A Salaam for the Namaste

“She has snatched my only son”, she often cribbed. She had sent him to the city for a better life. And he had chosen to stay there, marrying the girl of his choice, that too from the opposite religion. Her husband had been killed in Hindu Muslim riots few years ago. “How can I accept a girl from that religion as my Bahu”, she often wondered. 

The son never forgot his mother though. He would write her letters, asking forgiveness for hurting her sentiments, often explaining how the turn of events almost forced him to take that decision. They had studied together in the same college and liked each other a lot. The riots that wiped out her family, his love and concern, the big bad world, that now or never decision that changed their lives forever. He knew the mother would never approve, so theirs was a court marriage.

The mother had read the letter, each word piercing her soul like the dagger that her husband was killed with years ago. She had turned into a stone, deciding never to see his face again. His letters & the money continued to come without fail. The mother had taken up a job as a sewing teacher in the local school and never took a single note out of the monthly envelopes he sent. “He thinks he can make up for the loss by these pieces of paper?” And so she wowed never to reply.

The mother inside missed her son every moment. On Holi, she would remember how he loved the riot of colors, Janmashtmi reminded her of his childhood mischiefs just like Lord Krishna. Every Diwali she silently prayed to Goddess Lakshmi to give her son prosperity, for by now, she was convinced the son would have ceased to be a Hindu and would have broken every rule of the religion by marrying a Muslim girl. He never mentioned it in his letters and she never asked it.

The son had himself become a father now. He had sent a small pic of the baby, freshly born and all red, too pure to understand which religion he belonged to. He looked just like the son, when he was born. The mother kept looking at the picture till tears blurred her vision. The letter also had a ticket and the usual money. The son had made an extremely emotional appeal in the letter. “I know ma you will never forgive me, but what wrong has your grandson done? Is he so unfortunate as to not even see his grandmother once is his lifetime?”

She felt like grabbing the next train and be with him, but the thought of the Muslim daughter in law grabbed her everytime into the endless whirlpool of revenge and despair. She decided to go though, not for the baby but to return the money the son had been sending all these years and she had kept away untouched. She wanted to tell him how he had hurt his dead father’s soul by marrying a girl of the religion of his killers. She wanted to curse the girl for having snatched her only hope in this world.

It was early morning when she reached the city. The Azaan from the Masjid made her decision even stronger. As she reached the lane with numerous houses, she asked the shopkeeper at the tea stall for the address of her son, Gopal Chand. The shopkeeper gave her a long surprised look and asked, “You want to meet Gopal? But he was killed in a road accident six months ago. Poor chap couldn’t even live to see his unborn child. His widow stays in that house” he pointed to the house and resumed his job.

The mother felt a sudden heat behind her ears. She had felt it once when destiny had snatched her husband that unfortunate night. Suddenly, all things became clear to her – the money never stopped, the letters had become more emotional of late, the appeal in the recent letter…SO it is that Muslim girl stepping into the shoes of my son?

With heavy steps, she open the gate of the house. To her surprise, she spotted a lush Tulsi plant in the Balcony. Tears filled up her eyes as she remembered how she had taught the son that Tulsi brings happiness in the house. Her feet suddenly stopped when she saw the son’s widow watering the Tulsi with a Kalash and chanting the gayatri mantra. “So she never changed my son’s religion?” The tears overflowed.

As the girl finished her Pooja, her eyes met the mother and widened in surprise. She walked up to the mother, touched her feet and said “Namaste ma”. The mother, unable to bear the guilt and sorrow, hugged her tight and said “Salaam beti”

This post is a part of Write Over the Weekend, an initiative for Indian Bloggers by BlogAdda

Janmashtmi – then and now

Beautifully decked up Gopis (aka galz of the city), gleaming lights spread across temples, the aroma of delicacies being prepared in the kitchen, the festivity in the air, and enjoying it all from his jhoola, our cuties pie Laddoo Gopala, with a flute in his hand and a cherubic smile on his face…

Happy Janmashtmi!

Being born and brought up in Delhi, Janmashtmi has always been a big affair for me. I have lost track of the time since when have I been fasting every Janmashtmi. As a kid, my house was near the famous Birla Mandir of Delhi. Every Janmashtmi, I used to be up and ready in my new clothes, pestering papa to take me to temple. At that age, more than the bhajans and puja, I used to look forward to the lovely Jhoolas right outside the temple. Birla Mandir used to have some amazing moving Jhankis, one of their kind at that time. Many TV channels and thousands of devotees used to flock the temple garden to catch a glimpse.

 Post examining each Jhanki & enjoying the yummy Prasad came the best part – the Jhoolas and the fair outside the temple! With a twinkle in my eyes I would rush to each jhoola. I was super greedy about the Giant wheel and loved the butterfly in the stomach feel whenever the jhoola came down at a great speed. Every circle meant waiving to Papa, who would patiently wait downstairs, lovingly watching his bundle of joy enjoying the ride! I had to be forced to return home where mom would be busy preparing delicious food!

We shifted to the new house & the joy of jhoolas and temple jhankis was replaced by our very own jhanki! Me and my friends would spend the whole day creating jhanki out of household stuff. Blue surf detergent used to create river, toys to create villagers…the jhanki would be complete with a small boy & girl dressed as Radha and Krishna. As neighbourhood aunties flocked to our jhankis & appreciated our creativity, we would swell up with pride at our labour of love! Some generous aunty would sponsor the Prasad which was distributed after the midnight pooja.

Those were the days…

And now…amidst the hustle bustle of the city swelling with new inhabitants everyday, the charm of Janmashtmi has reduced to watching live coverage from temples on TV. Grandmother’s bhajans have been replaced by “Radha on the dance floor”. But I’m glad the charm of the festival remains, albeit with a modern twist (oops remix) to it!

Once or twice, we tried going to the good old Birla Mandir & Iskcon temple, but the swarm of people overcrowding the temple premises left me feeling claustrophobic. The delicious preparations are still made, just that they are now prepared by me and my mom in law. With frequent security threats, the common man now fears to venture out in crowded places on such days. Even the local Gopis feel unsafe with many a Kansas hovering around the city!

As I look at Lord Krishna enjoying his maakhan mishri , I wonder and say “Is this your Gokul?” where the Kansas have outnumbered the Krishnas

The Gopi inside sings a silent song –

Kansa bharey chaaron or (Kansas hovering around everywhere),

Kare humein pareshan, machayein shor (Troubling us),

Chalao Sudarshan bachao humein, lao chain chaaron or (Use ur Sudarshan wheel and save us),

Coz this Gopi wants a safe city once more!

I saw I learnt

I love sharing experiences,

So Blogadda.com gives me another chance

To share what I saw & learnt

This is a serious post, no fun/romance

News bulletin on the TV it was

The famous Delhi chill was the cause

Homeless people succumbed & chilled

With great pain my heart was filled.

I declared I will try to bring some change

Mr. Hubby in front of TV gave me a look so strange

But I was determined in my mind

Some way out I had to find

The scene near my home made my heart beat

A young girl slept wrapped in a torn bedsheet

While we slept enjoying the heater’s heat

She lay in the cold at the corner of the street

God loves all why should the innocent be killed

They too have dreams and aspirations to be fulfilled

I wondered how could I do my bit of the share

Hubby quickly said I could begin by simple share

Ma and I rushed to market next noon

Bought a nice blanket I waited for the moon

What if she changes her place? I frowned

Ma smiled, “Don’t worry she must be around”

We found her asleep at her usual spot

I tiptoed towards her fearing not to get caught

As I neared her, I saw her innocent face

Braving the struggles of life with a grace

“God bless u” I whispered as put the blanket on her lean frame

Then quickly hid in the car like in a hide n seek game

As she felt cosy the warmth I could feel

God had heard my humble appeal

Life teaches us new things each day

Its upon us to try and make our way

Its easy to sit in our homes crib and cry

But you gotta give your ideas wings to fly

The sweetness of the fruit of simple care

I tasted by doing that small share

Begin the  change you want, the rest follows

I saw & learnt

This post is written for the "I saw I learnt" contest by Blogadda

I am sharing what '<strong>I Saw and I Learnt</strong>' at <a title="The Best Community of Indian Bloggers" href="http://www.blogadda.com" target="_blank">BlogAdda.com</a> in association 
with <a title="Do Right! " href="http://www.doright.in" target="_blank">DoRight.in</a>.

Survival of the fittest (doggie)

A funny sight today reminded me of the lesson about Charles Darwin’s theory of natural selection I learnt in school. While corporate life is the best way to explain the survival of the fittest theory, there are many a lessons to learn outside the board room!

Saw this cute doggie outside office this afternoon. While the hot n humid weather is driving Dilliwallas crazy, this doggie decided to take things in his stride. He broke a pot and as the soil scattered around, he made himelf comfortable on the bed of soil! My camera couldn’t resist clicking this one!

Any suitable caption that comes to your mind?

Ring the bell, let the birds fly…

Just like the traffic on the roads, for any girl born and brought up in Delhi, eve teasing is a usual affair. Since childhood, a girl is subjected to some said, some unsaid rules and regulations in exchange for her safety. I still remember how worried my mom was when I joined college just because I had to travel to a secluded part of the city all by myself. Always carry a mobile phone, never venture out alone, prefer going out with a male or in groups, wear non provocative clothes, avoid interaction with strangers in buses, come back home on time….the checklist was too long and irritating to be followed.

But this was almost a decade ago and back then I used to wonder life wouldn't be the same in a couple of years. With women empowerment being a burning issue and India marching towards growth, I expected a better society for the generations to come.

Times have changed and yet they haven’t!

Being a masi to a 14 year old is like having a pet sparrow (mind the comparison but couldn't find anything better to express my feelings!). You love the chirpie song but always dread the sparrow being eaten by the cat. Thinking the sparrow would be safe in the house, you build a comfortable cage in the house. But, is the sparrow happy there? She wants to fly in the sky.  My niece too is a cute little sparrow, wanting to spread her wings and explore the world. She is smart, intelligent, confident and ready to explore the world – the typical woman of the jet age. Loves going for the impossible and hates being confined. It’s a pain when we impose the same decade old restrictions on her. A couple of days back, I asked her to be back before dark as bad elements come out by then to which she snapped and asked me “Masi, in zoo, the ferocious animals are in the cage, not the normal visitors, then why not do something about such elements than unfairly curbing our freedom?” She had a point indeed, yet the practical me had to explain how the real world is different from the stuff we read in books. Poor child never says no to anything I say, but that very moment, a bell rang inside my heart and the heart echoed…

We must be the change we want to see…

The easiest thing in the world is to crib, cry and escape the wrong. However, people who make their own path and stand up against the wrong are the real change agents. The so called “bad elements” spring up from our society, perhaps the guy next door. Cleaning begins from the house. To ring the bell against such elements, we need to go back to the basics and teach every boy around us to respect the mothers, sisters and not take their care for granted. Only then will the society learn that it’s not the attire but the attitude that counts –attitude of the men around us. The bell should ring away the fears till the women in our society can live in peace.

So what are we waiting for

Ring the bell, and let the birds fly…

This post has been written for Ring the bell movement for Indiblogger and www.bellbajao.org/ 

Woman of Substance

Whenever God sends an angel to this planet, he gives her limitless love which she can spread in this cruel world, compassion that makes her care and nurture many lives, wisdom that can light up the whole society & tolerance to take upon her the pain of others. God calls her a woman. But that’s not all, God also bestows her with strength that can turnaround the worst of situations. That makes her a woman of substance.

Mrs P came into this world in 1947 – a year that changed the fate of our nation. Being born in that special year, she too was a special one, who had to change the lives of many others.

But it wasn’t a bed of roses for Mrs P. Born eldest of six children in the family; responsibilities and sacrifice were always showered upon her. And she too, took them with a smile. While India had achieved freedom, the women of that time were yet to get their share of freedom. Education was a luxury that was allowed only if the household chores were complete. P was a bright kid, always topping the class & bringing pride to the parents, while her brothers struggled to pass. The parents were glad as everything was in order, though the mother often worried, how would she find a match for P if she got too educated beyond the norms of the society? But, the father gave P hopes that she would become a nurse one day.

And then, destiny played its tricky game. P’s mother one day asked her to help the neighbor with tea as some guests had come over. Poor P didn’t know this was a trick to arrange meeting with groom side for P’s marriage. Everything was fixed. P cried and begged her parents to let her continue studies, but nobody took mercy on her. Two months before her eighteenth birthday, she was married off.

P’s life changed as she came behind the veil (ghoongat). The ritual of reading was overnight replaced by household chores, taunts from her sister in law & never ending household politics. But P was a woman of substance, she didn’t give up. She convinced her husband & resumed her studies. Ahead of her class, she soon her completed her bachelors & masters, a big achievement in her times. P was going to be a mother now. She wanted the best for her child and when she got a call for a government job, she thanked the unborn child for the luck. But, destiny decided to play its tricks once more. So a night before the interview was scheduled, P delivered a baby girl.

While the glass was half empty, P always looked at the glass half full. So, rather than getting disheartened at losing out on the job, the mother inside was overjoyed with her prized possession. Years passed, three more little angels were born, 2 girls and a boy. With career ambitions taking a backseat, P’s ambition now was to inculcate the best in her children. She prioritized them over everything else, taught them her secret mantra of positivism and sacrificed her comforts and aspirations to make them comfortable. She taught her daughters to be independent & prove that women can achieve anything they want. P had no regrets about her own broken aspirations, for she saw her own win each time the kids achieved milestones.

The children grew up & went on to achieve their dreams. While P was a satisfied mother, the angel in her wanted to do something more, something beyond the periphery of her house, something for the society. She had often seen the poor fall prey to ailments, unable to afford a decent treatment. P’s husband had retired by now. Along with him she decided to benefit the poor by her knowledge of homeopathy. Her clinic started in the living room of her small house. Treatment & medicines were free for all, as P, a meticulous planner had invested a part of her savings for the cause. The swarm of patients outside her humble clinic increased exponentially, as the news of her magical touch spread like wildfire. Sometimes the patients dropped in at odd hours. The husband would suggest she ask them to come the next day during clinic timings. But P, with unlimited compassion inside, entertained any and every patient even at the odd hours. Just like God, nobody was denied help at her doorstep.

P’s life had come a full circle. God had rewarded her for her zeal and efforts. She had achieved something beyond the usual materialistic possessions – ultimate satisfaction, immense love from strangers, and above all, the ability to make a difference in the life of others. She had truly excelled as a woman of substance.

Mrs P, the woman of substance, was my mother.

This post has been exclusively written for Woman of substance contest on Blogadda.com

Happy Women's Day

Pic Courtesy:Google Search

Women’s day comes & celebrations galore! A day to recognize, appreciate & acknowledge the lovely women around us who give meaning to our lives – mothers, daughters, sisters, wives, teachers, friends, nurses. Can’t imagine a life without them. Not to forget Mother Nature. As Geri Helliwelli sings “God bless Mother Nature, she is a single woman too! She took over heaven, and she did what she had to do!”

Pic Courtesy:Google Search

And how can we ignore ourselves? It’s a moment to take pride in the girl inside who has come way ahead of being just the weaker sex. There are times one is made to feel “You are a woman, you can’t do this”. It’s a moment to celebrate the victory of women who have rose up from this “cant” to “you have done it!”

Though the greatest woman in my life – my mother is not with me today, I celebrate this day for having spent some wonderful years of my life with such a rock solid woman. Thank u God! Every year on women’s day, she would tell me about the conservative state of affairs during her times & would appreciate the strength of countless women who have broken the boundaries & come this far!

It’s also a celebration to the women who have the grit to change the mindset of society, without even stepping out of their homes. I look up to women like my mother in law, who, despite living in a conservative society, nourished their dream of empowering the generations to come! And because of such strong women, our generation has the much desired freedom to chase & live our dreams.

While it’s a day of get togethers & parties for us, government is trying its best too…trying to give us women our safety & security back, which has faced a major threat in the recent times.

However, what good is a celebration when I pick up a tabloid and read of a girl being raped right on women’s day! There are still some thankless souls who, instead of acknowledging the women in their lives, abuse their femininity shamelessly. The real celebration will be the day when the respect comes for real, from inside & from all fronts. You can’t teach an animal to become civilized in a day. But you can train them to follow step by step. And the first step for such souls is to learn to respect their own women – their mothers, wives & sisters who they openly take for granted. Only when they learn to clean their house will they learn not to litter in public!

And hopefully, when such good times come, every day shall be women’s day! A celebration of our love, freedom, success & dignity!

Here’s a song by Billy Joel to all the lovely women on this planet who make the world a much better place to live in!

He cried for help, but nobody heard…

Last weekend, I witnessed something that shook me inside. For some of you, this might be a normal scenario, but maybe I am over sensitive. 

Anyway, last weekend, I was walking besides the flyover at IFFCO Chowk in Gurgaon. With constant traffic coming from Delhi-Jaipur highway, that road never sleeps. As I was walking, I heard painful shrieks that were so disturbing that.....I have no words to describe here. The sound was coming from the roadside. A beautiful, healthy black Pig lay on the ground, surrounded by three cruel men. The men brutally hit the Pig's head with bricks, kicked & hurt him with sticks. Shocked, I asked my friend what was going on.

“Oh, it’s a normal sight here.” He said. They are going to kill the Pig and cook & eat his meat. I know some or the other creature has to lay his life to satiate the desire of non vegetarians. But I was more surprised when he told me the people hitting him are the ones who raised him. This was shocking. I have been a proud owner of many pets and never in my wildest dreams can I imagine killing my own pet to satisfy my hunger. This wasn't even a do or die situation & the people didn't look so malnourished that they were forced to kill that Pig so brutally, just to satisfy their hunger.

Pic Courtesy:Google Search

Man is a social animal, they say. But that day I realized that some human beings are worse than animals. I am not trying to voice out my anger against non vegetarians, after all each one of us have our own preferences. Nor I am advocating vegetarianism through this blog (though I shall be glad if through this post I am able to invoke sensitivity towards animals in even one person). I am a vegetarian & maybe I can never understand the joy of biting into a succulent leg piece.

But before being vegans or non vegans, we are all humans. And just because God has made us stronger than a lot many creatures, this doesn't mean we are free to abuse their right to existence. Yes, there is a law of food chain but I am sure there was no desperate need to kill that innocent Pig. It was killed so that few people could eat his flesh, drink some cheap country liquor and make merry. Its tough to get birth as a human and its sad to see few brainless souls spoiling their karma for momentary pleasures.

The Pig’s howls became more painful every second. I stood there frozen, wondering what to do. I am no activist & didn’t have any number in my mobile contact list that could save that poor soul in the next few minutes I had. Few rickshawallas enjoying the scene looked at me, smiled and said, “Madam, this is a usual scene. They will have a feast tonight. What good was this Pig for anyway…hehe” I felt my blood boil & I wanted to tell them to first go and kill so many human beings who too are no good to this world. Rather they leave no stone unturned to trouble others. Atleast this Pig hasn't done anyone wrong.

Pic Courtesy: Google Search

 The shouts reached a high & then subsided, getting lost in the sound of traffic. The Pig has had it enough. He had given up. He lay motionless & powerless, perhaps with few breaths left while the assaulters smiled & sighed with relief at a task accomplished.

I looked up at the sky and said a silent prayer. May God make those assaulters Pigs in their next birth.

Pic Courtesy:Google Search

Shave Or Crave

This post is a part of the 'Shave or Crave' movement in association with BlogAdda.com

Looking at his evening stubble, I roll my eyes & ask him, what is it that u crave? “Am I a gal that I will crave?” he says and walks away. “Men”…I say as I sip my coffee…

We women have a new craving every hour (pani puri, chocolate, shopping, coffee, breezer, Chinese, Italian…an endless list). The Martians (i.e. Men), on the contrary are so predictable, so plain.

If u plot a woman’s choice on a graph, the crests and troughs will drive u crazy...her ever changing moods, wants, desires.  A man’s choice as usual, would be a straight line parallel to x axis! Same socks, shoes, the tattering old t shirt he still holds on to, cricket (wait…cricket…but my man doesn’t even crave cricket!)

“The Gillette must be lying idle and he must be enjoying the smoothness of his single malt”, I grumbled

My cribbing continued…

Men have no cravings coz they get what they want. Even if they crave, they won’t show. Like a charmer, they will get their object of desire. So simple and smooth, just like their clean shaven face. When everything has to be so smooth, then why that evening stubble? Where does the penchant for smoothness go then?

Me wonderzzz…

We women are so brainy & brave

Frustration we hide and patience we save

Woo him first and then make him crave

Till he gets a smooth, clean shave…

As I plan, he comes, his eyes shine,

brings his gillete  shaven  face next to mine

I smile as I notice his shave

He whispers in my ears “It’s you I crave” 

This post is a part of the "Shave or Crave" movement in association with www.blogadda.com, "The biggest community of Indian bloggers"
This post is a part of the <a href="https://apps.facebook.com/425290917524532/?fb_source=search&ref=ts&fref=ts"
 title="Shave or Crave" target="_blank">'Shave or Crave'</a> movement in association with 
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Love thy neighbour

Why is it easier to remember bad memories than good ones? Why do sad songs have a huge fan following? Why does pain bind people stronger than joy? Why is it easier to have negative vibes for someone than have positive ones? Why is it easier to crib than to appreciate? Why is it comfortable to regret than to rejoice?

I wonder then, when we have so many people around, some of them like minded, why is pain tougher to share than joy? Why is pain such a private possession and we just hold on to it. Maybe because often, people we trust inflict pain on us, and we lose faith on the species called “Homo sapiens”. We might still be transacting with them, but something somewhere inside dies a natural death. Often because we fail to give it back to them…

I’ve met some amazing people in my life, who taught me the meaning of joy, loving, sharing, caring, altruism, optimism. And at the same time, I have met those who have hurt me, let my hopes down, shamelessly been dishonest with me, be greedy with me, displayed their hypocrisy, tried to stab my positivity. But, as the New Year arrives, here I am. Still there, stronger than ever, independent than ever, more successful than the failure those people wished for me, more patient than their provocations, more positive than their efforts to suppress me. But, one thing that’s lacking is trust…unconditional trust, they have been successful in robbing me of trusting them. As I meet some of them even today, anything good or bad inside me for them dies a natural death.

Our karmas decide our fate, even the respect and love we command from others. Each one of us has our share of bad moments. And while all joy might not come from human sources, any and every pain sources down to a human being in our life. Maybe that’s why people find it easier to share their joys than sorrows, love to confide into an anonymous agony aunt/uncle, vent it out in their creativity, but refrain from sharing it with members of the same species…

Our species has existed for over 5000 years, yet we fail to share pain.

Even animals understand each other’s sorrows. No matter how much they fight, when one gets injured, the other does come to help. How can we human then, the best living beings considered on this planet, be so insensitive towards another one of us? Some of us get joy by inflicting pain, mental torture and malice on another human being. Even if not direct, some of us turn a blind eye to another human’s pain…often gaining sadistic pleasure…

Animals then are better than human beings….what you see is what you get…

Me wonderzzz…

Letter to Santa from a Delhi girl…

Dear Santa,

Welcome once again! I have been waiting for you eagerly & my new red stockings are ready too, waiting for their treat. Thanks so much Santa for the new stilettos last year. They were a rage at the parties! It was fun to flaunt them as other gals felt J.

But this year, I don’t want any boots. I don’t even know if I will be ever able to party freely the way I used to. You wanna know why?

A few days ago, a girl in my city was gang raped brutally by men while she was on her way home after watching a movie. She was in a bus at 9pm (well before our parties begin!), was clad decent enough & was accompanied by a male friend when this happened.

This incident has shaken the city so much. My parents have set a 8pm deadline to come back. No late nights. Combined studies mean having to wrap up before dark else stay over at friend’s house where my brother will pick me up from. No shorts. No short skirts. I feel I am in a jail! Mother tells me it’s all to protect me. The city has become very unsafe & they don’t want me to face any trouble.

But Santa, why do I and my female friends face the brunt of a handful of maniacs? It is about the problem of a few men with a psychotic brains and lustful eyes. It is they who should be leashed, not us. If dogs go mad, they are locked, not the people. Unfortunately, here, there are just too many of them (the dogs aka rapists) and by the time you know they have a problem, they have already attacked innocent girls.

I don’t want fancy gifts this year Santa…RATHER…

I want my freedom back. What is the point of having good clothes & shoes when I can’t party? What is the point of living in a happening city when I can’t enjoy the night life? I want the freedom to live my life MY WAY. I want the freedom to wear whatever I like without the dogs staring at me with hungry looks. I want my parents to be relaxed the next time I take public transport at night. I want my government to act to the concerns of millions of girl like me. In the freezing cold this morning, canons of water were fired at my friends who went to India Gate today to participate in non violent protests. Santa, I want the government to work on the rape laws & accused instead of troubling innocent people. I don’t want the accused to walk away with the loopholes in our judiciary system. I want severe punishment for the accused so that next time such men think twice before striking at a girl. Santa, I want justice for that girl – an eye for an eye.

And finally Santa, I want a speedy recovery for that girl & strength for her family. She has endured enough and so have we – the girls of Delhi.

Donno Santa if all this will fit the red stockings, but I know you have never disappointed me…I shall be waiting….

Merry Christmas!

Wake Up

Last week I was to make a presentation on Argentina Peso crisis. The more I read about it, the more I thanked God I am born in India. I was glad that unlike the super corrupt system of Argentina, where everybody from corporate to government was abusing people’s interests, we have RBI that make sure the finance ministry always doesn’t have its way. I was glad I was not born in Europe, where every second country is suffocating with debt & gasping for bailouts. I was glad I was not born in a country where Malala was shot for exercising her right to education. I was glad I was not born in a country where Bibi Aisha’s nose was chopped off for escaping an abusive marriage.

The night of Sunday, December 16, 2012 proved me wrong…

In my own city that I am so proud of (read my blog label: Dilli Meri Jaan), a 23 year old was brutally gangraped. Her ordeal didn’t end there. She was so badly abused that she suffered permanent damage to her small intestine. Even if she survives, she would never be able to enjoy a normal meal like us since her intestine has been removed. What was her fault? That she was a girl & the assaulters thought they were men enough to teach her a lesson this way. Few dirty fish contaminate the entire pond. Unfortunately, here, the fish are “many”. If you think rape & lewd comments are the only abuses we women need to watch out for, take a second thought. 

Born and brought up in Delhi, I have seen rampant eve teasing since childhood. Be it the “acting fresh” in public transport or passing lewd comments. Sometimes it’s a passive torture. Mere hungry looks suffice for a “visual rape” even if from a distance. Since this isn’t confined to a particular area or a particular set of people, girls are taught to be careful, take precautions, come back home timely & take a male along if out in late hours. But that’s what the hapless girl did on that unfortunate night. She was in a public transport, with a male friend and 9pm isn’t that odd a time for a city that parties all night.

Much has been said and done about the issue. The agitating crowds at Rajpath shouting “we want justice”, government’s futile attempts to suppress the uprising, the press conferences, the lathicharge, a press conference and again a lathicharge.

From the ill fated night to today’s lathicharge, it is the common junta who’s suffering. The other day a minister was heard empathizing with the people saying he too has 3 daughters. How many times have they travelled in a public transport without security?

Delhi is said be “dilwaalon ki dilli”. Be it Anna, baba ramdev or any other movement, the people have always come out in support, undeterred by lathicharge. Why isn’t it payback time now. Instead of just issuing emotional statements, why can’t the celebs and leaders come out with the people in the cold and contribute to the non violent movement?  I’m sure, the police would think twice before raising their lathi on a celeb…

Me wonderzzzz….

One evening in an auto…

When you’re back to Delhi after a while, the first thing you want is to rush to the kitchen and gorge on some homely delicacies. And the last thing u want is nonsense on the way home. Back to Delhi after a fortnight, I was super eager to be on time for a family dinner, especially since it wasn't at my place (so no cooking, serving or cleaning)! Not wanting to waste time, I took an auto from Dhaula Kuan, where my Rajasthan Roadways bus had dropped me. Unless you are not familiar with the Delhi auto protocols, you will definitely be taken for a ride. First thing first, no matter how many checks and rules our reformist govt comes up with, Delhi autowallahs will NEVER go by the meter. They will give some excuse or the other and would rather abandon u on the road than take the meter. If you go for the non meter option, the amount they quote depends more on their impression of yours than the distance to be covered. If you are a single woman looking for an auto post sunset, they will quote 30% more and remind u every 2 seconds later that it’s getting “late” madam! Wow! If u are soooo concerned about our safety, then better get your act right first and turn OFF your X ray eyes!

Anyway, if you are new to the city, or don’t want any mess, prepaid auto booths are best option. So I happily paid the money and boarded my auto. The auto wallah, chewing pan masala and donning a gamchha gave me an “X Ray” look and asked me…”madam, kahan ki slip lee hai?” The moment I uttered Karol Bagh, his face turned pale, as if I had said “Khooni Bagh” instead of “Karol Bagh”. He rushed to the prepaid booth cop and pleaded just like a student pleads for extra 5 minutes in an exam. But cops and teachers maintain their rules. So the guy was back, grumbling to himself. Pissed off, I asked him to return my receipt if he didn’t want to go. “It’s not like that madam, u see these cops don’t listen to us. Just now a Volvo came with Good passengers…but I will miss it now.” “Good passengers, what does he mean, I am a bad person? He doesn’t even know me. How can he call me bad?” I was about to shout at him when he started cribbing about his poverty & how he badly looks for long route passengers. “Oh, it’s the route that’s got to be Good”…I got it now.

He said “It’s so cold madam, I will have to go home and cook now. It’s so tough to live alone.” I was more interested in reaching home fast than listening to his cribbing. Experience has taught me when u are not interested in someone’s sob story, the “Hmm” always works. So, I gave an occasional “Hmmm” every now and then so that he doesn’t get offended and quickly takes me home.

However, my ordeal had just begun. Apparently the “Hmm” was enough encouragement for Mr. Chipkoo to carry forward the conversation. Within 5 minutes, he told me he is from Allahabad, stays alone near bypass, parents looking for a match, and even asked me how new was I to Delhi, whether I stayed with my family & whether I lived in my own house/rented accommodation. His too much too soon irritated me. “Rent pe rehney waalon ko discount detey ho kya bhaiya?” I asked. “Nahi madam, I wanted to know if being from Delhi, your parents have managed to own a house.” He said in his strong accent. We were on the unsafe ridge road & his questions were beginning to scare me now. I thought it safer to give him all fictitious details so that he doesn’t pester me just in case he is a psycho….so I told him I was living in a rented accommodation with my family.

That didn’t seem enough, for Mr. Chipkoo then said,”Madam, u are lucky u will get home cooked food & won’t have to cook like me. Do have a married brother whose wife cooks for you?” I’ve had it enough. I wished my adidas  shoes had a 3 inch pencil heel I could hit him with. “Bhaiyya, I am the daughter in law. And I cook, so u don’t tell me these stories” “You married madam? He looked around and gave me and “X Ray” look. Eeeeks! And he just kept looking back. “Accident ho jayega bhaiyya. Aagey dekho.” I said. “Nothing madam, I …. Could not make out from your attire….blah blah blah…this is a city…girls wear anything…blah blah blah”. I wished I had taken a bus. There are so many passengers there the driver wouldn’t care to talk to them. I looked at my phone. No signal. I couldn’t even call my husband to save me from this nonsense.

What followed then was even worse. He began some silly sob story about his parents trying to find a match, his love interest, who coincidentally met him in the same auto. She too like me, was a passenger, was talking to him like me (when did I do the talking?). How she fed him roasted peanuts as he drove her around. How she held his hand & proposed him. How he took her to the hotel for dinner and…

By now my frustration & irritation seemed no bounds. I was no longer interested in listening to this B grade movie script & to what happened in the hotel after dinner. So I pretended to call my husband. “Mere pati gussa ho rahey hain ki main late ho gayee hun.” I interrupted his nonsense. “Koi baat nahee madam, hum bhaiyya ko samjhaa dengey kitna tirraafffic thhaa.” Mr. CHipkoo was in full mood to meet my husband. Phew!

I was feeling really unsafe now. He was more irritating than the character of Vinay Pathak in Bheja Fry. Who knows, even a psycho who stalks women boarding his auto. I didn’t want him to see which house I entered. So I asked him to stop two lanes before my brother in law’s house & rushed home. I had escaped the torture of Mr.Chipkoo’s pulp fiction stories! Finallly!

Can’t say if this will deter me from taking an auto next time, but here are a few takeaways I have from this experience -

1. A simple “hmmmm” is also conversation.

2.  Delhi autowallahs are shameless not only with their “X Ray” vision & “rates” but also with their stories.

3.    No matter how much courage & tact you display, all husbands think their wives are fools & they never let go of their “what you should have rather done” moments.