Tragedy

Tragedy.

Tragedy

The feeling you get when you read the tragic end of a character in a work of art- and by characters of the tragedy, I do not mean the typical Aristotelian ones, but those like Nora or Blanche Dubois or Stanley or even Vladimir and Estragon- sounds familiar much?

That feeling which somehow renders your articulative powers inactive. You cannot say anything for a really long time. Moreover, a few veins and arteries near your heart seem to have got knotted tightly.

This, I believe, cannot be a result of anything you feel for the character. You feel this way because you know that you are or you could have been the character. You have seen people around you, close friends or distant relatives, who are or could have been those characters too. The knot near your heart and the loss of speech are a result of the fear arising from the certainty of the knowledge that you or those people will some day meet the same fate as the fictitious characters.

A little while later, you are able to think again. Then, one part of your brain congratulates you for being a good reader, the kind that writers love. But that part is soon overwhelmed by other stronger ones. You worry, you cry, you shout, even throw stuff around. At the end, a small part of your brain wishes you hadn’t understood that piece of literature at all. It would have been easier if you hadn’t gone beyond the typification and the character analyses. At least then you would have been among the chattering girls in the hostel mess, worried about getting an extra helping of the Sunday special dessert.

You do not know what to do. You still cannot speak a word and those knots seem to have not loosened one bit.

At least

 

If I cant open the bolted window
Do I dare push back the curtains
At least?
If not some drops of the wayward rain,
Let a little sunshine in
At least.

Do I dare cut off
This weighty mass of hair
Be me,
With chapped lips, cracked heels
Complete
With my freckles and open pores.
With my scars and my curves
Me
Minus these layers
On the face, on the neck,
And all over the body.

Let the diamond ring, the gold bangles
The silver anklets stay locked
In the locker, for a day.
Lift that ghoonghat a little
Get a clearer view
Discard the suffocating burkha
Forget the unmanagable dupatta
at home,

Then, step outside on that day
When the comments become inaudible
When the Gaze cannot follow me.
When I can run and jump
Not just walk
Laugh with a shriek
Not simply smile.

I cannot upset the order of the universe
I cannot mess up the entire society
But Do I dare cause a stir
At least?

एक भारी बस्ता

हैं पर्वत इतने बड़े कहाँ, जो ज्वालामुखी को छिपा सकें ,
हैं रातें इतनी गहरी कहाँ , जो सूरज को मिटा सकें;

हैं दरवाज़े इतने बुलंद कहाँ, जो मन को कैदी बना सकें
हैं बस्ते इतने भारी कहाँ, जो सपनों को दबा सकें.

क्यों कोशिश करते हो फिर, उम्मीदों के पर छाँटने की,
क्यों जुर्रत करते हो, उस आकाश का फैलाव काटने की?

पंख फैलाकर उड़ने दो उस पंछी को, कहीं रूठ न जाएं,
वे धागे जो जोड़ते हैं तुम दोनों को, कहीं टूट ना जाएं

क्योंकि तुम कुछ भी, कैसे भी, कितना भी कर लो,
अपनी अपेक्षा से वह नन्हां मन जितना भी भर लो,

एक दिन बस्ता किनारे फेंक वह दौड़ ज़रूर लगाएगा
ज़रा ठहरकर, ज़रा मुस्कुराकर उन सपनों को दोहरएगा

उसके सपने, उसकी मेहनत फ़िर ऐसा करामात दिखाएगीं,
जिनकी खनक, जिनकी चमक से तुम्हारी आखें चौंधयाएगीं

वह निकल जाएगा तुम्हारी कल्पना से आगे, बहुत आगे,
और…
तुम्हारे पास बचेगा एक भारी बस्ता और कुछ कच्चे धागे.

I wanted a perf…

I wanted a perfect ending. Now I’ve learned, the hard way, that some poems don’t rhyme, and some stories don’t have a clear beginning, middle, and end.
-Gilda Radner

‘Inspiring Change’

The Working Woman

Sita, 43, is from the village of Dokhini Raipur. She works as a domestic help in four middle class families that live in a residential apartment Kolkata. Her own house is a pukka one too, consisting of two rooms and a courtyard. She wakes up at four in the morning every day and finishes all the household chores before leaving for work. It takes her three hours and three different means of transport to reach her workplace in the city. She washes clothes, sweeps and mops floors and cleans utensils for the next six hours. In addition to her total monthly salary of Rs. 4000 (about 66 US $), she is given meals in the morning and afternoon and eight saris (two from each household) every year.

She rushes back after finishing her work because she does not want to miss the 3 o’clock train or else she would have to wait for an hour for the next one. It takes her another three hours to reach back home, where she is helped by her eldest daughter in the cooking. After they have all eaten dinner, she naps for an hour. When her husband and other children are fast asleep, she is woken up by her eldest daughter. They together attend the night school run by an NGO, from 10:30 to 12:30. Sita’s long day ends at 1 am.

I had asked her once, ”Sita maasi, don’t you get exhausted? You hardly sleep for four hours. ”

She had replied, “Sometimes I do didi. But I cannot afford to feel tired.”

***********************

The Security Force

Ragini, 27, is a Research Scholar at the University of Hyderabad. In the summer of 2013, she was travelling from Hyderabad to Patna with her mother and younger sister in an A.C. 2-tier Sleeper Coach of an express train. This was a journey that she can never forget. That’s because during the night, when they were all fast asleep, she and her sixteen year old sister were physically harassed by a co-passenger. He had crept into their compartment at different times in the night and had touched their legs, thighs and stomach. Ragini wanted to lodge a complaint against him but her mother was naturally afraid as they didn’t have a father or a brother travelling with them to protect them in case things got out of hand.

But Ragini was determined. She convinced her mother and lodged a complaint to the fficer-in-Charge who was travelling in the same coach. As her mother had anticipated, on being confronted, the man completely denied her accusation. Ragini got into a heated argument with him because she knew she wasn’t wrong. Almost everybody in the coach had woken up by then and had gathered around them. Her mother kept on asking her to back off but she did knew she could not stop now. Fortunately, the TTE and the Officer-in-Charge were genuine and helpful men. They supported her and after about fifteen minutes, that man gave in. He accepted that he was guilty. He was made to publicly apologize to Ragini, her mother and her sister. He asked forgiveness with folded hands and promised never to repeat what he had done.

The officer then decided to cease his identity card. The most surprising and shameful part of the incident was that his ID card booklet had a Border Security Force logo on its cover page.

Yes. His name was Manoj Kumar and he was a BSF officer, posted in Guwahati.

***********************

I can narrate many more such stories. For that matter,every woman reading this article can. But I feel that these two enough to prove my point. These are stories of common women in my country and the battles that we fight in our daily lives.

Men folk may argue against these with stories of their personal struggles. My answer to such arguments is that their struggles are neither set in a matriarchal society nor filled with fears of their very basic safety. Moreover, it is not just the background of our struggle that takes it to the level of making it a battle but also the inherent patriarchy in the society, even in women like our mother-in-laws, the stigmas that surround us along with the hundred men who stand up against every single woman who wishes to be in a different league.

I know that it will take many more Nirbhayaas to make the country a safer place for us. I know that the reality of true equality in society will never exist, at least not in my lifetime. But I also know that we have braved the obstacles for many years and the capacity to bear with things is now exhausted. We are not as docile, forbearing and uncomplaining as our mothers and grandmothers.

To the likes of some and dislikes of many others, we have decided to either push those obstacles aside or shatter them when they refuse to be moved. We are moving forward with high heads, bright eyes and quick steps. We have arrived and we are here to stay.

Of Sins and Kanyaadaans

 

“Aaiye Hrishiji. Aao Nimisha. Welcome, welcome!”

“Namaste Sudhirji!”, greeted Hrishi.

 “Pranam bhaiyya.” beamed Nimisha, as she bent down to touch her elder brother’s feet.

“Khush raho.” said Sudhir. “I hope the journey was comfortable.”

“Oh yes, it was. And any amount discomfort could not have lessened your sister’s excitement for Maansi’s wedding.” teased Hrishi.

But Nimisha was too happy to be bothered by the teasing. She looked around to  examine the decorations. “The orchids on the front gate look beautiful. And the lights are just perfect.”

“They are all Maansi’s choice.” boasted Sudhir.

“That’s why! By the way, where is your princess? ”

“She must be upstairs. I’ll send someone to call her.”

 

The conversation faded slowly as Maansi walked from the balcony to her room. She was relieved to find it empty. She locked herself in, hoping for a few minutes of peace. Lying down on the bed, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

Her schedule in the last few weeks had been nothing short of hectic. She was finally getting married in four days and she had supervised almost every part of the marriage preparations.

After her parent’s divorce when she was three years old, she had been brought up as her dad’s princess. For her marriage, he had arranged everything in a way fit for a royal wedding. But they could not have managed everything without Nimmi buaa. From the colour of her lehenga to the lists of guests, Sudhir and Maansi could not finish anything before her consent.

Nimisha or Nimmi buaa, her father’s younger sister, had been there for Maansi and her dad in times good and bad. With her vibrant personality and ever smiling face, she would solve all Maansi’s problems in a jiffy. Maansi had become the daughter that Nimisha did not have and Nimmi buaa had been her mother, elder sister and friend ever since Maansi could remember.

But there was something that Maansi had not shared with even Nimmi buaa. In spite of all her attempts, she had never been able to gather the courage to tell her. She loved her buaa too much to break her heart. So Maansi had locked those dark memories in the deepest corner of her heart. But moments ago, as she saw Hrishi from the balcony, the memories broke open from the chest and started floating in her mind.

 

Nimmi buaa would always visit them during her summer holidays and Hrishi, her husband, would often come to pick her up after the stay. Hrishi would always call Maansi his Sushmita Sen. He would bring so many gifts for her every time. Beautiful Barbie dolls, dressed in the prettiest dresses, with their eyelids opening and closing when she moved them. Imported hairpins and hair bands of every imaginable colour. Plastic coated story books with pictures of candy houses in them. Maansi would treasure them and show them off to her classmates later. When Maansi was in Class II, Hrishi had come to pick up Nimmi bua after her yearly visit and had stayed for a week.

 On the afternoon of the fourth day of his visit, he had taken Maansi for a drive to the ice-cream parlor. Maansi had sat licking the mango duet on the front seat of the car when she had suddenly felt Hrishi’s left hand lifting the edge of her red frock. He had pushed it back to show her thighs and his left hand slowly rubbed her right thigh. This had continued till they had reached their house. Maansi had looked at him with fear in her wide open eyes. He had said, “Oh! Don’t worry. I love you, my Sushmita Sen. And this is how elder people show their love.”

Maansi was unable to eat another bite of that mango duet and she had thrown it in the dustbin.

The next afternoon, her yellow top had been pushed off her shoulders. He had kissed the hollows of her collarbones and licked her tiny brown nipples.

Maansi had slept early that night and had not had any dinner despite all of Nimmi buaa’s attempts.

The third afternoon, she had tasted the tobacco of his cigarette in her mouth. His tongue had almost gagged her. All the while, the speakers of the car’s music system had continued blaring, “Soldier soldier, meethi batein bol kar, Dil ko chura le gaya…” 

As they had reached their house, he had said, “Now, this is going to be our little secret. You won’t tell anybody about it, will you?” 

She had been too scared to even nod. 

After that summer, she had never gone for an ice-cream with Hrishi. Also, she had secretly given away every presents that he brought for her to the housemaid’s daughter.

 

suddenly, a loud knocking brought Maansi back to the present.

“Maansi didi, Papa is calling you downstairs. Nimmi buaa and others have come.” shouted one of the kids from outside the door.

“Yes, I am coming in a minute.”

Wiping her face, she braced herself up as she opened the door.

  

After dinner, they all sat talking when Nimisha walked in carrying a small velvet covered box in her hand. As she sat down on the settee, Maansi noticed the box and asked, “What is that, buaa?”

Nimisha smiled and opened the box to show a heavy gold chain and a pair of solitaire earstuds. In the chain hung a gorgeous triangular diamond pendent that matched perfectly with the earrings.

“Wow, they look gorgeous!”, Maansi’s eyes sparkled.

“I am glad you like them, I got them made for you dear.”

“Thank you buaa, thank you so much.”

“But Nimmi, these…these must have…I mean…there was no need…”, stuttered Sudhir.

“There was every need. She is my only niece.  And after all, Hrishi and I will be doing her kanyaadaan too. I have as much right on her as you do.”

“What?” exclaimed Maansi. “My kanyadaan? But…”

“Why are you so surprised? Haven’t you told her, Sudhir bhaiyaa? We had talked it over last week only na.”

Sudhir tapped his hand on his forehead and replied apologetically “Oh! I am so sorry Maansi, it completely slipped off my mind. I am growing old, after all.”

Maansi’s face lost all its colour. The mere thought of that miserable scoundrel performing her kanyadaan made her stomach hollow and her head heavy. She opened her mouth to speak something but no words came out.

 “What is wrong? You don’t look okay.” Her father asked with a concerned upward jerk of his head.

The smiling faces of Nimmi buaa and her father flashed across her mind along with the memories of those three afternoons. She looked at them, those two people who meant to world to her. “Nothing’s wrong. I am just a little tired.”, she replied with a tiny smile.

“Are you sure, beta?, asked Nimmi buaa.

 “Yes, Positive.” Maansi broadened her smile.

Tears filled her eyes but she did not let a drop fall.

Do Anniversaries Die?

The arguments and accusations, appeals and apologies are all done. The tears have been shed by the liter. Deep holes have been left in warm spots of the heart that were previously occupied by the beloved. The trifling gifts that were once more valuable than life have been disposed of without honor. The whisperings have become shrill and the once soft caresses burn now.

The love is dead. But what happened to the anniversary? The day when the promise of that everlasting love was made, did it not die along with the love too? The dead love has been replaced by fiercer feelings. But the anniversary?

Well…It is still alive; because days and dates never die. They do not perish in the fires of wrath but remain forever in the minds of their makers. To make them realize that they had not risen in love but fallen. The beautiful reality that they had thought was created, one of their own private hemispheres, was actually a façade. The warm, cozy bedrooms were not better than cheap hotel rooms. The couple that they had pretended to be in front of the world was simple showing off, like an expensive watch or new furniture. Their words were hollow. Their oaths were not permanent. The whys haunt both their minds. The burden of mistakes made and the pain of shattered trust is all that remains. The special day continues to remind them that they can do nothing but burn in the inextinguishable fire which they had once dared to light themselves.

But somewhere, on one such anniversary, after her household chores are done, she blows the dust off an old love letter. As she hastily skims through it, the words that had become meaningless over time acquire significance. A desire for the happiness that she had once felt is enlightened.
As he writes the date while signing a paper, long-lost memories bring a smile on his face. When he opens his lunchbox that afternoon, after months, or years perhaps, her scent wafts in along with the aroma of his favourite malai kofta. While driving back that evening, the red traffic signal reminds him of something and he impulsively buys a red rose from one of those little girls.

When he rings the door bell, instead of the housemaid, it is she who opens the door for him. His eyes pause on her face for a second to notice the kajal in her eyes that she had put today, something that had been her daily practice in the first years of their marriage. They decide to go out for dinner. Instead of a fancy restaurant, they mutually decide on one of those small Chinese diners that they used to visit during their college days. Sometime in the middle of the dinner, they somehow realize that once they are together, love will find its way. The cold passions are soon re-kindled. That night, he pushes away the loose strands of her hairs that obstruct his view of her fair face. She runs her fingers in his wavy hair that she had always adored. In bed, she seeks for him more willingly and his hugs are tighter than usual.

And, it is for this one reunion that anniversaries never die.

Dolls and Women

On sunny winter mornings, when she occasionally sits down to chat with the women of her extended family, the focus and direction of her thoughts do not please the gossipers.
Why?
Because she is a twenty-five year old girl from the Marwari community but she still has no plans of ‘settling down’. She takes the discussions of her marriage in the family circles with a natural nonchalance. She does not daydream about her impending marriage, her to-be-husband and the early three or four years of romantically married life. She does not think of wooing him or being loved by him. She is not eager about adopting a new set of parents or about being the ideal bahu. She does not feel excited about her new house and how she is going to decorate it. Instead, the center of her thoughts is what has to come before and after all this.
She is sorry to hurt feelings of a few, but she strongly refuses to be treated as a robot that would walk into drawing rooms with a tray of biscuits and cups of tea. She does not want to be examined as if she were going to be a model for a pressure cooker advertisement. She will not marry a man who judges her on the basis of the length and inclination of her front teeth or the amount of melanin present in her skin. She cannot bear men and women peering at her face and searching for blemishes and marks. What right do those men (with questionable chastity) have to judge the daughter who has been brought up like a princess?
She will not be a part of the market economy where her father buys a husband for her. She cannot live the rest of her life with a man who does not understand that in asking for a dowry, he is commodifying himself and not her. A man who whose family raises his price if she wears spectacles or is 8 inches shorter than him and moreover, the guy takes pride in this rise of rates.The new family that expects her to be a superwoman, a Jhansi ki Rani, Tarla Dalal, Indra Nooyi and Mother Teresa, all rolled into one should never expect her to truly belong.
She has a plan for her life and she is working hard to meet her dreams. But even if things do not work according to that plan, her emotions do not change. Whether she is able to achieve her dreams or not, this refusal is a right that she ought to have.She does not want a revolution. She just has simple desires. She wants people to accept that she has both virtues and flaws. She is not perfect and she loves her imperfections. She has her own thoughts, feelings and emotions. Her voice is as loud and clear as anybody else’s because she is a woman and not a doll.