Four in every minute!

I remember a time, somewhere in 2002 or 2003, an ardent debater in middle school, I was picked up for the upcoming inter-school debate competition. My mother, who usually prepared me, helping me write the speech, rehearse it and think about it, asked my younger brother to leave the room. She wanted to discuss the motion with me and thought his age wasn’t appropriate to be party to it; the rise of rape! I must confess here that I knew much about the birds and bees before as she thought she was informing me.

However, I understood the sensitivity of the subject and the debate began. I’d often remember some powerful openings of my speeches for years. And this one I never forget.

Over 8000 women were burnt alive for dowry in a single year
Over 30% of women have their first sexual experience in a forced encounter
Every hour a woman is raped
Every minute a woman is harassed
Every minute four women are molested

I remember uttering these words at the dais, and I hear these words in disbelief every day; every day, for the figures make no sense today. Every day at least four rape cases are on national television. As for statistics, National Crime Record Bureau says two women are raped in India every hour. Double in a decade. What is appalling that now it’s out in the open, which otherwise I would appreciate, but an open that’s far scarier than truth.

14^th May 2013, Ghaziabad, a woman is slapped by male police officers for allegedly drinking and being in an obscene picture inside a car with a male companion, thrashed on camera, taken to the police station in the middle of the night.

As many would want to go by the book, it is a legal crime to drink in public, so she be fined. The book also prohibits the police to arrest a woman after sunset in the absence of a woman police officer. Follow the book? So follow it to the T. But the question goes far beyond. Even ignoring the fact of being taken in police custody in the absence of female police staff, beating a woman, or for that matter anyone, is justified? Lawful? Or moral at the least? She’s called obscene for her clothes. Oh yes! Back to basics and back to where I join the dots.

If there were statistics to prove that visible skin provokes/incites libido, I would sit hush. Women clad in modest salwaar kameez see the same fear as the one in a spaghetti top and skirt would see. A Pink trouser and a white top, was what she sported. The neighbourhood complained of nuisance and a lady in a salwaar kameez comes in abusing and slaps the girl in the police custody. Where is the book? Oh and in the entire episode the male companion is all left out with the legal charges slapped on him.

I guess mamma should have asked my brother to be in the room. Out in the open as I say, it’s essential that we realize it’s gone somewhere wrong how we’re bred. I use the word we as a collective. Sensitivity needs to be instilled, for we including me, my brother and my friends would at some point somewhere be guilty of ideas or words that would poke our female friends who (too as bred) take it without protest. It’s a long way and surely a difficult one, for the hefty aunty in the green salwaar kameez on that tape would still call a woman in pants a slut. For the head of the women’s force of the police department would still say, “children need to be taught. And the rod is okay if need be.”  For the police who need to protect would continue to harass.

I guess mamma should have let him stay, and I insist the teachers at my school take it up when we’re young. It has to be now out in the open for the book clearly does not work, lest in another ten years’ time a debate would start with more horrific figures.

In question of mourning

It hits you when all is silent. A very heart wrenching version of Anuradha Podwal’s Gayatri Mantra is playing. The room smells of roses and yes the agarbattis. The thin ribbon of smoke from the incense sticks rises up in front of her picture - bright purple saree, healthy and that evergreen smile. They say the picture should reflect the personality, what better than this? My eyes steel on her face and reels of memories flash.

Everyone knows all about it – Death! Much has always been spoken about it, written about it and thought about it. Yet we refrain from talking about it. Always by the side wife, caring mother of six girls, a loving grandmother of ten and a super great-grand mom of seven. What a life, what legacy. And with all that I know of her for twenty five years, I’m left with a cheerful image with that smile frozen in my head. I’ve seen her cry and have seen her unwell. I've seen her angry and have seen her worried. But these images are retrieved only on purposeful scanning. She’s always been here. Here, there, over the phone. Even when sick, which in her number of years she’s gone through a lot, her spirit has lifted her up, oh and yes with that graceful smile. And then one fine day, she’s gone. There’s grief. Much called for.

But I wonder what mourning is. Do we mourn for the one who’s gone, or for the society, or is it for our own selves? Those who've gone are gone because they were supposed to be gone. It is quite a repetition to say this that everyone needs to move on to the next stage. Do we cry for their purpose is done? Their roles have been played? All theories, philosophies – dharma, karma, cause and effect – all speak of how a soul gets going. Do we want to send them to their next purposes, ventures, crying? Would our crying help them?

Well, then does the society ask us to mourn? It’s essential that we talk of death and talk why. There’s a gathering immediately. They are all here to pay homage to the one who’s moved on. But as we mortals are – all experts we start with our interpretations of life and death. Our interpretations of Gita! Is mourning individual or is it societal compulsion? There are blurring lines. Why does one need to be worried how many attended one’s father’s mourning meet? Why do I see a few relatives always popping their heads to see if the gathering has increased or not? Why is it that festivals aren't celebrated for a year? If I am in grief I obviously won’t celebrate, on the contrary shouldn't one be pulled out of grief? Agreed that festivals are forceful agents of sorrow, reminders of loss, but they are also a chance to remember them happily and move on. Moreover, if otherwise one has moved on has made peace with oneself and one’s loss but doesn't celebrate for what would the people around say. Is it only to show to the society that we are sad? And how imperative is it for the society to see us sad? Where is the effort of bringing people back to normalcy? Sadly, this pushes us into the cauldron; men and their morals. We, including me who writes this, end up constructing the same society. We raise our eyebrows when one moves on rather quickly from any parting.

Then we perhaps mourn for our own selves. We understand the theories and the philosophies yet we feel sad. There are times when no words can console the ones who remain behind. I wonder then what aspect of death hits us. And it is almost obnoxious to say it point blank. But it is selfish. We cry for selfish reasons – for we find it difficult to part with loved ones. We cry because we find it difficult to live on. It is never that the gone soul misses anything on this mortal land.

People never leave; they are always here in their past and present lives. The Koran (Do not say in the name of Allah, they are dead; for they are alive even though you cannot see them. - 2:154) and the Bible tell us. Then why would we want to trouble them, mourning? We refrain from talking uncomfortable subjects. For non-believers there’s another urge. Why can’t we put our individual grief of parting aside and be happy for those who have left the land of countless suffering, for those who have moved on?

Philosophies keep changing, changing as the time carries us ahead. Life and its purpose? They are deep conversations. Soul and Body? Avoidable again. What remains is a life of love - given in abundance and you receive it in abundance.

The Reverse Closet

A homeless man lives on a pavement opposite a bar. He notices two men walk out of the bar. They seem to be talking loudly and animatedly, but not a word is issuing out of their mouths. They turn into an isolated alley next to the bar. He knows the alley. There’s no other exit. People who walk inside it never walk out. He’s been here for ages and yet never seen a soul walk out of the alley. Yet he sees the same people in the outside world. Time and again they walk into the alley and disappear. When he sees them in the outside world, he sees them in various emotional states. Sometimes he sees them happy. Sad, depressed, ecstatic, lost, way faring, he’s seen the entire roller-coaster of their lives sitting on this pavement.

He sees people go in everyday and never walk out. His curiosity finally gets the better of him and he goes behind these two guys. He only enters the alley to find it deserted, but hears the snap of a door closing. Baffled he looks around, and sees that there is a cupboard stationed at the end of the alley. It is a small closet, barely large enough to hide one person, forget two! But there’s no other possibility, there’s no escape. With mild confusion, he walks towards the cupboard and as he moves a jittery hand to open the cupboard, a man barks from behind, warning him not to do it. He warns him that it is a dangerous cupboard, that it is the work of Satan, that anybody who opens gets sucked inside, anybody who ever opened never came back out of it. He said that only weird people opened it. And though they never came out of it from this door, they could be seen frolicking around in the world and getting weirder! And others, whom he called normal people, others, he had heard, who opened it, were pulled inside by gnawing and clawing hands and were never seen it. This last part scared him, but those two who went ahead of him seemed perfectly normal, he thought. Were they sucked inside as the man with the barking voice mentioned? In that case, shouldn’t he help them? That man had already disappeared after issuing his warning.

With a steely resolve, he moved towards the closet once again. There is a dead silence in the alley, as if he’s walked too far from civilization. Cars can be seen passing through the road where he just came from, but no sound reaches here. As if there’s an invisible membrane. His hands shake as he opens the door of the closet. The door has an air of antiquity; it looks rickety yet as good as new. It doesn’t open with a creaking noise as he had expected, but with a dignified silence, but as it slowly opens, there rises in his ear a hum, which gradually increases. He’s scared, but the hum doesn’t seem to go past that invisible membrane. Only he can hear it. As the sound settles in his ear, he realizes that it is the sound of an infinite people talking, chatting, singing, dancing and going about their daily business. But it is pitch dark inside. He finds courage to enter the closet, and the moment he does, he can see. Maybe a light has switched on, he thought, but soon he realizes that only his eyes have slowly got accustomed. Inside it is the same world that is outside. The same people. The same cars, the same roads. He is standing in the same alley. It has the same things, and now that the initial air of familiarity has subsided, he notices that the clouds in the sky are different. They are darker, gloomier. There’s an air of melancholy, as if an elegy is being played. He spots the two people he had come chasing. They still seem deep in an animated conversation. But this time, he can hear them. He again sees the man who warned him and goes to tell him that his warning was unnecessary. But the other man sees through him and turns a deaf ear to his words.

The two men notice him finally. They see him making an effort to talk to a man who is ignoring him. They come and tell him that he would not see him nor listen to him. It’s his choice. He has chosen to do so. He tells him that he has entered a closet inhabited by those who are different from the others. They tell him that they are homosexuals. But they are not the only people who are different. Everyone who has entered this closet is different from those on the other side of the door. They tell him that you could see yourself as normal, but by choosing to enter this space, you have differentiated yourself from them as they don’t recognize us. They choose to ignore us, our rights, our very existence. And it’s worse when they do recognize us. Then they pelt us with stones. We see them but they don’t see us. It is them who have a limited field of view. It is them who have to come out of the closet. The homeless man looks back at the closet. It opened the other way.

By Shikhar Singh

http://www.facebook.com/shikharhaven?fref=ts

This Taj of mine

It shines sometimes,

Sometimes in yellow and

Sometimes in white;

Stands in darkness

Which it knows would

Move by.

It stands and stares

Or even smiles,

Over the journey gurgling by

A journey quite long

Here, calmly drifting away.

Reflections here

And reflections there

Shadows dark

And shadows light

O! This heart of mine leaves its

Reflections on the life moving by                 

O! This Taj of mine casts its

Shadows; be it day

Or be it night.

hues for a happy song

Look up

Up into the blues

Deep as they spread

Flashing their strokes of white

Blank at times

Or even wines.

Colours of wine and orange in it

Reds, or blank at times.

Blank and vast, silent

Look up

Colours that inspire

Inspire a happy song

A happy note

Gaze out

Out into those greens

Dense as they grow

Blooming their own shades

Dark, light or bright

Flashy or dull, or blank

Blank with none hanging

Or maybe yellows

That would fall

Their murmurs

Just a matter of gazing out

Hues that cheer up

Cheer for a happy song

Song, o! What a tune

Its just a matter of peeping down

Down into another blue

May be green added to it

Or dark, Or changing colour

With every new member of it

From light to dark,

Blue to green

Dark or white

With a silver sheen

Bouncing, gurgling

Frothing or lazing away

Just a matter of peeping down

Ripples that fade away

Fade glum for a happy song

Yes, such rhythm.

O! just a matter of searching out

Or even within

With hues plenty

And yes, their tints

Dark they remain

Eyes what they see or

Ears what they hear.

Its within, dark I

Perceive or hum

Little cheer

Colours plenty to

Paint a happy song

Just so many words

Just a matter of searching out

Out or even within,

Hues for a happy song

Autumn Leaves

Autumn leaves

In the autumn sun

Have left me dry,

Bare, my bone and skull.

Red, orange

And mostly yellow

They fall,

Sometimes one or in a pair

Listlessly drifting

Floating,

And carefully perching on the ground.

Sometimes many of them

As rain would pat;

Rain though many dodge

Often under my arms;

This rain they seem to enjoy

My fall.

Smile so many, shout out

Its sheer beauty,

My fallen is a yellow mat

And crisp, crunch

They rustle,

My fall.

They leave me

Bare, my bone and skull

All gone red, orange

And mostly yellow.

They pick one

Collect and keep.

Call it beauty

Even that I shed

Ere I don the new,

My green they look in awe

And also ogle eyes

Such love

Ogle eyes at my dry

Bare bone and skull

My fall.

That river

That river

That keeps flowing down

One moment here

And the other moment gone

A decision today and

A broken will again

A broken will and

A precarious fall now

Let the waters go

Let the sands sit

Let the sands be yours

Let the waters go

Swishing, gurgling

Gurgling and swishing

Lub-dub lub-dub

That river

That keeps flowing down

the high cliff!

It returned to me

My high tide

And I darted ahead

With my waters far and wide

He stood tall as always

And as always

I crashed at his feet

Again breaking in a cry

A terrible try

My tides mellow soon

My calmer waters complain

And cry of the playing moon

I’d gain my high again

Volatile with energy

I’ll jump high in vain

Yet

What else would a sea do

But to try that one embrace

That a tight one

That at the high cliff?

Reflections

its all about a reflection
reflection that you leave
reflection that you perceive
your reflection with ripples plenty
and plenty are the seas
its all a reflection
may be all but a reflection

A giggle here and a smile there :)

O! What does it take

To stretch a smile?

Those teeth in a lovely file

For the deepest black

You’ve ever known

Peep inside,

O peep everywhere

It’s all about a giggle here

And a smile there