Do fashionable girls invite rape?

Do fashionable girls invite rape?

IHM has written extensively about this topic, and there really isn’t much more than I can add. However, here are my two cents.

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In what seemed to be a re-enactment of the origins of the Slut Walk, Andhra Pradesh top cop Dinesh Reddy recently made a statement that ‘women who wear fashionable clothes provoke men, leading to increase in rape cases’. He indicated that modern and fashionable women are more prone to rape, BECAUSE of their inappropriate dressing. While many people were outraged, many others have applauded him on his courage!!

I lived in India for most of my life, and I can tell you for a fact, that EVEN IF YOU ARE COVERED FROM HEAD-TO-TOE you are still very much at the risk of being sexually abused.

For starters, how easy or difficult do you think it is for a woman to travel in a crowded bus without being touched inappropriately by a fellow passenger?! A young child, a teenager, a mother of two kids – nobody is spared. As long as one is a woman, she is likely to be molested at some point in time. Do you know how many middle-class woman living in Mumbai carry a sharp safety pin while travelling on a crowded local train? I was advised this ‘technique’ when I lived in Mumbai for a couple of months.

The groping, pinching and other lecherous behaviour that happens all the time, on our Indian roads and public transport is beyond a civilised person’s imagination!! To blame that sort of lecherous behaviour on the clothes of the victim sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?

A potential rapist sees his victim as an object and nothing else. There are no statistics to prove that a woman wearing a modern dress is more likely to get raped as compared to a woman who is conservatively dressed.

This article (see link) talks about molestation statistics in our Capital city, New Delhi. Atleast one woman is molested EVERY DAY.

Are we really so naive as to believe that all those women who were molested or raped were dressed ‘inappropriately’ or ‘fashionably’?!

How about our villages? Those poor women are not dressed ‘fashionably’, and yet they suffer the humiliation and trauma of rape.

For a country that claims to treat women as ‘goddesses’, statistics surprisingly indicate an increasing amount of crime against women!!

Also, do read this shocking extract from http://www.thp.org/reports/indiawom.htm

‘In recent years, there has been an alarming rise in atrocities against women in India. Every 26 minutes a woman is molested. Every 34 minutes a rape takes place. Every 42 minutes a sexual harassment incident occurs. Every 43 minutes a woman is kidnapped. And every 93 minutes a woman is burnt to death over dowry.

One-quarter of the reported rapes involve girls under the age of 16 but the vast majority are never reported. Although the penalty is severe, convictions are rare.’

Let’s get to the ROOT of the problem.

This interesting link describing the various causes of rape

Every single reason for rape (lust/show of power/etc.) has entirely to do with the mindset of the rapist, and NOT the outfit of the victim.

The problem is not that girls are getting influenced by the West and/or are wearing fashionable clothes, thereby ‘provoking’ men.

Rape happens IRRESPECTIVE of the victim’s outfit and NOT BECAUSE of it.

If we take a step backward and analyse the situation, we find that our society is plagued by a strong ‘rape culture’.

Wiki defines this rape culture as:

‘a culture in which rape and sexual violence against women are common and in which prevalent attitudes, norms, practices, and media condone, normalize, excuse, or tolerate sexual violence against women.  Examples of behaviors commonly associated with rape culture include victim blaming, sexual objectification and rape apologism’

As a society, we still tend to BLAME THE VICTIM. We believe that the victim is responsible, either directly or indirectly.

That way, we not only transfer the burden of rape on the woman, but also seek to excuse the rapist for his barbaric behaviour.

Statistics have not been able to prove the link between the victim’s outfits and incidence of rape. Please read an extract from this link ‘Through a Rapist’s Eyes’. Though this is applicable to the US, the underlying issue is very relevant to India too:

‘There is no data to suggest that a potential victim is at greater risk because of how she is dressed. Remember, 70-80% of assailants are known to their victim, so tactics of stranger rapists aren’t needed.’

More statistics only support the above statements by revealing that around 2/3rds of rape are committed by known persons rather than strangers!

Therefore, the point is – Rape is PREMEDITATED. To claim that a girl wore fashionable clothes, thereby provoking and INVITING rape is baseless.

And for those who really believe that covering ones’ self from head-to-toe protects you from rape, please do read this bold article.  Rape happens even with women who are completely covered behind a veil.

To be fair, I do understand that wearing revealing clothes might attract more attention in a country that is sexually repressed! But does that justify rape? NO. Rape is crime and you cannot simply BLAME the victim by the flimsy excuse that ‘she was wearing fashionable clothes’!

I think this comment on Yahoo beautifully sums it up: ‘A rapist has a totally different mindset. It’s much more sinister, because he is actually serious about his plans. And to a real rapist, the outfit probably doesn’t matter much at all’

The need of the hour is not guidelines on Indian women’s Dress Code, but concentrated efforts to get out of this gross rape culture.

There is no such thing as a ‘right to rape’!! The quicker we realise it, the better for us to evolve into a truly civilised society!

Please, do share your thoughts on this.

Last Letter Written (fiction)

It wasn’t until late December that I found the envelope. It was addressed to no one. It bore the seal of ‘Vrindavan Home for the Aged’. That is how I realised it (perhaps) belonged to my father.

Before you stand on high moral ground and fire me for having sent away my old (and ailing!) Dad to the Home, do try to understand, and if possible, even believe that I truly did not want to send him there. At sixty, he was fit as a fiddle. We used to fight over the TV every evening, and would both finally lose to my son, who decided that Ben Ten was the right programme for us. So we, the boys of the house, would sprawl on the sofas and watched the inane aliens fight gory wars.

I digress. Like I said, the envelope, slightly yellowed and crushed, was addressed to no one in particular. It just bore my address. I assume my Dad had written it for me! Which made me curious, as he was not the sort of person who would write letters! If my memory serves me right, he was particularly not fond of reading or writing. So this was special. I didn’t quite want to open it. The last two months had been rather painful. First, the agony of losing him. Second, the fact that I had left him to die alone. I can never get over it. Ever. And third (perhaps, the most important reason) – I was afraid… of what the letter might contain!!

It was my birthday. In no mood to celebrate, I decided I would open the letter after all…

My dearest,

You know how much I hate to write!

Bang on! This was definitely from Dad!! My lips curved into a smile.

I want to let you know something… its been on my mind ever since you left me.

I stiffened. It was not like I left him! It was HE who decided to leave us. Vidya and I pleaded. So did little Prithvi. But he had made up his mind.

Home away from Home

I like this place they call ‘Home’. Its spacious, airy, the nurses take care of me. I have no complaints.

I visited him almost every Saturday. I would take his favourite food. Sometimes, Vidya and Prithvi came along, at other times, they didn’t. Dad would always recognize Prithvi, no matter what! The moment he saw his chubby little grandson, his wizened face would break into a smile. I felt relived that he liked the Home.

But you know… I want to write this before I can forget everything.. before my traitor of memory fails me. Sometimes I cannot even remember your face. At other times, I feel like you are standing right next to me. I know you are there. Its just, I don’t remember who exactly you are ..  or at times, who I myself am!! I have to confess that part is a little scary.

Lost (image courtesy healingwithnutrition dot com)

So that was why he wrote the letter!! When he was first diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, it had come as a brutal shock to all of us.

On most days, he was very normal. The same old Dad who steadily picked his nose as he sat in his oversized armchair, watching children play cricket on the street! On other days, he would turn into a complete stranger. He would just stare at the ceiling. At times, he would simply grab the nearest object and smash it into the wall. He would walk down the street, to buy a packet of chicory, and wouldn’t return home until dark, when one of us would go in search of him, only to find him sitting on a broken bench, looking dazed and confused.

Finally it was he who suggested being moved to the Home. We wanted him around. He, however, was adamant. He left a day after Prithvi’s fifth birthday. We had a great party. He joined in the fun. I almost called the Home to cancel the move. But the next morning, he woke very early, bathed, and packed a little holdall with a couple of shirts and bare necessities. He did not give us any opportunity to try and persuade him against going. Before he left that morning, he blessed us with wishes for a ‘long and happy married life’, and said, very simply, and as a matter-of-fact, ‘Tell Prithvi I love him the most!’

When Prithvi returned from school that afternoon, he searched for Dad in every room of the house! And when he didn’t find him there, he cried himself to sleep.

There’s one little person I always seem to remember. A lovely cherubic little boy. Let me try to recall.. Preetham.. or was it Prithvi? Yes, I think it is Prithvi. My darling little angel. He visits me often. I can’t often remember his name, but I know that he is part of my soul.

I fought hard to blink back the tears. Dad wouldn’t be kind to anybody who cried at the drop of a hat!!

So, my dearest, I had better finish this letter quickly, as I might just not remember about it in some time.

Very often, nurses wipe tears rolling off my cheeks. Sometimes, they say ‘tut..tut..’ and walk away, cursing (in a rather filmy style!) my ‘supposedly wicked’ son who they think has left me here.

Little do they know, that these, in fact, are tears of joy.

Joy at a life well lived. This is the happiness of a husband, who found a good and loving wife. The pride of a father, who raised a strong and caring son. And also, the yearning of a grandfather. Whose only (albeit greedy) wish was that he had a few more years to spend with his grandson, frolicking in the park, or sneaking away from the watchful and loving eyes of his Mummy, to lick an ice-cream cone. But then, I’m just being ungrateful.

I could have lived with our children. But you know, much as I hate to boast, I think our son adores me! So does Prithvi. I want them to remember me as their Hero. Not as a senile patient who couldn’t recognize them! No. That wouldn’t work for me.

So, this is my big secret. I want you to know, my dearest, that every time I remember us, and cry, it is only to say that I have lived a very happy life.

I think I will see you soon.

Dad’s last letter. It had not been written for me. Or for Prithvi. But for Mum. I was stunned, at how Dad never let us see how much he missed her. I hoped they were together again.

To me, the letter had a cathartic effect. I don’t know if I can ever stop feeling guilty, but this day, I felt a little better. He knew what he was doing. And he did it not just for me, but also for himself.

I guess he was right afterall. When I think of Dad, I only recall a tall, strong man, who would throw Prithvi up into mid-air and catch him as he fell squealing with delight. I remember him as a level-headed counsellor, who simply declared that every workplace had its share of politics, and it was upto me to handle it or steer clear! Vidya remembers him as a loving father, who would make her a cup of ‘straang filter kaapi’ when she returned home from work every evening.

And Prithvi.. well, he does not remember much of him. When we happen to mention Dad, he perks up, curious to know more about his childhood friend. We cite him examples of how Dad used to pretend to be his Horse and ‘giddy up’ as Prithvi ordered him to! Prithvi chuckles shyly when we mention such incidents.

Often, he walks into Dad’s old room (that has now been converted into a Study) as if looking for something.

Sometimes, I follow him, and find him gazing at a picture of Dad’s. At other times, I find him dozing in the big arm-chair.

Well, whatever it is he is doing (or not doing!), I get the feeling this room is his favourite haunt. He seems happy here.

As for the letter, I placed it back in its envelope, labelled it as ‘First Letter Written’ and tucked it far, far away inside my wardrobe. I could perhaps give it to Prithvi when he is grown up enough to be deceived by ‘Success’ manifesting itself in the form of money or fame?! Will it make any sense to him, I wonder…

Or perhaps, I will simply start writing a letter of my own…. hoping that I too, can be a Hero to my son, as Dad is to me.

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To read my other pieces of fiction, please click here. Thank you!

Secret of the TV Wall – My first 3WW

I’ve been following the very interesting 3WW at Intrepid Dreamer’s blog for the last couple of weeks. Every week, I manage to miss it… and today, finally, I landed at the page on a Wednesday 🙂 So here’s my entry:

3 words: Engulf, Imminent, Tamper

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Daughters. Sons. Grandchildren. They huddled around the hospital bed. She was 90. Frail, weak. ‘Some water, Ma?’ the youngest daughter asked. Ma shook her head. Very slightly. ‘Wi…’ she muttered. Nobody heard. They were far too engulfed in sorrow. Much as they had hated the old hag, the fact was, they had spent a lifetime with her. Living off her ancestral wealth! ‘Wi…’ Ma said again, this time, a little louder.

The eldest daughter heard. ‘Did you want something, Ma?’ A look of exasperation crossed Ma’s wrinkled face. She motioned to the  wall across the huge hall, on which hung a massive TV. The ‘TV wall’ was famous within family circles. It was supposed to have a secret brick, which, when removed, would reveal the ‘Keys’. Keys to what? That nobody knew. Except Ma.

They crowded closer by her bedside, to get a better view. Or to hear better, as the case might have been!

‘Go on Ma, tell us..’ the eldest grandchild coaxed.

‘Wiiiiiii…’ Ma urged, motioning wildly towards the ‘TV Wall’ with both hands.

Murmurs arose within the closed room.

‘Wall? Is she pointing at the wall?’

‘Shush…quiet.. I think she means her Will. That’s what she’s been hiding behind the TV all these years!’

‘Tee hee, Granny wants to wee ;-)’ giggled the youngest of the brigade.

‘Wow.. a Will.. Wow!!’ the older ones whispered in sheer admiration. A real mystery, that too, in their otherwise mundane, insignificant little lives!

The macho men in the room took big strides towards the TV wall, and tried to pry the TV off from its stand.

Ma raised her eyebrows in alarm.

‘Don’t worry Ma, we will give you the Will in a minute..’

Ma shook her head, and lifted both hands towards the heavens above.

The daughters nodded wisely. ‘We know, you’ve waited all these years to share this moment with us…’

Ma clutched her head, and with all her energy, managed to pull out some perfectly silvery hair.

‘What’s wrong, Ma? Are you not happy? We won’t tamper with your Will, don’t you worry! Your wish will be our command! We swear!!’

Ma shook her head, rather vigorously.

‘My end … is imminent!!’ Ma cried.

‘Be brave, Ma, it is us who will be left alone..  Come, let’s atleast read your last wishes in the will now‘, the daughters sobbed. A small, empty bottle of glycerine lay in the dustbin under the bed.

The men were still working hard at removing the TV. ‘Fetch the screwdriver, you fool! We don’t have all day!!’ shouted the elder son to the younger.

There was chaos all around. Men hunting for a Will. Women waiting for the hunt to end! Children whispering animatedly, at what would be in the Will!

Until finally, ‘Crash!’ Ma grabbed the glass of water by her bedside, and threw it on the floor, with all her might.

‘Can you dumb fools stop breaking my new flatscreen TV?’ she managed to scream.

The daughters looked at each other, in disbelief. Sons and grandsons heard it loud and clear. They turned around, confused!

‘But.. but what about your Will?’ the daughters questioned, tears having disappeared rather magically.

‘My Wi…’  Ma whispered again.

‘Your will, dearest Ma?’ the youngest daughter cooed.

‘Shut up, you useless fools. No damn will. And no bloody money. I’ve donated everything before you vultures came to my deathbed. Now give me my damn Wii from the rack beside the TV. I want to play one last game!’

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… To read my other pieces of Fiction, please click here…Thanks!!

The reticent (flash fiction)

Reticent. That is what best describes me. Probably. My mum would have found the right word. Had she been around. Infact, had she not left, I would probably not be – reticent.

Picasso's 'Mother and Child' (Image courtesy: Google images)

She was wonderful – my mother. I don’t remember her being pretty. Nor attractive. But when she came to collect me from school, my friends would spot her bulky frame, run towards her to greet her. They would tell her about what they did in the classroom that day. She would be all smiles. Crows-feet around her eyes. Yes, that’s what I remember most about her. When she smiled, her eyes would sparkle. And crows-feet would form around the corners. She would laugh heartily at what Gabbi or Maya said. Or at Ben screaming like a Dinosaur! If Sophia hung onto the fence, crying for her Mommy, my mum would promptly tell her ‘Don’t worry darling, I saw your Mommy on the way, she is going to be here very soon!’

And all the time, I would watch – hiding behind a play tent –her eyes would be looking for me. Searching… searching…And when they found me – they would light up, like she had witnessed fireworks in the sky!!

Anyway. The days we spent at the hospital. She would lie limp on the bed. I would chatter. Incessantly. She would smile. Mostly! Sometimes, she would simply ask me to ‘shush‘. I couldn’t. Well, that’s me. Excited, animated, energetic. I think – well, I know – that that spirit is what she loved most about me.

That last day, I went to wake her up. And when she did, I ..I .. cannot explain. Pale, ashen face. Hollow eyes. Dry, cracked lips. Almost, an ugly ghost in the place of my beautiful mother.

I shrank. ‘Go Away!!’ I screamed. I ran out of that room, screaming ‘Just go away!!’. That was the last I saw of her. They didn’t allow me at her funeral. They thought I was too young.

How do I remember – you might ask. You see, some things – events, faces – just get etched – deep, deep down – somewhere.. somewhere beyond even Memory! Just like a photograph. Flash, click. The moment captured – for eternity.

Sometimes, I wake up, looking for her. Wake up right in the middle of a dream – Of me waiting behind my school fence. Hiding behind a play-tent. My eyes, searching. Searching…

Sometimes, I pretend to go back to sleep and continue the dream – and try to imagine that I’ve found her.

Her face is beautiful again. I cannot bring myself to see her ‘other’ face. Even in a pretend dream – it is too difficult.

I simply stand and stare. She waits, with a smile that lights up her face.

And I? I have so much – just so much – to say to her. I have to tell her that Maya hurted my feelings. That Ben invited me to his birthday party. That.. that..I’m so clever that I know all about the continents.

But not a word comes up to my lips. My dry, cracked lips. And suddenly, my mind goes blank. There is only one thing that I want to say. Only one.

But my throat hurts so bad, that I’m unable to bring myself to say it … ‘Mummy, I’m sorry I got afraid’.

You see, I am reticent. I really am. Because none of it matters any more.

Chennai Diaries – Part 1

Debs gave me this idea.. to write about the little incidents that happen here, during my short stay in Chennai! So let me shoot…

* We took this arduous journey of almost 17 hours to reach Chennai! It was an indirect flight, via Bombay (I cannot yet bring myself to say Mumbai!). Inflight, it was stuffy and warm, and I had a splitting head-ache for half the journey! Then the plane hovered around for about 30 minutes in the air, because it couldn’t land due to air-traffic congestion!! We finally reached home at 5:30 am!! Luckily, my favourite nephew was awake to welcome us, so that eased away all the trouble of travelling!!

* We were jet-lagged for the first three days. The Chennai weather did nothing to help us out. Strangely, until the day we landed, (we are told), the weather in Chennai was supposedly awesome.. warm during the day, but chill at night! Sigh!

* Just as I recovered from jet-lag, my paternal Grandma passed away. The family was expecting it for a couple of weeks, as she was ailing, but when the phone rang at 12:30 am, it was a bit of a jolt!!

* This morning, I witnessed an ‘auto fight’ 🙂 It was fun. Fun, because the auto-driver was negotiating with a foreigner over the fare to be paid! For non-Chennai-ites, you must know something – Chennai autos do not believe in the concept of ‘metre readings’ or ‘fair fares’ 🙂 they believe in harassing and fleecing ‘savaari’ or passengers 🙂 So we saw this auto driver arguing with a foreign lady. And the Hero that my Dad likes to be, he shouted at the auto-driver and said, foreigners will think we are all beggars! The dutiful daughter that I am, I supported him, by saying ‘What will ‘they’ think of ‘us”. Only to realise, after a few minutes, that the auto-driver was actually asking for a reasonable amount. And that the poor foreigner was actually leaving a posh silk-saree shop!!! So much for ‘hospitality’ towards ‘foreigners’ 🙂

* A strange conversation with my dearest maternal grandmother this evening. According to our custom, the son/family is not allowed to perform anything auspicious or even visit temples/undertake pilgrimage for 1 year from the time of death in the family. I was cribbing about this insane custom to my grandma. When she said, that as a young girl of about 6 or 7, she remembers being shocked at a woman in her village (Poondi), who lost her husband, and confined herself to the four walls of her house for an entire year!!!

While I think this is outrageous, there could be a couple of reasons for such a stupid custom…

1- The family is in mourning, so they cannot venture out. One year was probably a fair enough period for them to ‘move on’.

2- The family cannot afford to undertake anything, be it a function or pilgrimage, as people did not save quite that much in the olden days!

3- The widow must be protected from other men (or women) who might try to take advantage of her frail situation.

While I found all the above utterly insane, one point that my Grandma made was striking! She said ‘It is specifically at such a time, that the bereaved family needs support from other people’, so to cut them away from the rest of the world is insane! Kudos to my Grandma for saying that!

* The rich-poor divide in India has always been talked about. Infact we have lived our entire life through this divide, struggling each day, to ensure we are on the right side!! But the more we look around, the deeper this divide gets imprinted in our mind. Yesterday, I went to get my old watches repaired, and spent about Rs.340 on them. Then I realised my slipper had snapped, so decided to buy a new one. In the meanwhile however, I spotted a cobbler, and got the slipper mended by him. The man sat hunched, cruching in the little shade that the bare tree could offer. He did his job, and when I handed out a Rs.20 note, he returned Rs.15 to me. It struck me as so unfair. That labour is so cheap!! What would that man do with such a meagre amount of Rs.5??? Even if he repaired 20 pairs of slippers that day, he would not make more than Rs.100… on his good days, probably Rs.250 or 300? Or Rs.500 perhaps? Is that enough, TO LIVE A LIFE OF DIGNITY?????

* We had an awesome little blogger’s meet this afternoon. Uma, Kanagu, Aarthi, Vimmu (who made a guest appearance), Anish and yours truly met up and had a ball!!! We did take some pictures, but I have this bad feeling that I’ve accidentally deleted the pics I took. So I bank on Uma to upload her pics on FB. Oh, and she baked this yummylicious and totally drool-worthy chocolate cake for us 🙂 that we ate secretly under the tables, when the power went out!!!

* And finally, this evening, came the awful news of IHM’s daughter. Tears rolled freely, as I read Tejaswee’s blog. And a particular post called ‘On dying early’. My deepest condolences to dear  IHM. I feel choked. So I have to sign off now.

More later…..

A promise unkept

Just before Granny’s surgery, we spoke. ‘When you come here, meet me FIRST, Ok?’ she made me promise. I landed, jetlagged. She was feverish. I forgot all about the promise I had made.

I went this morning, to see her body.

I hadn’t forgotten to bring her favourite chocolate. It now lies untouched. Like my promise, unkept.

Live Death

Innumerable homes in London are built on the banks of the river Thames. Every weekend, we see lines of middle-aged men seated patiently by the river, with a fishing rod in hand. They just sit there from morning till noon, calm, serene and absolutely content (atleast, that’s the way it seems).

Once the Brat actually went up to an elderly gentleman and asked him ‘Excuse me, Mr.Fisherman, can you teach me how to fish?’ To which the old man gave him a wry look and said ‘I’ve been here all day, and haven’t caught a single fish!‘. The brat didn’t get the irony ofcourse 😉 but it was funny!

Last Sunday, there was this much awaited SALE (:-)) at NeXt. So as soon as I woke up, I grabbed my purse and headed to the mall 😉 Knight in shining armour declared I was ‘official'(ly crazy). But then, the stores had all opened by 5:30 am, and on the high street, serpentine queues would have formed that early!! Technically, I was running late by almost 3 hours!!

Anyway, I digress. So as I crossed this little bridge across my house, I saw two Chinese guys apparently fishing in the river. ‘What a waste of time, they aren’t going to catch anything here!’ I thought to myself. But suddenly one of the guys jumped excitedly. He had caught a fish!! It was a nice silvery one, and not small by any means. Not too big either. From where I was watching, it seemed to be just a little bigger than the size of a palm.

I was quite excited for them! In the last six years here, I have never seen anybody actually catching a fish 🙂

But what followed after that, busted my bubble of joy 😦 The fish started jumping about, obviously struggling to get back into the water. I felt a little sorry for the fish. And then, while one guy tried to hold the fish down to the ground, the other guy took out his camera and took a video recording 😦 That was when I felt sick at the pit of my stomach.

This has nothing to do with being a vegetarian (which I am) or a non-vegetarian (which I used to be). I don’t wish to discuss ethics/morality/vaues in being or not being a vegetarian.

This is beyond that. It is about some creature that was alive and kicking a minute ago, but struggling now, to simply breathe and live.

And more importantly, this is about how someone can derive pleasure out of watching it die 😦 😦 😦 I don’t understand this.

Till death do us part

She is 93 or 94, maybe even older. Nobody knows her birthday. Or her parent’s names or lineage. The family simply knows her as ‘Paati’ (grandmother). I was never close to her. To tell you the truth, I was in fact a little wary of her sharp tongue and incisive words. Every we met she would tell me that I’ve grown darker and that my hair had thinned. Which made me angry, but which was, in all probability, the truth!

 

She was the typical old woman… she loved gossip – who married whom – against whose wishes – how many kids they had – one dark, the other fair, and so on. At 85, she was fit as a fiddle – she could still walk, climb stairs, and see everything clearly – things that were within eye range and way beyond! Which is certainly not the same I can say about myself. At 30+, I am terribly overweight and pant my life out to climb up just two flights of stairs!

 

Today she lies on a bed, weak, unable to move, unable to swallow. Still talking, enquiring about people the way she always does, (unintentionally) prying into things she has no business in, and reminiscing events – weddings, births, deaths – that occurred ages ago. Where she always took the trouble to be present, never once mentioning her small illnesses and discomforts. Of which we were ignorant, anyway!

 

Today she is in a world of her own. A world that is foreign to us, but one in which we still command a presence. Why ever not, for her entire life has revolved around us. She has seen every member of my family being born and growing up. Though we never cared to know much about her. And while we have made no place for her in our hectic life, we still are present in hers.

 

She has seen it all. The beginning of the century – the days of plenty. The days when she herself was a child, carefree and happy. She has survived the daunting phase of poverty, and the challenge of single-handedly bringing up eight children. And at the end of that tiring journey, she has also lived through the phase of being ‘unwanted’.

 

Today, as she lies in that bed, we squirm to see her suffer, and in our selfish interest, we want it to end. But then, in a remote corner of our heart, we want her to survive this too…. we want her and us, to escape the inevitable. We want her around just a little longer…until our children can grow up…until someone here gets married…or someone there has a child.

 

Because, the world isn’t so scary a place, if we can still make that weekly or monthly phone call to a ‘Mummy’ or a ‘Paati’ and unburden ourselves. If we can just talk about things as mundane as the grocery bill. And share our worries, without having to speak about it.

 

Today, as she withers away into a ‘certificate’ from the hospital, we want ‘her’ to take the enormous effort of consoling ‘us’. To say those words – ‘Don’t worry, everything is going to be Ok’, even if it really isn’t!

 

Because, as long as our elders are around, we can still, remain ‘children’. And Hope exists, for a happier Tomorrow. Till death finally do us part.

 

And life goes on.

 

 

Consciously Unconscious.

I could distinctly feel them clamping my hands and legs down to the table. They were talking in whispers. The big man came very close to me, and said sternly, “If you co-operate, we can get over with this in half an hour”. I nodded silently, fully aware, that I didn’t have another option. He placed a white cloth over my nose. As I breathed in, and my eyelids slightly fluttered, I felt the lights rapidly dimming. My hands and legs trembled, then froze. He had stuffed some cold object into my mouth. I didn’t know what it was, except that it made me helpless..unable to talk, to scream, to protest.

Within those milliseconds of my fading consciousness, there were hazaar thoughts fluttering uncontrollably in my mind.

“Its been ages since I met my friends…when was the last time I had a hearty laugh, almost a laugh of abandonment ? What fun we had, sitting at the college entrance, and revealing to every passer by, the name of the killer in that thriller movie ! Where is Meenu these days? Her girl must be four years old. How time flies!”

“What if something wrong happens with me now ? Can I face my parents again ? All those years they toiled to bring us up. Dear Daddy must be watching the IPL match now.”!

“Will Mumbai or Chennai win the IPL series? Chennai! Chennai! I can atleast gloat in reflected glory ;-)”.

“How cramped is Chennai now. Hot, crowded, fast-paced. Incredible India indeed…takes an hour to commute the shortest of distances. In my next birth, I’d like to be born in America. Nah, America is a scary place”.

Talking of re-incarnation brought back a devotional song to my mind … translating into: “O Lord! Make me a temple bell in my next birth”.

Made me wonder, “Is that what I really want ?”. “Or am I so deep-rooted in this quagmire of material goods, that I am actually enjoying drowing in it ? The noise, the crowd, the competition, the budgets, the largely unnecessary quarrels…. the stress of just living ! Do I abhor this, or am I actually thriving on this?” I didn’t dare reply, too horrified to hear the answer.

Infact I couldn’t hear anything, anymore. It was dark all around, strangely quiet, almost vacuus. Then, abruptly, my thoughts stopped (phew!)…my senses were deadened. It was darkness all around. I couldn’t feel myself anymore.

Strangely, I wasn’t afraid. I was floating in the air….a surge of relief came over me, as I soared far away from the tethers of daily life. I had never experienced such restfulness before.

What was this quiet ? Death ? Or just a lull ? Is this forever ? Or will I be rudely thrown back into the gallows of life again?

I don’t know what happened with me in those thirty minutes. I didn’t care either. I only remember it ended too quickly.

I was woken up after half an hour, as the man had promised. It was all hazy. My hands and legs were slowly regaining the ability to feel. My throat felt a little sore. “Do you remember your name ?” he asked. Anxiety suddenly gripped me. “Why ? What are you saying ? Of course I remember.. its..its.. Priya”, I replied, still in a daze. I could hear my own alien voice blurting.

“Good”, he said. “The operation was successful, and your throat is fine now. Just don’t exert it too much. Your vocal cords are still tender”, he advised.

“Thank you, doctor”, I croaked, as my throat hurted. I couldn’t wait to get back home, do a bit of shopping, and chill out with a couple of friends.

(Somewhere deep down, those droplets of peace are already buried and forgotten, as if from a previous birth. They will probably resurface, when it is time to merge with that mighty, numbing ocean called Death.)