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***

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 10

10. OF POWER, TRUTH AND WHO…

Tomorrow, Bhanupratap, would become- Bhai… (PART 9)

“… A Pandit turning us all into this… this…”, shouted Vishwa in rage.

“.. I know. I trained him…” , said Sinha.

“Why don’t you do something about him…? Like arrest him…”, said Vishwa.

“Arrest him? What did he do? I mean- who is he”? said Sinha. He was troubled and confused.

“What do you mean- who is he? Don’t you know him? You brought him to us… remember…”? said Vishwa. He was looking at Sinha in disbelief. He could not imagine the events that had been happening for the past four months. A Pandit, was running the whole show. Bhai had chosen a Pandit to lead them all. Vishwa had lost Bhai’s trust. And he did not know how that happened. He was frustrated.

“I don’t know him. And now- even if I ask him, he says his name is Bhanupratap. What am I to do…”? said Sinha.

“Kill him”, said Vishwa.

The Pandit was not an easy man. He was not Bhai. But sometimes, everyone thought he was better than Bhai. Bhai now rode the car that the Pandit drove. The Pandit had out-grown the Teacher, himself.

“Kill him? That’s not easy…”, said Sinha.

“Who said it is? I’ve heard of a tale long back. There are two boys and a man. The boys fought and the man tried to make peace among them. But the boys did not want to make peace. So they solved it in a different way…”, said Vishwa.

“Where are you getting at”? asked Sinha.

When Bhai spoke to them that day- he said it was all with the Pandit now. Whatever he said- they would do. If the Pandit says- ‘Quit’- they all quit. If he says- ‘Kill’- they do that. And suddenly, there was blood. The Pandit’s hands and face was drenched in blood. There was confusion and commotion. It was Sinha who saw it first. Bhai lay there in a pool of blood. Near him was the Pandit, unsure of what happened. Someone in the crowd shouted- “Pandit killed Bhai”!
“How can I kill myself”? asked the Pandit.

“What do you mean? We all were there…”, said Sinha.

“Yes. I did not kill anyone. And you cannot arrest me for killing Bhai- for I am Bhai. Remember”? said Pandit.

“Bhai..? You? No one would believe that”! said Sinha- he was laughing. “I created you. This is where we first met. See this place- the prison? You were a nobody…”, said Sinha.

“Yes. I still am. And your prison records have my details listed under Bhai’s name…”, said the Pandit, smiling.

Sinha stood there looking at the Pandit. He did not know what to do. But the Pandit had it all planned. He wanted it all to end. Sinha was his solution. This was where- power would be made to meet the truth.

The police force was now in search of the whereabouts of Bhai. No one seemed to know where he was. But his gang was captured and sent to prison. A tip-off from a reliable ‘source’, earned Sinha glories, he had never imagined to receive in his entire career! But no one seemed to know of Bhai. And no one seemed to know the identity of a mysterious blood covered body, either…

He was wet.

(..To be continued., Part 11: “The Other Son of Ganges”…)

THE RAMLEELA

I remember, a couple of years ago, during one of the Group Discussions in college, I spoke vehemently against the effectiveness of “Gandhigiri” in the modern times. But today, I am happy that I was proved wrong. When the Movement Anna began- I had not heard of it. It only remained a “lunch time” topic at work place. But the turn of events, the arrogance of the “people in power”- forced me to think about the issue in a different perspective.

I am not very optimistic most of the times. The system perhaps, has made me cynical. I remember the six hours I stood outside the passport office and was denied one, citing reasons, unfathomable. Peoples’ mindset was changed. Most people, when asked what they would do if caught by police for violating traffic rules, they reply- “I would pay Rs. 200 or 300 to the traffic police”. No one knows the actual procedures anymore. I had always felt that we had no one to show us a way. The vicious circle of corruption all across the nation, the series of scams, the incompetent government, made sure that there was no hope left in the minds of the “Aam Aadmi”.

Then came Anna.

My involvement came in unexpectedly. One day, at office, a friend said that he was going to 153, LB Road, Adyar, where “India Against Corruption” (IAC) protest was happening in Chennai. Something spoke to me that moment and I decided to be a part of it. I am still sceptical about the execution of Jan Lokpal, for I do not trust the politicians of this country. I believe that they can deny anything that they say, any moment. Why, even during the historic debate in Parliament, on Lokpal- Lalu Yadav said, “Doctors should research and write a book to reveal the secret behind Annaji's stamina for standing such a long hunger strike”. Why Doctors? I say- the secret behind Anna's stamina is Moral strength, will and dedication towards a "Cause" with no personal axe to grind. Alas! None of these could be explained to Lalu, for he wouldn't understand the meaning of any of these! My complain had always been about “nothing actually happening”. And here, when “something” was indeed happening, it would only be right, to be a part of it. Now here was someone, a leader- who earned his respect. But I must confess that it was not Anna Hazare, but Kiran Bedi, who was the main reason for my motivation. She has always inspired me. The clarity in her speech and thoughts- is something very genuine! My father says, “If there are two people in this country who are really efficient- they are Kiran Bedi and T.N. Seshan”.

153, LB Road, Adyar. Here was a glimpse of “Ramleela”. The “Ramleela” ground- such an irony in the name! Like Rajnikanth says in the film “Padayappa”- they were not crowds who were paid for. They were crowds who came voluntarily! People like you and me. The Aam Aadmi. Young, old, children! It was amazing! Students-it was their enthusiasm which was drove the entire movement here. There is one incident which I would cherish forever. There was a mother, a housewife, who had brought along, her 5 yr old to 153, LB Road, for the IAC protest. She had made him hold a small Tri-colour. The kid pointed to the LCD, which was playing the news and asked who the man in it, was. The mother replied- “Athu thaan Anna thaaththa” (That is Grandpa Anna!). This was a sign that this Nation has made him, its own!

Today, 28th August, 2011. We, my father and I, went over to 153, LB Road. There was a small group of, say 30 people. We had all gathered around a laptop to listen to Mr. Arvind Kejriwal’s Vote of thanks, cheering and clapping whenever we felt like it. When Anna Hazare ended his fast after 13 days- with a glass of coconut water and honey, offered to him by two tiny little girls, the whole Nation, it felt as though, spoke with one voice. This voice- the only antidote for pessimism and cynicism that has been absorbing the Nation, so far- it is called- "HOPE".

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 9

9. THE PANDIT’S OBSEQUY

“You pull the nerve. You pull the life…”, began Bhai. (PART 8)

Every end has a beginning. And all of it began when all of it had ended. Like the soil parting away for a layer of new soil beneath itself as the rain breaks through its surface. Men, women and children have all have to face a downpour of time upon them that breaks through their selves. The rainy night upon the terrace was one such night. Back home, on the banks of the Ganges, somewhere along the Harischandra Ghat, a sadhu sits and speaks of wisdom that lay hidden in a battered book. As a boy, he remembered going near the Sadhu just once- he could never manage to do it again. The Sadhu tried to bite him. Everyone did call him mad. But the Sadhu spoke of a book- where a teacher taught a pupil about truth and the very existence of all beings. The pupil could not fight some war against his kith and kin. But the teacher showed him a way. And it all made sense, once the teacher spoke.

Bhai was the teacher and Bhanupratap- a pupil.

“… It’s a truth explored a little too many times, perhaps, in the past. And yes. We still do like testing it. The taste of the nerve before being cut”, said Bhai.

“But I do not understand. Isn’t that cruel? And the agony that is left behind…”, said Bhanupratap.

“People, I find sometimes, find pleasure in savouring agony. Odd choice of words, there. But true, nevertheless. People like a meltdown. Stories of sacrifices, heroism, love- they just seep in deep down, making us uncomfortably heavy at places, completely unknown even to us! People relish these pains. Their eyes—oh you must see it., just glow with the molten pains from their insides”, said Bhai.

“It’s a game played upon most, I guess”, said Bhanupratap.

“Precisely. Have you ever been afraid”? asked Bhai. Bhanupratap nodded and smiled. “Beautiful thing, ‘fear’, isn’t it”, continued Bhai, “A small dose of it, the thing ‘inside’ is ‘out’ and ‘outside’ is lost forever. Trust, hope, happiness- however you claim that things would be fine someday- they desert you. May be not forever, but they do- for a while. I think ‘fear’ is beautiful”.

“All things created in heaps and mounds inside a human mind- are beautiful”, said Bhanupratap.

“Back again, are we, Panditji ? I am an admirer of this particular thing- ‘fear’, the most- Panditji. Learn to admire- for it exists only to be admired. For the real beauty in things is not let shouting out loud. It is subtle. It’s for the admirer to trace it. ‘Subtlety’, an art in itself. ‘Fear’ is subtle. It lies deep down in the stories of ghosts that track down naughty kids, or behind those big books of law written in words that one can never understand, or in calamities that strike places that you have never known to be so close near you. It may even be in those closed eyes of a child who has slept a little more than usual! Subtle”.

“One can never overcome this beauty for they are born with it. Right since that journey from the dark, yet comfortable life of a cozy womb to the light outside, waiting to engulf the little life with just too many of its games- we are born with it. Why else do you think, we learn our defenses there? Nails grow in there. We learn to react in there. We are burdened with these little skills to help us live with ‘fear’. And it always stays inside us- till the grave turns cold- sleeping off only when we do”, said Bhai.

When Bhanupratap left, Bhai’s words were still ringing aloud deep inside him. The rain water, he felt, had cleansed him- just like the Ganges poured herself upon his forehead out of a tiny bronze nozzle, when he was little. It was an end and a beginning. It was again an end and a beginning, now.

“Fear- is white”, Bhai had said. “White- for its fair and just and a part of everyone. Unlike ‘life’- a dark hole, that never plays fair. But it’s this combination- that makes us all ‘grey’. People color-coded. All species- grey”.

As Bhanupratap settled down, thinking about a life ahead as Bhanupratap- he began to wonder in awe, about Bhai- if he had known about this day, when they first met in the tiny little prison cell, before? Seemed ages back- when all that happened.

“Admirers of beauty in ‘fear’, they like the white. For they bring out the white in people, better. For in white- and only in white, things show themselves. The truth. We ‘admirers’ like the truth. Out in the open. They are the ones with the ‘power’ to bring out the white. ‘Power’- brings out white. The ‘dark’ is put out, so that the ‘white’ can come out. And ‘Power’- does all that”, Bhai had said.

May be it was his calling. He was the one with ‘Power’ to bring out the truth out of its hiding. Just as Bhai had told him. Tomorrow- a new day. For tomorrow, he would be born, again.

Tomorrow, Bhanupratap, would become- Bhai…

(..To be continued., Part 10: “Of Power, Truth and Who”…)

THE HINDU- JULY 13TH., 2011- MY LETTER

My Letter gets published in "The Hindu"- Letters to the Editor column. Yippiee...!!!



Isn't that the best ever black on something white?!

THE OTHER SON OF GANGES: PART 8

8. A DROP OF WATER

“Come now, Panditji. It’s time for the Puja”… (PART 7)

It was a night of questions. There was not a single soul who knew answers. Shukla was the reason for these questions. A man with a sensitive tooth, Shukla was the cleverest of the lot. Bhanu Bhai thought that the cleverest should be used in a better way. And so, he became an ‘insider’. And now, the cleverest chose to use his cleverness in a different way. It was getting dangerous.

There had been trouble before. And there was trouble now. A trouble that needed to be solved without a trace. Inspector Sinha got his holiday in Malaysia for dropping off this piece of information on Shukla. The night posed just one question. How to ‘out’ the ‘insider’? Bhai was sitting on his Diwan, his eyes closed. Bhanupratap could tell that he was deeply troubled. Someone began the talk. It was slow. But it was a beginning.

Water, leaking somewhere- nearby. Drop by drop. As each drop fell, Bhanupratap saw a new bead of sweat on Bhai’s forehead. The heat inside, desperately trying to cool-off the ‘heat’ outside. Water- the universal solvent. Everything is in it. The good and the bad. A life in distress, plotting the end of another. How was that possible? Suddenly, he seemed to know answers. Why him? He wondered. It would be wrong for him to know answers for the questions being asked here. But he knew. It needed to come out.

When he spoke- they all listened. No one thought of stopping him. No one bothered to call him, Panditji. They knew that he knew. They knew that he was right. The beads of sweat on Bhai’s forehead had vanished.

Poison deposits in the cavities. Shukla’s toothpaste had contained traces of Thallium poisoning. Bhai could not be charged on murder, since he was in jail, according to Sinha’s records. Panditji had said his mantra well. Bhai, had his plans…

It was raining when Bhai called Bhanupratap to the terrace. There was no one else on the terrace, except Bhai. He was standing at the edge of the terrace, looking at the plains stretching towards the horizon. Bhanupratap saw something extraordinary in him. Power, perhaps. This man could have been anything else. Bhai, Bhanupratap thought, could do anything! Why did he choose to be this?

When young, all children are taught about the good and bad. Why was ‘the bad’ so glamorous? Why was it that his mother never tried to make him go back to her? He stood behind Bhai, looking at him. Why was he being called?

“You did well, Panditji…”, said Bhai.

“I didn’t mean to”, replied Bhanupratap.

Bhai turned around to face Bhanupratap. Bhai was an element of time. His face was the past, present and the future. Something about him, made Bhanupratap to stop thinking about anything else and just listen to Bhai.

“You want to know the reasons, do you”? asked Bhai.

“Well…”, began Bhanupratap.

“You pull the nerve. You pull the life…”, began Bhai.

(..To be continued., Part 9: “The Pandit’s Obsequy”…)