused to be bested by their circumstances. My own mother, having lost her father at a very young age, managed to work two jobs while attending college and taking care of her young sister and ailing mother. She could have chosen to give up and do the bare minimum, or to get married instead of finishing her studies like most women did. If she had yielded and followed the path the world was obviously showing her towards, this blog wouldn’t exist.
To me, free will is a thing of beauty. To wake up every morning with the knowledge that your time on earth is finite and that in the grand scheme of things your existence is inconsequential, and still strive to create, connect find passion and something to believe in is beautiful. Nihilism is the philosophical view that life has no intrinsic value, and I agree. But I also believe that people find value in their own ways, and give meaning to their existence through intelligent choices to reach their full potential.
To me, being open-minded is a thing of beauty. To accept other systems of belief while I am firmly grounded in my own encourage me to critically analyse what I thought I knew. Unlearning old ways and constantly changing with the world and society is how I keep my philosophy relevant.
In conclusion, I would admit that my philosophical beliefs are nowhere near as concrete as I would like them to be. I believe that the interactions I’ve had with people have shaped my understanding of the world and my attitude towards it, and these experiences continue to challenge my beliefs and change them. I’ve made several 180° changes in my beliefs, going from a devout Hindu to an agnostic, a guarded wallflower to an open-minded individual, and I’m sure I will find myself questioning these beliefs in the future too.
And I think that’s what makes it all the more fun.
Rosh Writes 