I Want To Live

Her mutilated body, pushed out of  a moving bus, was the final insult,  the spark which lit the anger, hurt, pain lying dormant in me for centuries. It lanced the festering wound I inherited when I found myself inhabiting a female body. I spent my days, concealing this wound, learning to forget its existence, suppressing its pain. For if I allowed myself to feel it, I would not be able to breathe, to live.

The wound of being considered a lesser being, of being considered unworthy of existence. I  have been killed in the womb,  killed at birth, killed in infancy by wilful neglect, killed for a few thousand rupees, killed by being burnt alive on a dead man's pyre. In the name of holy matrimony, my parents have to pay the price for having brought me into existence. I have to live and grow with the knowledge that I am a  burden for them. And once married, my primary duty is to serve, please and feel thankful for whatever crumbs are thrown at me. If I am tortured physically, emotionally, its my fault. I have not given satisfaction, I have caused displeasure. My flesh is  bought and sold in  market places for the sexual pleasure of men. My mind and spirit are of no value whatsoever.  When I breathe in the open spaces, when I walk on the road, I do so at my own peril.That's not my place. My place is inside the house, in the kitchen where I belong. Whatever humiliation, indignity, harassment I  go through is all my fault.  I brought it on myelf. I wore the wrong clothes, I was at the wrong place, at the wrong time.I had overstepped my boundaries as a woman. It was all my doing. No one else is to blame, least of all my tormentors.

She brought  all that alive for me. She brought my wound out of its hiding place, into the open. The young woman who had gone out for a movie with her friend on that fateful evening and is now battling for her life.

."Save me. I want to live." When she said that from her hospital bed, she gave voice to my silence, to my pain. Yes. I want to live. I have hopes, desires, ambitions, dreams. I have been given the gift of life and I want to make use of that gift. To fulfil all the potential which lies hidden within me. I do not want to be holed up in fear, to be tamed by guilt. I do not want my gender to be used as a weapon against me, to be used to beat me into submission.

I am a spark of divinity in human form. The same as any man. And so I brave the water cannons, the tear gas, the policeman's lathis on the streets of Delhi and elsewhere.

 I want to live.

Hope

Went to Pyramid Valley yesterday. We were parking our car, when a bus load of these schoolkids turned up, chanting at the top of their voices. For a moment, I rued the impending loss of peace and quietude in the little valley. We had battled hours of Bangalore traffic in hope of that !

Some time later, I saw them again, inside the pyramid. They sat in neat rows, the boys and girls. They looked about eleven or twelve years old. There they sat quietly, eyes closed, in the meditative posture. No restlessness, no fidgeting. It was quite obvious, these children were not new to meditation. Their teachers sat with them. I could see the peace reflected in their faces and bodies. The calmness born from turning inwards.

Bombarded as we are, on a daily basis, with horrific news of violence, depravity and blind self seeking, I could feel a flicker of hope awaken in me. This school teaches its children to meditate, look within. Maybe, there are more schools like this one.The media does not tell us and so we don't know. Maybe, when these children grow up, they will bring in a better world. Maybe, goodness. kindness, light is growing in bits and patches around us. And one day, we will see the darkness shrink if not wiped out. Maybe.

About Rape

The Delhi rape shocks. Outrage spills over. Punish the rapists. Lynch them. Castrate them. Soon the outcry will die down. To surface again when another rape surpassing this one in brutality and depravity occurs. 

Rape is the monster-child of patriarchy.The deeply embedded belief that woman exists for man's pleasure and comfort and is a lesser being. That she is his property. To be used as per his wishes. Her feelings are not worthy of consideration at all. And so the daily harassment, humiliation and molestation of women is trivialised by the name of eveteasing. Rape is just an extension of that. Taking by force what one wants with utter disregard for the woman. An expression of power, of control. Making laws, enforcing them will work only upto a point. What has to change is the mindset. Respect and regard for the woman as an equal has to be taught from childhood. To both boys and girls. Hard to imagine that will happen any time soon in a country where female foeticide, dowry deaths are rampant practices. One can only hope and pray.

Newspapers today headline their shock and shame about the rape. And yet feature totally irrelevant picures of scantily clad women on other pages. The notion of woman as an object of desire is perpetuated. For selling a few copies more. The hypocrisy disgusts, nauseates.

Blast From The Past !

Went for lunch at a relative's place. Met a stranger. When we got talking, we found that she knew one of my classmates from my primary school, in Rishikesh. She is still in touch with one of them whose family was very friendly with mine. She studied in the same secondary school in Haridwar where I did though she was much junior. She knew my teachers and friends there. She was from Dehradoon and her mum taught in my college. So she knew my profs and the Principal. I was flooded with memories, struggling to remember names of those who were in my life ages ago. Never imagined they will come back. 

I am a little zapped by this blast from the past and wondering about the slender threads of life. Of how our lives and stories criss cross each other at specific points. About the master story writer who creates these endless stories and then adds these twists and turns for reasons known only to Him/Her !

A Dirty Word?

He came to me, yesterday, looking worried and said that I have to be visiting his school the next day for paying his fees. His parents are construction labourers and for the last five years, my family has been taking care of his education. He studies in an English medium school for chidren from the low income group. He is probably about twelve now. His parents are not sure of his birth date or year. He is in class fourth as he started his education late.

Something in his demeanor alerted me and I asked him if anything was the matter. He then told me that there's been trouble in school. There is a girl in his class, he really likes. She is his best friend. At lunch time, he had said to her, " I am loving you and its ok if you dont want." A classmate of his had written a letter with  similar words in his name and given it to the girl. Hell had broken loose and he had been called to the principal's office and had been thrashed. And had been told to bring us to the school the next day or else he would be thrown out.

So I went today to the school. The principal was not present and I met the headmistress. She seemed to be  a caring person, involved with the children and concerned about them.She called the aggrieved party. A nine year old, wisp of a girl. Shy, fragile, large eyed. I asked her as gently as I could about what had happened. Tears welled up  as she struggled to articulate the three words,the boy had said to her. "I love you." I talked to her about love, about the wider implications of it and that its not something to be feared and reviled. She seemed pacified, smiled and left.The headmistress said to me that this could have become a really serious matter as she was the only child of her parents and her parents are the really fussy type. I promised to talk to my protege, explain things to him so that this does not happen again. I tried to explain to her that he is stepping into adolescence and is going through  physical and psychological changes. And that this is happening to many other children in the school. They need to be talked to, listened to and not punished.That might lead to alienation or deviant behavior.

This incident has occupied my mind since then. What makes 'love' such a dirty word? The little girl's tears haunt me. At nine, the word had shocked and upset her. She has already imbibed its negative connotations. If the boy had spoken of hate, I wonder if it would have been a big issue at all. He would definitely not have been thrashed. What does this experience teach him? That its not done to speak of love to anyone.It is a serious offence and has serious repercussions.Though it is acceptable to beat someone and be beaten as he was.

I look within annd find that love is a dirty word for me as well. I find it very difficult to say those three words. Or even accept them to myself. There is a sense of embarassment, fear, vulnerability. I notice how quickly I look for signs of rejection in any  relationship and seek to withdraw. I look back over the years and wonder when and how I was indoctrinated against love. When did all these walls and barriers come up in me without my knowledge? Do I have the strength to break them down now? I remember the weeping little child and I mourn too.
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Perceptions

My first ever visit to a police station. I volunteer at a youth and child helpline and went there recently as a part of our outreach program.I had only seen police stations in movies and TV serials where  policemen are usually shown as rough talking, callous, corrupt characters or buffoons. And so I felt a flutter of apprehension as I entered the place along with a colleague. And it was all there.The lock up, the big notice board with photos of the missing and the history sheeters.The inspector's room. And a bunch of policemen sitting around a table, drinking tea. I had a moment of deja vu. But everything that followed after that was a pleasant surprise. We were asked to sit. We were offered tea. We were listened to with complete attention. They expressed solidarity with us. As the inspector was not there, they gave us his number and asked us to call for an appointment.  I do not know what my experience would have been if I had gone there with a different purpose like lodging an FIR, reporting a crime etc. Or if I was from a less privileged section of society. But it made me realise one thing. That films, TV, newspapers can sometimes give me skewed perceptions of the reality around me. And sometimes these perceptions can colour my thoughts , feelings and behavior without my realising it.

Dancing In The Rain..

I've never liked carrying umbrellas. Ever since I was a small child. I remember, once, I was returning home from school when it began pouring. I plucked a huge colocasia leaf  from a garden and walked home shading myself from the rain, thrilled by my resourcefulness. Even now, when black clouds loom and I am asked by those who care, to carry an umbrella, I rebel. Only when I got drenched yesterday, did I wonder why. And I found that an umbrella for me is a symbol of prudent, careful, cautious living, of thinking of what lies ahead, of playing safe. And somehow, that goes against my grain. I would rather go out, not knowing what will happen, ready to take what's in store for me. And if the heavens decide to soak me, and I can find no shade, I will open myself to the experience and be happy walking in the rain.

Being Different

Just came back from a meet at NIMHANS where LGBTI( lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, intersex) issues were discussed. I heard stories of people who face discrimination from the day they were born to the day they die, for no fault of theirs. They are rejected, reviled, persecuted, denied opportunities, services, considered lesser humans by their own families and society, just for being born different. We have all seen transgenders on roads, traffic signals, have considered them a menace, have wished them away. Today, I heard them speak of their struggle with grace and dignity. How each day for them is a tough fight for survival. Many professionals who have dedicated themselves to working for their cause also spoke at the meet. My respects.

Tuesday, 4th December

Age Protection

There I was, in the swanky supermarket, picking up a bottle of shampoo, when I was approached by this earnest young saleswoman. "Ma'am, don't you think you should now be going for age protection products?" I was taken aback. I am in my early fifties and I wondered whether my looks have really deserted me at last. I asked her about it . She nodded her head in all seriousness. Yes. Dry age lines ha

ve appeared around my eyes. She further explained to me that one needs to start using these products as early as possible in order to avoid aging. She took me to a shop counter on which a large number of these impossibly expensive products were arrayed. A tiny bottle of anti aging cream cost about a thousand bucks. I looked into her hopeful eyes and said no. I do not need protection from my age. A middle aged woman, standing nearby, overheard and smiled at me. Aging is a natural process. The years take away physical beauty or agility but they add so much richness and depth to life. Its sad to see these corporates, in their thirst for profit maximisation, plant and grow these unhealthy fears in women about aging. That it is something to be afraid of, needs protection from.

Attitude

The cook didn't turn up today. My initial reaction was one of irritation.Cooking is not really a passion with me. Yet when I went into the kitchen, put on some music and started, I found myself enjoying the process. And I remembered what a swami at Ramakrishna a Mission had told me once. He had spoken to me of attitude. He had given me an example of a homemaker who has to deal with hungry guests 

turning up late at night after she has finished with her day's work. She has to cook again. She has two choices. The first choice is thinking "Oh, what a bother!" and doing the work. The second choice is thinking that the guests are hungry and she is taking care of them by feeding them. In both the options, she does the work. In the first choice she does not find any joy in her work while in the second choice, the same work gives her joy. The swami then asked me," What would you choose ?"

29th November, 2012

A Beginning

Its with a lot of hope in our hearts that we begin our journey with Mitra. The three of us, Anjana Kochhar, Manisha Sengupta and Rwitoja Mukherjee are professional counsellors. Manisha specialises in working with children, especially children who have some form of learning disability. Anjana has recently finished her professional training and is seeing individual clients. She and Rwitoja have volu

nteered for about two years in a hospice, working with the terminally illl, their relatives and the hospice staff. Anjana has also volunteered with the elderly. Rwitoja has worked at a clinic where she counselled the sick and their caregivers.
With Mitra, we hope to reach out to women, children, the sick and their caregivers. There is a dearth of support groups in our neighbourhood and we aim to fulfill that need. Please give us your support.

November 27, 2012