Who Will Empower The One Who Empowers?

I was on field, observing a session where women gathered in their own little safe space and talked about periods. If there is something that I have learnt, it is that women have this amazing ability to create safe spaces for one another. And, it was a privilege for me to be allowed into that safe space (albeit from a distance) and listen to and watch their conversations (the shy smile, the secret glance in my direction, the nudging...communicating constantly).

This safe space was made possible by a colleague of mine, Sanjana. The ability to get into the communities, to get the women to get together and to sit down and have conversations around a topic that they would hardly ever do otherwise, is a herculean task in itself. However, to get the women to open up, to hold a menstrual cup (unintentional rhyme), to laugh about the mistakes made while sticking a pad on to the underwear is even more so. And every time I make a field visit with the 21 other Sanjanas that I work with, I am always left with a sense of deep gratitude and amazemen.

The session ended and we were walking out of the community. I struck up a conversation with Sanjana as I usually do, for a debrief of the session. In the middle of the conversation, Sanjana said, 'the women have asked me to bring sweets the next time I meet them.'

'Why?' I asked.

'It was my engagement,' was her reply. While I am not entirely sure about the tone in which it was said, I interpreted it, in my head, to be a cheerful one and immediately readjusted my tone to match hers and congratulated her. She then asked me if I had seen her fiance.

'No! Show me! Do you have a selfie!' I was doing a good job of sounding excited. She said she had no selfie, but pulled out a photo taken during the engagement. I looked at it and the immediate thought that I thought was that she could have done so much better. However, I also told myself that it was not my place to decide that. So, I gave her an appreciative nod. There was a short pause and then asked me, 'kaisa laga (what do you think?)'

'Bohot achha! (It's great!)' Generic response at its best.

'Mujhe pasand nahi aaya.' (I did not like him) I was shaken out of the generic response mode because the honesty in her response was not something that I was prepared for.

'Toh phir kyu haan bola?' (why did you say yes, then?)

Over the next two minutes, as we navigated through the streets, she went on to tell me how her parents want her married because there is her younger sister waiting in line. She also told me how she would have to relocate to a town that is far away from this town where she grew up. And finally, almost as an afterthought (although, as I write this, I think it was more from having to muster the courage to accept it by saying it out loud), she said, 'also, if we start looking for someone better, the dowry (she didn't use that specific word. She used broken words which was to be interpreted to be dowry) will start getting higher and we cannot afford it.

At that moment, I was hit by a sense of deep sadness. Here was a woman who went around trying to empower other women but was herself as powerless as an astronaut who's broken away from the space-station and is headed into the vast empty universe. How does one make peace with the decision to spend the rest of the life with someone that you don't want to, made on the basis of having to make room for your sibling and, AND, not having to give (more) money to someone to marry you. What hit me harder was that all of this was said with a deadpan face. I did not know if it was acceptance or resignation, but the lack of emotion in the confession was brutal.

What does it feel like, to be Sanjana? I will never know.

Socie-Tea, You Crazy Breed

     It was a tough day. In fact, it had been a tough month. Getting women to come out of their houses and to listen to us tell them how they need to be more comfortable with their bodies and their bodily processes was challenging enough but this time, we were out in the communities, trying to get the men to come together and listen to us tell them that they needed to take more responsibility of the health and wellbeing of the women in their lives.

     After spending about a month on field, we had found one gentleman, Mr Sameer, from the community who had shown willingness to help us mobilise men. We had an initial conversation with him about us and our work which mainly involved trying to create awareness about menstrual health and its allied issues. He seemed to be on board and we were excited to see him show interest. We were at that stage in our journeys that any man who would even remotely show any interest in listening to us was gold equivalent for me.

     Coming back.  That afternoon, when we were on the field, I could see Mr Sameer actively trying to get men to mobilise so that we could talk to them. We got two hours with the men, with Mr Sameer sitting through parts of the sessions. We ended the meeting by discussing how it is important for us men to take responsibility for a happy life of our wives and how we should make sure we support them in all possible ways. It was an emotional moment when the men agreed and spoke about how important this session had been for them. Our sessions were having an impact, after all.

     Slightly euphoric after the meeting, we walked with Mr Sameer to his house. As I entered his compound, I saw his wife washing clothes. The rains had shown some mercy after a long and relentless month and a half of downpour, and perhaps she had been trying to make the best of it. ‘Namaste, bhabiji, it’s been a while since I have seen you around!’ I greeted her warmly but I sensed that she was perhaps lost in her world as she gave me a feeble response. I guessed that there must have been a lot of washing to do. I brushed aside my thoughts and let Mr Sameer know that I would like to leave. As soon as I said that, he said, ‘nothing doing. You have come home and are not leaving without having some tea.’ I protested. I said, ‘No, no! Please don’t take the trouble. You’ve had a long day. We shall come some other day.’

     ‘Arrey, what trouble? Not at all. Come in, sit.’ And then, he added, addressing his wife- who was still washing clothes rather sullenly,’arrey, make some nice tea, quickly.’ We went into the room and sat on the chairs and looked at each other and smiled and talked about this and that. While I did not have the courage to look into her eyes, in that moment, it was a sombre realisation for me:

Yes, a man will take responsibility for the wellbeing of his wife. But first, let her make some tea.

Before Its Too Late.

There is a series of some brilliant podcasts by Malcolm Gladwell called Revisionist History. In each episode, he takes a look at some events in history and analyses them, bringing in some mind-blowing insights and the implications of a seemingly insignificant incident on the course of history. If you have read any of his works, you will definitely know the kind of genius that he is. This is no different.

However, that is not the point (this blog article was not sponsored by Malcolm Gladwell. Just saying). I was listening to one episode where he talks about the problem with trying to finding talented individuals in the poor and marginalised communities. The question he asks is that if there are so many institutions that are willing to offer free education to talented individuals, why are there so few takers for it? Is it because there is no talent among the poor? Well, needless to say, that is not the case. There is a lot of talent, everywhere. So, where are they getting lost?

The answer, he says (which, in hindsight seems rather intuitive. But that is how hindsight works, isn't it?), lies in the fact that if you wait untill university to open the gate for talent to come in, it is too late. Most of the talent gets lost in the struggle for existence. By the time the kids reach high school, if they are not identified and taken away from their existing condition, it is alomst too late.

And when I heard that, I was instantly taken back to my fellowship days, where I spent 2 years among some of the poorest people. It was also the 2 years where I met some really talented children. But there was this one boy's face that immediately popped up in my head when Malcolm spoke about how its too late to wait for talent to survive beyond a certain age. It has been more than 3 years since I left Udaipur and I have forgotten the boy's name. But, somehow, I have not forgotten him. He is still there, at the back of my head.

As Malcolm kept speaking, I could not help but wonder, what happend to him? He was in class 5 when I last met him. He must be in class 8 now. Will he get out of his poverty and make it? For he definitely has the talent. But, If Malcolm is right (which he most likely is), his chances are slim. The stories that we hear of some fighting against the odds to make it big are mere exceptions to the rule.

I hope he is the exception to the rule.

You Want Your India Back. I Want it Forward.

Did you know that Einstein was grateful to India and India's contribution to science? I mean, he apparently said, "We owe a lot to the Indians, who taught us how to count, without which no worthwhile scientific discovery could have been made." Did you know that it is believed that Sanskrit is supposed to the mother of all languages? Even the computer language which runs on the binary codes of 1 and 0 is derived from Sanskrit! And hey, speaking of 0, if not for Aryabhatta, who was an Indian, mind you, where would the world be today?

Have you sniffed the undertone of sarcasm, yet? Well, in case you haven't, are you down with a cold? If you are, let me lay it out on the table for you. I have a problem with the 'India's achievements' rhetoric. I believe that it is overdone and invoked in almost any occasion almost at the drop of a hat.

Don't get me wrong. I am not rubbishing the achievements, Every now and then, I turn to such anecdotes and it does fill me with amazement and pride. I watched the trailer of the biopic of A K Ramanujan and it was amazing. As a part of my course, I read Indian Psychology and most of the things that it talks about is almost unreal. India was indeed the land of amazing! Sadly, it 'was'.

What I do not understand is that how can we be so proud of our past and turn a blind eye to what is happening currently? We seem to rely on our past glory to defend the present ruins that we have been heading towards.

The question is, for how long? 

Her Last Words

I knew my end was near. I could sense it from the way you dragged me into this sad, sad building. I could hear screams coming from beyond the walls of my room. I could not understand the language, but I could feel the screams. I don't know how anyone could not. I knew that it would be my turn soon. I could sense it.

But, you know, there was one thing that I could not sense. What was my fault? Where did I go wrong? Did you not get the best out of me? I tried my best to bear all the pain you put me though as you used me and my body. Every day, you would come in at the same time, do the same thing and touch me in the same place. You even took away my children because they affected your business, you said. I bore that too. I did nothing. I said nothing. What could I have done? To whom could I have told? You were all I had...

...Wait, why are you tying me up? No, no...

I am not ready, yet! Where are you? I need you now! I am confused. Why is there a cloth covering my eyes? Am I supposed to sleep?...

...

...


I wish I could tell you what just happened. In the dark, out of nowhere, I had my life knocked out of me. It was a pain so sharp that I could see jet white sparks of light shooting in front of my eyes. The pain was so sharp that my legs buckled and I fell on the ground. As I fell, the cloth covering my eyes also dropped and there I saw you, standing, holding a hammer in your hand. You would not do that to me, would you? I wish I you could see the pain. See the pain, not feel it. I do not think you will be able to bear the pain. You howl at the smallest of wounds.

I was still looking at you, as I got back up on my feet. You were all I had. I knew, somewhere deep within, that you would come for me. You would care for me. After all, I have been there for you. But then, as my vision slowly began to come back to me, I saw you raise your arms. The hammer was coming for me. That is when I knew, it was the end. Did you not feel anything? It didn't look like you did, as you hammered my face. As I fell one last time.

These are the last words of almost 60 Billion other animals such as the one you just read (and hopefully saw). Nobody will tell you this because everybody gains something from the silence. Everybody but her. Please consider your choices. 

Visit http://thevegancalculator.com/animal-slaughter/

Belonged!

     If I were to ask you to make a list of acts that you would consider to be very intimate, what all would you put down in the list? You would, perhaps, most definitely put down sex. Well, sex might make it sound crude, and so let us say the act of making love. You would also, perhaps, put down the kiss. Then, perhaps, the warm hug. For a lot of us, the list would, more or less, end there. But, would you laugh at me if I said that the act of someone running their fingers through my hair would be an act of intimacy for me? Probably. Probably not. Eitherway, it does not matter, because the list is mine.

     It has been over a month and a half since I got my hair cut (In fact, it's just a week short of two months). They've grown too much and now its difficult for me to handle them. The last time I had gotten it cut, she had said, "why are you so obsessed with cutting non-existent hair?" Ans so I had said, "okay, next time i'll get it cut only when you ask me to." Funnily enough, that will never happen. But, that is a different story for a different time. So, yeah, they've grown so much that I find it hard to handle them. And so, here I am now, in the barber's shop.

     The barber is a young fellow. Probably of my age or a little older. I like him. I've got my hair cut by him a couple of times, earlier.. I don't know his name, though. Why do I like him? maybe because he is almost of my age and therefore will know the kind of hairstyle that would suit me. Also, I like him for a fact that he is quite sarcastic and on-the-face types. But, still I do not know his name.

     Anyway, I sit on the 'hot-seat' and tell him how I want my hair cut. He sets about his business and starts off with the spray of cold water. As he starts cutting my hair, I realise that he is struggling with a bad case of the common cold. He coughs intermittently and. grossly enough, without bothering to cover his mouth. The Lifebuoy ad starts playing in my head everytime he coughs (I can picture the animated germs flying out of his mouth).  But I do not say anything. I never say anything, anyway. After a while, someone brings a packed of friend fish wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. But before I could see what was brought in, I saw, in the mirror, the boy's face light up in pure joy. It would not be exaggeration if I said that I haven't seen such pure joy on anybody's face in a long, long time. He immediately reaches for the packet and I cringe in my seat. First the cough, and now the hands full of meat traces. Luckily, before he could completely bury his hands into the fish fry, the boss barber shouts at him and asks him to get back to work. Disappointment replaces joy as he returns to groom my hair. What also returns is his cough. Every 2 minutes or so, he coughs and I instantaneously cringe. I try hard to not make it evident, lest i hurt his feelings. 

     While he went about his business of cutting my hair (and coughing), I realised that the way the comb felt, when it brushed my hair, felt very good! Heights of desperation, you say? Guilty as charged, i'll say (I have tried combing my hair hoping to feel good, but it just never worked). I say it again-it felt really good. And that is when the light bulb flashed in my head. I pitied and hated myself simultaneously for thinking that way. I thought, "why not get a head massage?" If the comb running though my hair could feel this good, imagine how good human fingers could feel!

     And so, I go on to ask him to give me a head massage. I think he is pissed a little because he says, "itna kaafi hoga na? Paise bahut lagega." (Inn't this much enough? It is going to cost you more) I pretend like I have a bad headache and say, "chalega." (That is okay) He then goes and gets packets of Navratna Thanda, Thanda, Cool, Cool oil. By now, I have, like always and with everything, mentally imagined how relaxing it is going to be. He starts off. The starting isn't anywhere close to what I had imagined. As always. And within a few seconds into the massage, I've realised that he sucks at it. Sigh. Disappointment here also. 

     But then, out of nowhere, he asks, "bahut darad kar raha hai kya?" (Is it hurting a lot?) I nod. And, with my eyes closed, i try fooling my mind into believing that the massage felt awesome. That it was someone whom I loved and who loved me back who was running her fingers through my hair telling me, "it's okay, I am here for you." I try fooling my mind into believing that I am perfectly fine and happy, and not lonely at all. All this while he beat my head with the cliched massage techniques. 

Okay, this is where you either gross out or have a tear in your eye. 

     Anyway, after about 10 minutes, he stops and I am relieved. I am, by now, disgusted with my desperation (and not to mention, the sucky massage).He takes some newspaper and wipes it on my face! And id all the gross-ity wasn't enough, my face now looks oily and smudged with black sooty colour from the newspaper. But, as ever, I say nothing. 

     There is more to come. One week later, I was going to find out that I have been contaminated and am down with a bad cold. Was that because of him or was it a co-incidence, I will never know. Also, I will have to visit another barber very soon because he hadn't cut it right.

     Oh what the heck! Who cares? I felt belonged. So, it's okay, I guess. 

     

Dangal: A Message to the Future Self

     Have you watched The Secret Life of Walter Mitty? Do you remember the opening scene? The one that shows this guy, Walter Mitty, living a parallel life in his head? One where he is, in his head, of course, the hero, performing supernatural acts of heroism and saving the lives of the innocent? Well, were you able to relate to the movie? Don't you think that we all tend to do the same? Don't we have a parallel image of ourselves where we are the ideal that we always aspire to become? Alfred Adler, a Neo-Freudian, termed this as Fictional Finalism (but later claimed that he preferred the term Guiding Self-Ideal. However, I prefer the former. It has a little martyr-ish tone to it, no? After all, it is something that we want ourselves to become but never are able to completely achieve it).

     I feel that I am digressing here. I was supposed to talk about the movie, Dangal. Yes, so let us talk about it. Well, 3 quick fact-checks before we get to it.

Fact 1: Dangal released on the 23rd of December, 2016. It is a movie about respect, about passion, about wrestling, about vindication, about girl-power and most importantly, about patriotism.  

Fact 2: The supreme court of India recently passed a directive to all the cinema operators to air the national anthem before the beginning of a movie. 

Fact 3: The supreme court directive also makes it mandatory for all those present in the hall to respect the national anthem and the national flag and stand for the duration of the anthem. This is in line with the Article 51A(a) of the Constitution. However, section 3 of the Prevention of Insults to National Honour Act, 1971 (as amended in 2005) does not make any such mandate. It does not specify whether one should be sitting or standing when the anthem is being played or sung, The only criteria is that there is no disrespect that is willfully shown. 

     So, yes. We are in the cinema hall. It is 10 PM on a Saturday evening, on the eve of Christmas. The movie begins with the national anthem being played. This is my first visit to a cinema hall, post the court's ruling. I stand with the audience. There is passionate hollering in the audience, indicating their patriotism for their motherland. Commendable. A guy to my left takes out his phone, turns on the video mode (with the flashlight on) and begins to record the hall in a sweeping motion. At the end of the anthem, there is more hollering. I have mixed feelings of contempt and benevolence. Contempt for the hypocrisy that I assume in them and benevolence for allowing them the space to feel the patriotism that they thought they possessed. The movie begins.

     Fast forward to the end of the movie where the protagonist is victorious and wins a medal for India on an international stage. Three people in front of us stand up. I assume that they want to leave. After about 5 seconds, they are still standing and that is when my friend asks them to either leave or sit. One of them coolly turns and says, "it's the national anthem. Stand up." The national anthem isn't yet playing on the screen. Clearly, this is not their first time watching Dangal.
"When the anthem starts, we will stand," my friend replies.
"If it starts what shall I do to you?" comes the immediate threat. By then the national anthem has begun on the screen, in the movie. The protagonist is being awarded the medal. The anthem ends and there is crazy hollering in the audience. Bharat Mata ki Jai, they scream.

     In these 30 odd seconds, I do something that gives me the real lesson of the movie. I do not stand for the anthem. I sit in my place. Still. My heart is beating wildly, but the rebel inside me, the moral snob, if you will, is trying to assert its independence over the herd mentality and, at the same time, marking its protest against it. When the anthem ends, nothing happens. I am safe. The videos that had gone viral, of people being targeted for not standing, must have been stray incidents, I tell myself.

Alas.

    As the audience is taking its seat, my friend's friend, referring to the three guys in front, says, "what a show-off." The rest unfolds in a blur of incidents. The guy in front immediately turns back and begins to jump from his seat trying to grab hold of the guy who passed the comment. I am still seated, calculating if an intervention is required. And then, suddenly, my friend gets whacked from someone in the back. Two guys march to our seats, from the back and being demanding: Why did I not stand? Why could my friend (who stood) not ask me to show respect and ask me to stand?

Whack!

     A palm lands on my left cheek. I think it would be better to say that it landed on the left side of my face because it definitely did not feel like a mere slap. More abuses. More allegations of my traitorship. They speak in the local language and broken English so that we know what they are saying. Since I know the local language, I begin talking to them. I am busy trying to explain that I was following the rules. I am also trying to get my friend and his two friends to not intervene since they do not know the language and that can only get them in trouble. He, nevertheless, tries saying something and

Whack!

     Another palm lands on his right side of the face. "Keep your hi-fi English to yourself. You, bloody people, eat the food of this country...(insert the choicest of abuses of your choice)"

     This one guy with a fancy hairdo grabs me by my collar and tries to drag me from my seat. At that moment, I have my epiphany. I realise that this could be the moment when I would be done for.  It is interesting, in hindsight, obviously, that despite the gravity of my situation, I manage to make a mental note of the fancy hairdo. He is barely able to keep his eyes open. Was he drunk? Doped? I do not know. What I did know, at that moment, was that things were going to get very bad, very soon. That did not stop me from trying to stand my ground, however hopelessly it may have been. To my surprise, things begin to die down just as quickly as they had sparked off. Maybe they have had their fill of showing their patriotism and fighting against the traitors. Maybe me speaking in the local language mellowed them down a bit, or maybe someone from the management intervened. Either way, they begin to push each other off and take control over one another. Not before I have my hair pulled, slapped probably one more time and spat upon (the fancy-haired-drunk/doped-guy. He was so out of his sense that he tried spitting but was not able to get any saliva out. This, too, I made a note of it, in the middle of the action. Weird, you say?).

     "Learn to stand up for the anthem. If everybody is doing it, learn to do it," is what I am advised as a parting gift. I see the credits rolling and I realise that I had come to watch a movie and that I missed the ending. The real photographs of the athlete who brought real glory to the country are being shown. There is nobody watching that. Everybody has left. The guy who slapped us included.

    The hall empties. The attendant is clearing the underside of the seats. He casually comes and informs us that the movie is over like as if nothing had happened. Maybe this is normal. I slowly bring my attention to the rest of the three people. We all are quiet, dazed by the awareness that was sinking in: It was a miraculous escape. It would have been unfair to say that we were fighting a losing battle. There was no battle in the first place. It was mob justice and we were the criminals. Justice would have been served. But we were let go with a warning.

     I spoke about Walter Mitty in the beginning. About how, in his imagination, he is a superhero doing superhero things. What I did not speak about, is that in real life, Walter Mitty is nothing of that sort (at least in the beginning of the movie). He is almost the exact opposite of what he imagines himself to be. And that was our lesson from the movie Dangal. I had these wild emotions of anger surfacing when I had watched the videos of such incidents on the internet. I had imagined myself standing up to the goons. Of defending the defenceless. Of being the hero on the side of the right. Well, that imagination was grabbed by its collar, raised in the air and slammed on the ground just like the way Aamir grabs his daughter and slams her to the ground (oops, spoiler alert).

     Would I do things differently? I would like to believe not. I am proud that we stood our ground and we gave a voice to our rights. However, in the light of the evidence of how close I had gotten to real trouble, I am willing to reconsider. I am willing to listen to George Orwell and accept that it is not by making yourself heard but by staying sane that you carried on the human heritage. At least, not everywhere.

PS- You should go watch Dangal. Despite a few cliches, you will not be disappointed.

Learning to fall in line

"You should put up their flag on your car. Even if you are scared, do not show it on your face," I said.  "It might not guarantee your safety, but it will definitely help. It'll prove your allegiance and, more importantly, help you get home."

     Things had suddenly gotten worse. The city was just recovering from rebellion and things were just getting back to normal. We had gotten together for a peaceful gathering. Things were just fine in the morning when I was on my bicycle. Now that I think about it, things were fine because nobody had expected anything to happen in this part of the country. We were a relatively safe city. However, things had suddenly gotten worse.

     We decided to leave immediately. We were having our meal when we first got to know that they have started to burn things down. We have no clue what spurred this sudden air of tension and that is why, the urgency does not dawn on me immediately. Since I had traveled from far, I, along with a couple others, decide to not take any chance and leave immediately.

     The Swastika flags had already started to go up on the buildings. People had begun to shut their shops. People were busy pouring out on the pavement, heading home. To safety. They would not care much if they were angry. The only way was to show them that we were with them. It did not matter if you actually were with them or not. It did not matter whether they were doing the right thing. What mattered was your safety. And the flag served as your shield. It only required one person to trigger a crazy paranoia among others. My neighbour has put up the flag! What if they see that I have not and attack me? It is best that I too put up the flag. And so, as I was cycling, I saw that the yellow-red Karnataka flags had already started going up on the buildings.

Swastika flags, Karnataka Flags. What's the difference?

The Backpacker

“But I just got here! Please don’t ask me to move,” I cried out loud. The thought of having to pack my stuff and move out, looking for someone to welcome me into their lives was, as you can tell, too much to bear.

“I am sorry, but can you not see that they do not need you anymore?” asked the new tenant.

“Yeah, I can see that,” I agreed. I had seen this coming for a while now. After having moved out so many times, one can begin to see the pattern and predict the outcome well in advance. But, you see, I chose to not see it; to not accept it. However, it was too late for that now. I should decide to leave with whatever little dignity that is left in me because, very soon, they will hate everything about me.

That is how it has always been, now that I think about it. I am welcomed in their lives with a shy first few days/weeks. I am always promised that I will be made to stay forever. Like I said, after having moved in and moved out so many times, I know that I must not get my hopes up by getting too excited with my new hosts. But, when in my place, you would see that it is hard not to. In fact, sometimes I feel that the initial excitement makes up for the mess at the end. Only sometimes, though. Most of the times, however, I absolutely loathe having to pack up.

Pack up. That is what I am doing now, with the new tenant watching over me. This will be his place soon. Very soon. And most likely, he will stay longer than I did. And guess what, it is the same guy who always comes to take my place in the house. I wonder why. In any case, I never bother asking. I mind my own business. I pack up.

But you see, I don’t never learn from my past. Back then, I never knew that I would be shifting so much! I would have 2, sometimes 3 large suitcases. I would carry around a lot of things that I thought I would need in the next place that I stay. What makes it tougher is that I am never allowed to leave anything back at home, while leaving. Slowly, when it got too painful to carry the large suitcases, I began to throw away things as I would walk the streets, looking for someone to take me in. And before I knew it, things that I thought I cared a lot about in my life were lying in the dumpsters, in the sewers... Anywhere but in my bag. Sometimes I think if I should have kept some of them. Maybe that thing that made me feel secure? Or the thing that made me sleep comfortably at night, even when I was alone. But if I had, I would not have been able to move out as quickly as I can now because I have a bad habit of leaving things in the weirdest places in the house. The couch, the closet in the bathroom, under the pillows, over the roof, the floor, well, you get the idea. And once I leave, it is impossible for me to come back to take it back. Sometimes, it remains there for a long time and my owners hate me for that. I think it is rude sometimes, because when I stay with them, they absolutely love the little surprises that I leave for them in the corners of the house. But when they are done with me…

My backpack is packed. I wonder when or where I will next find a shelter above my head. You would not want me, would you? Thought so. Anyway, my owners are not at home. They rarely are nowadays. Not together, anyways. It is time for me to leave. I take a look it one last time. I am sure I would have forgotten things in this place as well. I am sure a time will come when I will stop leaving things behind for I will carry nothing with me. I am at the door. The new guy is there. He smiles to me.

“Goodbye, Love.”
“Goodbye, Loneliness. Good luck with your new home.”

The Post Office Tragedy

Are you aware of the phrase- "tumhara post office khulla hai."(your post office is open)? Do you know what it means? I am guessing that more of the male readers (that requires me to make  the assumption that i have readers in the first place. Audacious me!) will answer with an affirmative.

Anyway, let me take you to my childhood. The summer vacation is on. I am in my native at my grandfather's shop. My uncle comes up to me and says, "aww, your post office is open!" And since then, every time i was caught with my pants unzipped, i would be asked to close my 'post office'.

Fast forward some 15 years. I am seated in a classroom full of 2nd standard kids. They are giving an exam and are pretty clueless about anything that is asked in the paper. I am trying to think of ways to have fun with the kids. Occasionally, i am making faces at the kids and they take a few seconds to giggle and tell their neighbours to take a look at the clown that is seated amongst them.

And then suddenly i think, would saying, "Tumhara post office khulla hai."(your post office is open) work in this place? Will the kids understand that i am taking about the unzipped pant? Or is it a joke that is shared only between my uncle and i? So, to just see the validity of the phrase in this part of the country, 2000 odd kilometers away from its origin (citation needed), i randonly go to a kid and say,

"Tumhara post office khulla hai."(your post office is open)

Instantly, he looks towards his pants. He checks the zip. I am amazed! It worked! he is smiling shyly. Giggles break open in the class. The kid's head remains lowered.

What is he doing? He cannot be checking for so long. Why has he stopped giggling, too? The giggles are spreading to the entire class. The girls join in. The kid is about to cry. And then it hits me.

What had i done!? I had embarrassed the kid in front of the entire class. There was no taking back what i had just said. Nevertheless, i go apologize to him.

"Sorry, sorry," i say. Like it means anything to him. He is crying anyway.

soundproofing 101

There could be a war raging inside of you. But outside, its pin drop silence.

You and I are the best soundproofing material. 

Smelling Book

     I am sitting with Shourya, son of the didi who feeds us, in my room. He is fidgeting with my books and has picked up Linda Goodman's Sun Signs (what!? Are you judging me? i don't like that smirk on your face! Fine, smirk). He asks me, "Nitesh bhaiyya, ye padne ki kitaab hai?" (Nitesh bro, is this a book to be read?) For me it is a silly question and so, i answer sarcastically, "Arrey, nahi! Yeh toh sungne ki kitaab hai. ek-ek page kholke isko sunga jaata hai." (oh, no! This is a smelling book. we must open the pages one by one and smell them) What happens next is unexpected:

     He begins to open the pages, one by one, smell the page and turn over to the next one! He has been doing it for two pages when i add to the rather sadistic humour and say to him, "jin jin page mein jyaada likha ho, un page ko zyaada sungna padta hai." 

     Just as innocently he believed that it was indeed a book to be smelled, he now opens a page with full text and sticks his nose to the page for a couple of extra seconds. It is a very cute moment (why are you smirking again? Can i NOT find stuff cute? or is it that i can NOT use the word cute?). But i realise that i am making fun of his innocence (or, his trust in my knowledge of things?). I quickly tell him that i am kidding and it to be read, like all other books, and not smelled. Despite the innocence while smelling the last 3-4 pages, he quickly realises his foolishness and slams the book shut and pastes a sheepish grin on his face.

     "Ullu ban gaya re babaaaa," i say, Paresh Rawal style. (Oh, you got fooled!)

His smile remains.

PS- i am Nitish bhaiyya, not Nitesh bhaiyya. Just saying.

   

Dhulandi- when the power structure is toppled

     Picture this: Holi here goes on for almost a week. On one particular day, it is unanimously agreed that the tribals can block the roads and ask for money from motorists. Refusal can lead to jeering/colours being thrown at you/sometimes, physical abuse. This day is called Dhulandi.

     It is amazing to watch the fashion in which little kids, a lot of whom are not more than 15 years old, block the road and demand money in order to let go. I encountered 10 such blocks en-route the 30 long journey. While all of the kids allowed us to pass by without causing any trouble, i did get to see a few kids who seemed to be intoxicated by the power they yielded over others. Some stood on the road with seemingly cold determination to not let anyone pass without taking money. "Humlo kuchch nahi pata; hume bas paisa chahiye," was what one kid told me. Some looked embarrassed when i looked straight into their eyes. What made me feel the burning anger surge through my body was that, these were the very kids for whom i have been fighting for the last 6 months. In schools, they are so docile, suppressed and yet, here they are, with raw animal kind of behaviour, not thinking twice before making obscene gestures at the motorists. Also, Dhulandi, as a practice is only among the tribals and not the other castes (upper castes?). So, when an old man comes and tells me, "ye aadvivasi log hi aisa karte hai, saala," i am not able to defend the people for whose rights i am here, in the village, because, after all, the old man is right! Stupid kids, i had thought.

     But when i got home and allowed myself to cool down, i kinda saw something interesting in this thing that happens on one day, every year. Most of the motorists pay measly 5-10 rupees, and this happens for only half a day. Also. there are at least 10-15 kids. So, after the distribution, each kid might be taking home a very small amount of money. So, its not that profitable to stand in the scorching sun and open and close the makeshift barricades. No.  However, what might make it profitable is the pleasure in yielding power. The power structure of tribals being the victims is toppled and for once, they are the ones that decide. The kids who are, as i mentioned, so meek and so docile in schools, get to be powerful. At a couple of blocks, it was the women who took charge ( the kids were okay, but honestly, i had not expected women at the barricades, because here, the women are rarely ever seen without their ghungats, leave alone extorting money from random motorists!). The women, who, while walking along the roadside, have to hide their face if a man is passing by, get a day of freedom.

PS- i may be completely wrong about the power structure, but this is my opinion. 

When the shades get Darker

     India- a place with several Indias and Bharats. A place where many, many cultures thrive. However, thanks to modernisation (or is it westernisation?), a lot of the smaller cultures are losing out on their importance and we are moving towards a system of homogenisation. To counter this homogenisation, efforts are being made in many parts of the country to revive the culture and tradition of that particular region. Museums, art exhibitions, festivals, fairs and the likes are set up to not only preserve but also spread the tradition. Pressure from various activists groups (or maybe, just maybe, actual free will of the government) has led to the government protecting some of these traditions, of some of these cultures.

     For instance, the place where i work, there is a large tribal settlement. From the beginning, i have been encouraged to observe their culture and tradition. By now, i have realised (or have i learned to realise?) that the tribals are the ones who are the closest to nature and we need to protect them from losing their identity. On the legal side, the government has certain laws that protect them. For instance, no outsider can come and purchase land from them. The land can only be transferred within the community members. Pretty good initiative, i'd say. The land is untouched by modernisation (no electricity in many, many villages; no water connection... but that's a different story).  

     However, what i feel is that when we are trying to protect someone/something, sometimes, we get so passionate about the cause that we make our selves blind (and on many occasions, we're blinded by mass following. Everybody says that a so-and-so culture is beautiful and so, it must be). It makes sense, too. I mean, if you want something to be protected, you will want only the good things to be showcased. But, should that mean that we make ourselves blind to the darker sides of that culture?

     To substantiate what i am trying to say, here is another government protection that is not so glorious as the one that makes the tribals the sole owners of the land. There is a practice called Moutana that is prevalent among these tribals. What the practice basically means is that every mistake has a price. If a car runs over a goat, that was left to wander on the roads, the owner of the car will have to pay up for the loss that the owner of the deceased goat. And this system is applied to almost every loss. If, In one village, a woman fell down a stool and died while trying to take down a jar with money, which she was supposed to return to somebody else, the villagers get together and argue that if the person had not lent her money, the woman would not have climbed the stool which led to her fatal fall. There is a Moutana of 2-3 lacs on that person. The police most often does not interfere in cases of Moutana, however bizarre it may be. 

    Also, picture this: Holi here goes on for almost a week. On one particular day, it is unanimously agreed that the tribals can block the roads and ask for money from motorists. Refusal can lead to jeering/colours being thrown at you/sometimes, physical abuse (however, i will admit that the money charged is really insignificant. Rarely do they ask for more than 10 rupees). This day is called Dhulandi. While i have not witnessed Moutana, i have experienced Dhulandi. Here too, like in cases of Moutana, the police does not interfere (i have another post on it, Dhulandi).

     I can take a few more examples, but i think that will make this post boring. It is not that i am rubbishing the claims of the beauty of these cultures entirely. All i am trying to emphasise on is that all cultures, like all other cultures, have their own beautiful sides and their not-so-beautiful sides. Tribal culture (i am repeatedly refering to the tribal culture of Udaipur, Rajasthan because that is where i have a certain degree of understanding, that comes from experience. It is convenient. That does not mean that i am singling it out from the rest of the cultures) may be a very beautiful culture, but it does not make sense to glorify it. Similarly, modernisation/westernisation has a LOT of drawbacks, but it does not make sense to ruminate about the 'good old' days before that. Conflicts of Interests must not allow us to blind us to the drawbacks of the preferred cultures and the good things of the rival culture (rival?).

PS- In this world of Politically Correct words and Stereotypical Interpellations, i cannot help but feel that  (many will feel that) tribals is not a good thing to call them. So, what else do we call them? Something that might not hurt their sensibilities and their identity? Shall we sit and discuss as to what they need to be called? Maybe. That way, we can ignore the real problem at hand (of trying to uplift their position in the society) and just sit forming new words to refer to them tribals (oops, i did it again!). 

Parallel lines

     Just the other day, i had been to Animal Aid, Udaipur. It happens to be Udaipur's only animal rescue and rehabilitation organisation and has been operational for the last 14 years. When we went there, we were taken on a tour of the shelter and the scene was similar to the scene at a cheap, government run hospital (makes me wonder, are there "posh" government run hospitals?). There were dogs with open (but healing) wounds, wandering around; there were cows that were lying in grotesque positions because they had consumed too much of plastic and their stomachs had swelled up crazily. I am usually uneasy to be in places where there is a presence of illness/ailment. I am squeamish when it comes to hospitals.

     But.

This place was strangely calming. Initially it was difficult to see the animals in pain that they cannot share with us, but we were told that the animals here are usually happy and in a much better place than they would have been had they not been rescued. Also, i was told that animals have a never die kind of attitude and they get along with life despite the hardest of hits against them or their fate.

     But.

What i think was the thing that really made me feel good was the kind of love and attention that the animals were getting from my fellow humans. There was personal connection that the people seemed to share with the animals. One thing that Mr Raj, our guide for the day, kept emphasizing on was that they believe in Love and Affection and Positive Energy. He said that they often sit with the sick animals and not just administer the medicines and leave. Raj had introduced us to a (paralysed) dog who was, in a group of otherwise very friendly (paralysed) dogs, very aggressive and had not made friends with any of the humans at the shelter, yet. He said that he has been trying for the past one week, with not a lot of success, though (Maybe after he was paralysed, he didn't trust humans).

     But.

On that particular day, while we were sitting with some of the (paralysed) dogs, Raj managed to make friends with the dog. The news spread and the rest of the employees began to come watch Raj and the dog sit next to each other. The dog's faith in humans was returning.

Love and Affection was what made it happen.

Class six in a particular Government Girls School has always been a class that stays quiet. Despite my repeated attempts, they didn't seem to open up. I ask them to answer my questions. I promise them to not even scold them, leave alone beat them up. I ask them at least ten times if they are willing to come to the board to solve a puzzle. They just stand there. No response. I am astounded. It has been 7 months since i have started coming to this school. I have, perhaps, been their nicest teacher and yet, they did not seem to trust me. What had happened to them that they showed so much fear, hesitation and mute submissiveness? What had paralysed them to such an extent? If this class was the only class, it would not have been such a problem.

But.

This trend is visible in the rest of my schools as well. Girls. Mute Submission.

But.

On that particular day, 7 months after beginning to try and gain their trust, we began playing a game. the class was divided into two teams. Slowly. Ever so slowly, things began to unfold in front of my eyes. The spirit of competition made the girls forget their inhibitions. They began to laugh, to show anger when the other team cheated, to look at me hoping to get justice...And, finally, when i played a 'balgeet' with them, i was Victorious. Finally. Every single girl in the class shed her skin of fear and shame and hesitation, and danced and sang and laughed.With me. The girls' faith in men was, perhaps (hopefully), returning.

Love and Affection was what made it happen. 

Ode to Change

When the day comes to an end,

when it is quiet all around,

the chaos within me awakens

with a deafening sound

When i have dealt with the day,

when i have traveled all day,

i wonder, "where am i going?;

have i lost my way?"

I have seen, i have talked,

i have tried to make them see.

But we tend to not change the way 

we are, don't we?

It is easy to talk about change,

it is easy to blame. 

But it is not easy to get out of bed,

(in the morning)

and change the way we play the game.

can i use your lens?

     You know how its said that its always good to get another perspective, apart from yours? I used to find it tough... However, i think i have been really lucky to have come across one person, who, finally, has showed me an altogether different way of looking at things. His interpretations of seemingly normal things make me wonder as to how on earth did i never think of that. Take this for example:

     We have a didi who cooks for us. She is a widow and a mother of two. She was married off at a rather young age, as are most girls in the part of the world that i, now, reside in. She seems to have seen the harsh realities of the world and yet has brought up her kids with love and care. What happened one day was that this guy that i am talking about, saw didi's son walking on the streets looking for his mother. He wanted something and since he could neither find that nor his mother, he began to cry. This friend of mine began to search for didi so that the kid would stop crying. He could not find her and after quite some searching, he saw didi walking out of a computer training class and then she consoled her son...

He came home and recited the incident to me and told me that when he saw the events unfold before him and, at last, when he saw didi come out of the computer class, he almost was reduced to tears. Now, i ask you to ask yourself, why was he almost reduced to tears? If you were him, why would you have been reduced to tears?
...
Well, i thought he was reduced to tears- almost- because he saw how hard didi had to work to make ends meet, because, after all, of what use is the knowledge of computer to a woman who does not even own a phone? I thought he was moved by didi's effort to make use of any opportunity that might make life better for her and her kids. Was that your guess, too? Well, here was why he was touched:
He couldn't help but imagine how different didi's son's life would have been had he not lost his father. The very sight of watching him crying looking for something that he couldn't find, and his mother, made him (my friend) realise how big a loss it is to not have a parent regardless of whether you have any memories of it or not. He went on to say as to how when the kids grow up, the loss will be more evident in the way they grow up. Had his father been alive, he would probable have been a different kid. "jinke maata pita nahi hote hai, unki zindagi kya hoti hogi, yaar," he had mused.

     Well, you may be thinking that i am hiding the identity of this person like they do in the newspaper. However, i am not. I was just building the tension. His name is Pabitra Martha (go ahead, stalk him) and he has been my roomie for the past 7 odd months. I should've posted this long ago, as this was an incident (of the many such incidents) that happened long ago. But better late than never. The reason that i am putting this up is to confess that just when i thought that i was quite humane, this guy comes along and shows me that i was just at the end of level 1...

PS- what do you think of  PT exercise/drill demonstrations? Pabitra thinks that it is a lovely metaphor to show how the education system can make hundreds of kids dance to the tune of the teachers' will and demonstrate it to the parents, who watch with pride.  

Thank You

How long is long enough? I don’t know.  But I thought I had stayed away from home long enough and it was time to give it a visit. It turns out that while it was a good decision to have come back home for a while, I was just not ready yet to come back. Hopefully, the next time I will be ready.     Anyway, regardless of whether or not I was completely ready to come back home, there were some things that was definitely different. Different how? Like this:
     While I was in Bangalore, 7 months ago, I don't think I had  this ability to imagine the other side of the city, for back then, Bangalore, for me, mostly comprised of students, IT people, rude auto drivers and the occasional beggar. I never really imagined the lives of the millions of the working class people that survive- and keep the city running so that the students can learn and the IT people can make Bangalore proud- day in and day out. So, fast forward to 7 months later and am I different?
A lot.
     It almost comes naturally to me now, and the transition was so effortless that it took me a couple of days to even realise that there was something different in the way I thought and felt when in a public space, in the city.
     For instance when I travel in the BMTC, I do not feel weird when I see a guy wearing a floral prints shirt. I mean, back then I thought that one must not wear such shirts to work; its not professional (considering the fact that he did not remain invisible to my city-life adjusted eyes, in the first place. Mostly the person wearing a fastrack watch or a Reebok bag would probably be the one to grab my attention. Or a pretty woman, of course, but that happens even now). However, now, I know that there might a lot more that he has to decide upon before he can sit back and realise that it was probably not a good idea to have purchased the floral prints shirt which was being sold on the roadside. He may have to worry as to how to arrange for the money with which to pay his daughter's school fees, or maybe he may have been too tired to think of anything at all and so he just falls asleep while the bus negotiates the nightmarish traffic of the city. Now, I have not sat in the ladies section of the bus and so I cannot assume for them, but I am sure they have greater things to worry, as well. So, feminists, please, I mean no bias. Six months ago, I would have seen them with curiosity. However, now I cannot help but look at them with feelings of respect and...     Also, for instance when I visit the McDonald's for a burger, I can imagine how it must be to be a youth and yet be on the side of the counter which serves. I can imagine how frustrating it must be to not be able to be greeted, "Namaskara  sir, this counter , please. What would you like to have?" I can instantly visualise the tiny little house that they all will have to return to, once their shift is over. Six months ago, I would have spoken to them with respect and courtesy. However, now I cannot help but speak to them with feelings of respect and empathy and…
     And pride. Yes, pride. I am proud that these folks have made it so far, because I have seen worse. I have seen a crowd that is just as clueless about the world outside as is the man in the bus, about the inappropriateness of wearing a floral print shirt to work. These people know EXACTLY how cruel the world can get and yet, choose to live on, share a laugh, smile and, sometimes, even have a dream. I have seen so much hopelessness in another India that this Indian makes me feel proud that he/she has broken away from the shackles of poverty (yes, they may be earning very less, but that is for the government to take some action and a whole different argument). If i peer into their family and trace it back by a generation, I wouldn’t be surprised that the previous generation had been clueless about their coming generation.      These folks, make me happy. I will not go hug them and cry my eyes out, no. I will not even talk to them, perhaps. But I have a deep sense of respect for them, now; something that sort of makes me feel connected to them. Something that makes me mean it when I say, "thank you."  

It was her fault, he said

When i decided to write this post, i knew i wanted to write it to highlight one particular thing. However, just as soon as i began to write, i realised that apart from that one thing, there are other things that stand out as well! No wonder they say that you must pen down your thoughts to make them clear(er?).

     Anyway... we have a didi who cleans our messy house for us (the girls room isn't messy, btw). A couple of days ago, while she was cleaning the stairs of the veranda , she slipped and fell. We were in our rooms and had no clue. Our landlord's daughter, who stays with her family, upstairs, came running and informed us that our maid had fallen down. We ran to her and while we were inquiring, i couldn't help but notice the fact that the landlady and the daughter were standing at a distance (the landlady is a Jain while didi is an outcast of sorts, an adivasi). At that time, i was too busy to think about it, but now i recollect it with a sense of disgust and irritation. I mean, i wouldn't have really been bothered it was a simple fall. Didi was in real pain as was evident from her tears.
     We decided to take didi to the government hospital of the village, which is the only hospital of the village. The doctor, despite me hoping otherwise, stayed true to the stereotype that all government hospital doctors are a bunch of morons. He didn't even take a look at the injury and, while he was busy talking to someone on the phone (a big touch screen one), he wrote a prescription of some pain killers and an injection. It would have be pointless to have felt enraged and i knew it. I felt enraged, nevertheless. So, we decided that it would be better to take didi to a private hospital that was about 5 kms away from the village. Didi was uncomfortable and said that the tablets ought to make it better. While i wanted to still take her to the doc (have i told you, i am a real wuss when it comes to physical pain), my friends thought that it would be okay to wait for a day and see if the pain persists. I obliged.
      The pain did persist, and i once again asked didi to come with me to the private hospital. She said that she had consulted another doctor (a quack, i am assuming) and that he had given her tablets worth 50 bucks. She kept emphasizing on the money that she had spent on the tablets like as if the amount that you spend is related to the guarantee of cure (in a way its like our belief that more the MP of a camera, better MUST be the pictures). I told her that i will come the next day and check. The next day, today, i went and turned out that 50 rupees did not heal the pain. So, this time i told her point blank that we will go to the doctor. While she seemed to be ready for a moment, she asked if we could go tomorrow. I said no, we were going right away. However, she had to take her husbands permission and he came to me. He spoke politely and i asked him if it would be okay for me to take her to the hospital.
     He said that he, being her husband, would have taken her to the hospital had she told him that she had fallen. It has been two days and she hadn't told him. So, it was clearly her fault, he said.  He said he would take her tomorrow.
   It was her fault, he had said. I felt that i had touched the ever sensitive male ego and so i thought it would be best to let him be the alpha male and take care of her. So, i suggested that he could take her right away so as to not delay further. But he began to mumble something and finally said that there was someone in the neighborhood who had passed away and that didi would be needed. I began to have doubts about the ego being hurt. In a last ditch effort i asked him if he would take her tomorrow and i got my doubts cleared. He said that he will try and that if it was not possible, if he was busy, he would send someone to inform me to take her to the hospital.

The culture that we are all so proud of! Look at us! We don't have divorce rates half as high as the Americans do! 

Will life EVER be like the movies?

     As a part of out curriculum, i was watching The Karate Kid. Although i have watched it once, before, i couldn't help but be moved by the dramatic and/ emotional scenes of the movie. At points, i was rather ashamed of myself at having become emotional, because i knew that it was a rather exaggerated scene and there was no real need to let me get carried away. Yet the makers of the movie had managed to make me emo! (I really liked Smith Jr's performance, btw)
     Anyway, as i was watching Dre fight the excruciating pain and continue the tournament (with orchestral music in the background), i couldn't help thinking: can my life ever lead me to a similar circumstance? Will i ever find it in me to pick myself up and fight back despite being seriously damaged? and Will i, too, ever find myself crying out in pain and trying to stand while crowds of people gasp in wonder? Will there be overwhelming music to give the additional strength to carry on, despite the odds (half my emotions are surged by the music)? Is such resilience actually possible or does its possibility end with the end of the movie?
     There was good news and bad news. The good news was that, yes, i have been in such a situation before; where i was beaten down till i could not stand (not physically). And yet, i stood. I fought. I still am, in fact.
     The bad news was that there was no orchestral music to accompany the fall and rise. Neither was there a gasping crowd/audience that would be moved to tears and be overwhelmed, while they watched my fall and rise(ing), respectively.

While Dre is famous, i am... well... me.

Mine is a low budget movie, you see.