WHAT DID I DO? - "Reposted- Remembering Gujrat-2002"

(This is a Re-post of an earlier post. Posted originally on Sep 21st 2009.)

Dark. The night was as dark as the heart of a murderer. But I felt safe. Mother was beside. Her warmth protected me against just anything. All my anxieties wither away- just one touch of hers, does wonders to me. The quiet night, was only destined to be quiet for a while. But we were not supposed to know yet. I felt the eternal quiet- a night, so calm and peaceful- an assurance brought about due to the sense of another being present beside- one whom you could touch and trust.

I lay lost in thoughts. I couldn’t sleep. I was just too happy. Everybody had been so happy that day. The day I was born. Father said that he had not ever been happier- than the day I was born. I knew he had spoken the truth. His eyes had never lied to me. My mother had probably guessed that I was not sleeping. She had started to pat me… gently. How come mothers know that? I could never understand that.

It had been an unusually quiet night. So quiet, that I could almost hear my own thoughts. I turned in my bed. I could see father. I think that I had got the best father in the whole world. Mother had been complaining since a few days back about “difficult days ahead”. I never understood what she meant by that. But father! He had never complained- about anything. He had always made sure that we were happy. He said- “It’s a man’s shame that his women complain. I would never let my little princess cry”. And he was a man of his words.

There were noises. Distant noises- coming closer- slowly- then rapidly. And all of a sudden- it ceased to be a quiet night. There were cries everywhere. People ailing. Crying out in pain- agony. People angry. People, in rage. In panic, in despair. It was a moment in my life when I felt all the human emotions- simultaneously. What was the cause of this commotion? I wondered.

Suddenly, I felt myself being lifted up by such a force- that I was being pulled back onto the firm ground from the land in my dream. It was mother. I could see her crying. Why was she crying? Father was beside her. The look on his face… What was it? Could that be fear? No. But it was fear. A strange helplessness- despair, had crept into him. I had never seen him like that. He looked at me. I tried to smile. But I couldn’t. I felt that my doubtful, uncertain glance at him had only weakened him. We were running. Like fugitives. Like animals being hunted. But why?

I saw people on the road. Some were holding up torches. The flames from the torches were not as bright as their eyes that shone with mad pleasure. Some of them had swords. Some- knives, spears. They were beating and killing everyone. I could recognize some of the people who were running along with us. Those were the people, who were being killed- tortured. We ran faster and faster. The noise around was unbearable. May be, we were dead. And we were in hell… What else could it be?

Suddenly, I had fallen off my mother’s clutches. And before I could realize what was happening, my mother had ceased to run. In fact, she had ceased to move, talk or cry. She was not… was she? Where is father? I looked around. Some of the men with swords were holding him. I started running towards him. He looked at me, and when he fell down, he was still looking at me. The men with swords were coming closer, towards me. I was not running. I was not crying. They were standing, now, facing me. Judging me. The noise was dying down. I could now see, only their eyes staring into mine. I heard myself say, “What did I do”? And all I could hear was, the echo of silence…

LONE LITTLE BIRD

The dusk was a rage of red

And melted away, was gold

The breeze was a welcome bliss

But in came a cruel cold.

The sun was away for a while

Stars, waiting for the moon

The sky was an empty heart

Oh Night! Be here soon.

Through the gray, gold and red

Fluttered a little lone bird

"Where were his friends"? I wondered

And it seemed, for a moment- he heard.

"What had kept you back?

Why did you wait so long?

Is it for a grain of rice?

Or some poet's sad- bird song?

You flutter as you fight with the breeze

Your wings growing tired as I see

What had kept you back- waiting?

While you watched your friends fly, free?

Fly home safe, little bird

Worry not, for the grain of rice

Your little ones wait for you, back home

Keep them safe from a world of lies.

Return to them, help them live

Return to them, to life

For rice is rice, and song- a song

But life- not something rife"!

He fluttered along- soon, was gone

The sky now dark- an empty space,

I closed my eyes, to feel through the sky

And I found his little wings' pace.

He was home, he was safe

That was all, I needed to know

The night was here- and so was the cold

"Au Revoir, little bird- for now, I must go"...

TOMORROW...

What is that-
that which is tomorrow?

A hope for a new day?
Or a new day of hope?
A change in the making?
Or making new change?

That which is tomorrow-
Is it a blossoming dream?
Or a dream still a dream-
within a mind fast asleep?

Is it a life in progress?
Or a search for a life?
A beginning? An end?
Or a means to them both?

That which is tomorrow-
Is still but- tomorrow;
An uncertain truth
Or a certain untruth

A mirage, nevertheless-
A wonderful sight
It is, but not-
That which is tomorrow...

WOMEN'S EMPOWERMENT?

Today, I heard something about a friend of mine. This was not something I would have wanted to hear about a friend after almost 4 years of no news about her.

Padma was in my class in my 9^th and 10^th std. She had a very good handwriting. She sang very well. She danced Bharatnatyam with such grace! She went to a different school for 11^th and 12^th std. and studied commerce later. After almost three years, I found out that she joined a BPO in Chennai and got married to a guy working in Software Company in Chennai. That was the last I heard of her.

Today, I found out from a common friend that she had given birth to a baby girl recently. I was so happy for her, until I found out that, she was blamed by her in-laws for giving birth to a ‘girl’ child and was sent out of her home! She is not being allowed to meet her husband and neither was this husband of hers doing anything in this matter.

I do not know what is happening to her now, as I don’t have her contact details. But this has been worrying me since the moment I had heard about it.

I feel like confronting her in-laws and her husband this very minute and slap them hard in front of everyone. Her mother-in-law too is a woman and why the hell was her mother not punished for giving birth to her? I always used to think that this was an issue in the rural areas in India- Haryana, Himachal Pradesh, Jharkhand, or Rajasthan. But here? In town? Among the educated? And to think that the guy did B.Tech! Wouldn’t he have the sense to correct his mother or father? Wouldn’t he know that giving birth to a boy or girl is not in anyone’s hand? ‘XX’ or ‘XY’ is a process of science! And there is no person in this world who does not get “Fooled by Randomness”.

I am disgusted.

Whatever is the purpose of having so many Acts for women? Domestic Violence, Sexual Harassment, Trafficking and what not? Celebrating an International Day for women? What purpose do they serve? They are all one big farce! Practically speaking, I have no reason to believe that they have any chance of proving their effectiveness unless the society wakes up to them. This is a social issue. If such an issue is happening somewhere around you, it is your duty to put a stop to it.

Will there not be at least half a dozen reasonable and respectable people living in the same street? Can they not one day visit the house and try to drill some sense into these idiots. I feel that that’s the only practical thing to do. Legal action must be the last resort as it would take 20 years or more and the affected people rarely get justice.

I hope Padma gets this support from her society. Meanwhile, friends of mine who are in touch with her, if you’re reading this, please let me know her details, if you know...

26/11- HISTORY?... NO- NOT YET...

Three years. I think we must stop counting the years. Counting the years is one way of making things ‘history’. An event of the past, something that we have done away with. This, however, is not a thing of the past. It is very much alive. The day may come and go. And one fine day- it may cease to exist. News channels would get tired of reporting about it. There would be no news about the day. It would just be another day of the week. A good day or a bad day. Then finally, it would become history. Washed away with time. Human emotions diluted to words in history books. Like Jalianwalah Bagh or hanging of 172 Indians post the Chauri Chaura incident, which was not even reported.

One fine day, the clock might tick and we would not even realize which day was making it tick. Many years later, may be one day- two old people would sit on the porch and talk about the old times. And even then- this would be an incident that happened. A tiny drop in their ocean of a life. Or may be in future- a child may ask. “Who was Grandpa, Granny? How did he die”? And the Granny may reply- “He was a good man. He was not meant to be dead. But fate had other plans. And one day he was dead”. As simple as that. Why should we corrupt a child’s mind? Let’s blame it on fate. Let’s make things easier for the child. She is the future. Let’s weave a bed of roses for her.

But the bed of roses is not what is life. The reality should never be allowed to be washed away. Three years back, the quiet room echoed with the loud ring tone I had set for myself. It was from home. My mother starting listing off her usual list of do’s and don’ts. The list now included- don’t go to hotels. For a person like me, living away from parents, this sounded strange. She burst out crying all of a sudden. “Gopu no more... Gopu no more...”. I don’t even remember how the news entered into my mind. How was that possible? A terrorist attack killing a member of my family was just absurd! Calls kept coming throughout that evening. Mama’s last words, I was told, were the names of his children. This is not a history or incident that needs to be recorded and reported and be done with. A man’s last words. Last sound of a voice that would soon be muted for ever...

I sometimes think the terrorists understand ‘human life’ better than Government. They know that the damage to life would earn them ‘fear’. People are not numbers on Government’s records. Government would do well to realize that.

I have not come out of this realization that it forces me to rethink and re-realize it over and over again. No matter what the magnitude is, the intensity of the news that flashes on the TV screen can only be felt when the numbers of the casualties on screen cease to remain numbers for you. And no matter whoever you are, whatever you do- for a moment, for a day, forever, you shall feel it happen once again deep down. What is that, that is to be done? Least that can be done- is to keep the lives lost, alive. For the ones who have lost loved ones, they lose them every single day of their lives. This can never be understood by anyone else.

Memories are the most powerful records in the world. It doesn’t just contain numbers. It contains life. Memories must be kept alive. They would guide us. They are the cause for the future. And for this future, let’s leave behind memories, and not history...

Older Articles on this: "Home" Calling... , A Reason, to Cry..., 26/11- The Numbers
Remembering.... P.K. Gopalakrishnan (Maternal uncle)

RAINING TEARS

On the tip of the green

lies a crystal tear

Holding on to the green

As her end comes near.

Up and down

waved the green in rage

On it was the tear

Clutching her edgy cage.

At the Earth's womb

burst a little pod

It longed for a tear

And begged the green to nod

Scared of the Earth

the tear begged not

She wished to be caged

But freedom, she got.

She saw a bloom of life

When on the pod, she fell

Now happily, she rained on

with her tales, she would tell...

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 11

11. THE OTHER SON OF GANGES

He was wet… (PART 10)

He was wet. But so was the dog. But the difference was this. The dog had soon found a shelter in a broken piece of wooden box. But he was still out there. Beneath nothing. He was wet. He was sad- a castaway. A man, whose life ceased to exist for him to live, still, he was wet.

Who was he? Did he have a name anymore? Was he good or was he bad? What was his life?

The dog shivered. The water was trying to befriend the dog. There was water all around the wooden box. The dog moaned for soon his box would float upon the water. Where would he go? The water would drown him, if he jumps off the box. He tried to stay steady inside his little wooden box. He grabbed the dog out of the wooden box. The box floated away.

The water was one. Here and all over- it was just the same. Just water. The wooden box floated along- crunching, jumping along with the water, that was carrying it off. Where would it go? That only the box can decide for itself. The water can carry it away. But the box shall decide where to stay. The water entered an iron grill. The iron bars of the grill tried to control the water- but the water is all powerful. She shall go where she wants to. She was free.

The Ganges is never calm. Even though, she was a mother to many, she was always in a hurry to meet her destiny, the ocean. People have satisfied themselves, with a tiny drop of Mother Ganga. What is human in front of the Ganges? She is the final abode of everything. She is the medium between the worlds. And all that goes into her stays, forever, within her. Hence, in a way, loving her, is loving everything.

The Maha Arti at Dasashwamedh Ghat had never left his mind. It was not an easy memory to forget about. Especially for someone, who was a son of Ganges. Why did he think of it now? Was it saying something to him? A life, however it may sway, the end lies within Mother Ganges.

Mother Ganges, he felt, was reminding him of the promise, he made to her, long time ago. “… I would go back to her. One day. Some day…”

The dog had been sleeping all morning, oblivious of the noise all around him. The oar kept touching the Ganges, occasionally. The boat floated over the Ganges, rather cautiously. The people on the boat kept asking him questions and wondered when they heard him reply. The Ganges was so new to them. Shravan tied the boat on the bank and the people on the boat got off. They paid him well. He sat down on the banks of Ganga. Ganga touched his feet as she raged on further to meet her ocean. He scooped a handful of her water and placed it upon his forehead. It was a familiar feeling. It was saying to him, that his mother was within those waters. It was saying to him, that mother Ganga shall always stay with him, wherever he may be. It was saying to him- that he was home…

***THE END***