Equanimity.

I am currently sitting inside the temple complex and listening to a monk speak in a language that I don’t understand. I honestly cannot fathom what draws me to this place so much.

McLeodganj is beautiful in ways I cannot describe. Of course, there is the mountains and the scenic beauty and the bloody amazing food and some cozy little cafés to while away your time, but there is something more and beyond all of these that constitutes this place. There is something in the air, something that fills me with wonder and makes me restless and yet settles me, eases me, makes me feel peace.

People here have seen suffering. You can see it in their eyes, in their kindness, in their value for joy. You can see it their lack of arrogance despite where they come from. This has taught me one of my most important lessons in life, that of humility.

People who face severe distress often end up basking in the arrogance of it. As though they didn’t deserve it, as though they deserved better. In all fairness, they probably did deserve better. But then they start demanding better out of everything in life, every circumstance, even if it is unfair in places. Why, I myself have done that for years – deliberately or not, I do not know. And then, I look at the people here, demanding justice not privilege. I know that struggles must never be compared but I also know that people here have faced more grief than I can barely imagine. I don’t mean to belittle my troubles but looking at their humility only makes me feel small. It makes me look at the concept of privilege from a whole new perspective. 

When I hear their stories, sometimes from books, sometimes from the people themselves, stories of refugees who have traveled strenuously across mountains for months – starving, seeing their loved ones die or leaving them behind, forced to leave their land, their beliefs and more so their identities, and when I see their perseverance and their means of claiming it back, all the concepts of historical exploitation and war and violence and affirmative action I have learnt in three years of college lectures (and read about back and forth in newspapers) get dissolved. I am only reminded of one word - equanimity.

People here have a resolve; a clear purpose and they are doing everything they can to get there without complacency, with compassion. And with equanimity. Despite the unparalleled wrong that has been done to them, they don’t seek revenge; they only want a way ahead. They are constantly putting up a fight for their rights but without harming others. Honestly, a few years back I would have laughed it off. How can you put up a fight without violence, I would have asked. And yet, they do it. Every single minute of their lives.

It is probably this resilience that fills up the air.

Rapes Are Not Going To Stop.

Its as simple as this. Rapes are not going to stop. No matter how many rapists you castrate and how many women you blame. No matter how many women start dressing 'decently' (whatever that means) and how many of them stop coming out of their homes altogether. No matter what the degree of punishment is. Rapes are not going to stop. 

I am not being cynical. This is THE truth. This is the truth because clothes, location, timings and sexual fulfillment have absolutely nothing to do with rape. This is the truth because the responsibility to protect can also turn into the freedom to oppress. This is the truth because we continue to assign roles of power differently to people of different sexes. This is the truth because justice has slowly been taken over by the idea of revenge. BECAUSE UNLESS A RAPIST'S CONSCIENCE FORGIVES HIM, TRUE JUSTICE CANNOT BE SERVED. This is the truth because sadly we raise our boys differently from our girls (or non-boys). And after all of that we go ahead and solely blame the rapist for his crimes. What about the people who turn him into a rapist?

And so rapes are not going to stop. Not unless we raise our children as children and not as boys or girls. They're not going to stop unless we teach our children to start respecting people for who they are; however different they may be from ourselves. They're not going to stop unless we tell our kids that our gender does NOT dictate our identity or our actions. They're not going stop unless we completely separate the idea of 'Power' from that of Gender'. Completely. And they are not going to start unless we start applying this into our own lives irrespective of what others say or do. It's as simple as that. And yet, it isn't.

Take my word on that.

Reflection.

When I was seven I fell into water once. The water pulled all of me in.
Literally and otherwise too.

The swimming coach managed to bring me up and back but not in entirety.
A part of me was left behind in the depth of the dark shadows of the water.

When I was seven, I was split into half.

I am terrified of water even today, especially from a height. I know what it is capable of.

When I was seven, I learnt what incomplete meant. And I did not have to look into the dictionary.
Life teaches you things that the dictionary doesn't have space for.

And then, I grew old. I trembled with fear each step of the way up.
The water seemed farther away but it was still calling unto me. OR, was it the water that was calling?

I haven't made my way down yet, I am scared of the depth. No matter how far I am, when I look down I still see the other half. I try to give it a hand and pull it up  back but I am unable to reach.
I guess I need to go down further.

But, I am very scared of slipping in. It's tricky you see.
Incomplete, is a little better than nothing.

Second Thoughts

Guest post by Rekha Kamath

Introduction: This is an account of what happened when four of us (all women), decided to go to Goa on a weekend. Events during our return journey prompted this write-up. Reflecting on this trip brought to my attention a staggering number of moments when I felt anger, exasperation and sadness.

“Why do you need feminism? Why that word?”

“You have all your rights. Why do YOU need to be a feminist?”

“Women like us don’t need to call ourselves feminists.”

“You pseudo-feminist. You don’t have to face half the trouble some other women have to, and you call yourself a feminist?”

Time and again, questions like these get thrown at me. Time and again, people try to convince me that I don’t need feminism. That it’s Wrong (yes, with a capital W) to call myself a feminist. Feminism has become another f-word that shouldn’t be uttered out loud.

Today, if you were to ask me why I need feminism, I would tell you this- It is because I have a meek but compelling voice inside my head, which constantly utters second thoughts. My actions are outcomes of constant tussles with this voice. I shall elaborate.

“Let us go to Goa,” suggests one of my roommates. Long weekend, why not. We decide to bundle up our battered work-stressed selves, and start planning. Trains are booked, buses are expensive. “Let’s hitchhike or figure out as we go!”, suggests N. Sounds exciting, until the voice inside my head pipes up. No, what if we get raped/molested on the way? No way. I book the tickets.

Friends suggest we book our stay when we get there. “I have asked four people already, they all say the same thing.” Okay. Fair enough, people seem to have done this already. It is cheaper for us, and you can’t always trust online reviews of places. Wait. Maybe these people travelled with male friends. Will these places have good toilets? I might be menstruating. Let me take down phone numbers of hotels, just in case.

We get to Goa, finally. We find a hotel, close to the beach. N wants to wear a bikini top to the beach. Pretty, and comfortable. What if someone heckles? Very likely. Indian, wearing a bikini. Well, we don’t care. Screw them.

Later, at the beach, a group of 18 year olds call her Miss. Sexy and try to ram their car into her. I told you so.

Men are clicking photographs of bikini clad women on the beach. I hear comments made on us, on other women. I see cameras phone cameras turning our way too, occasionally. Turn your body. Don’t let them get your face. Warn your roommates. Someone sings a suggestive Bollywood song. Ignore them. Confrontation will lead to ugly defensive fights and eventually labeling you a slut. Attention seeking b***h, they will call you.

Rest of the trip is spent frolicking on the beach, and dodging/tuning out hecklers. She is proud of me. Tired and rejuvenated by the sunshine and sand, we forget the heckling, the “Happy Holi *wink wink*!” remarks, and make our way to the Goa-Pune bus.

Chaos. Where’s our bus? Nobody is picking up our calls. The name on the ticket and the names of buses don’t match. Finally, one enterprising ticket checker helps us. Turns out, Christopher travels possibly had a religious epiphany, and sent Mahakali travels instead. Alright. We made it just in time. The cleaner of the bus is visibly annoyed. He looks us up and down, decides he could afford to yell in disrespect. Forty pair of eyes judge us as we walk in, mumbling apologies for not turning up ahead of time. Notice those eyes darting to your legs? Where’s the wrap-on I wanted you to buy? Oops. Rest of the journey will be spent ignoring stares and remarks.

Men are staring, says A. Ignore. Let them judge. We have practiced and perfected the art of ignoring.

Bus stops at a drive-in hotel. Those eyes again. Ignore this time. Don’t react. Hunger soon shuts her up, and our tired bodies contort themselves back into the rickety bus.

Everyone soon falls into tired slumbers- a bus full of potential contortion artists. A loud bam wakes everyone up, and someone groans about a punctured tire. The painful wait for a replacement bus starts. A group of men station themselves outside our windows, speaking loudly in Tamil. They assume nobody understands their obnoxious remarks, ignorant that yours truly and N speak the language. “Can I ask them to shut up? They are too loud.” True. I cannot sleep, and I desperately want to. But they are a group of men. What if they abuse you, call you names? There are different ways they could make your journey difficult. Let us not mess with strangers.

The replacement bus arrives, and forty adults run towards it, as though the seats would vanish. Everyone is probably occupying the previously allotted seats, I think, following the same serial numbers. We walk in to see a crowded bus, with people occupying any seat they pleased. There are people occupying the seats allotted to us. A woman holding an infant is pleading with a young man for her seat, and he casually remarks, “I wasn’t the first person to change my seat.” His voice progressively gets louder and angrier, and he storms off to the back as I stare in surprise. How easily can you adopt and adapt into someone else’s mistake?

The four of us struggle to find seats, and refuse to sit. The cleaner comes in, as per our request. “This a 45 seater Ma’am, there are 48 of you.” Men push me, to make their way to the back. I voice my refusal. Why isn’t anyone else expressing their annoyance? Forty adults in the bus, and maybe seven of us calling for common sense.

“Why aren’t people in their seats? Please ask them to go back to their allotted seats.” “Ma’am, aap log hi settle karo, humein nahi pata,” the cleaner promptly replies. (Ma’am, you figure that out yourself, I don’t know) “Fine, what happens to the fourth person? We have four tickets and three seats now.” “Driver ke saath cabin mein aa jaayiye!” (You can travel in the cabin with the driver). Alright. My brain mumbles a yes, and I am ready to grab my bags, when she wakes up. WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Cabin in the front with the driver and three strangers? NO. If you get groped/molested/raped/abused, you will be called a slut. Your clothes will validate it too. She wins, again. I refuse, take up a seat with another woman, and sit down. The men outside our window are now behind me, being obnoxiously loud again. They snigger at my meekness. It’s okay. Safety first. Ego can wait. A and N struggle to put their heavy rucksacks on the overhead shelves. One of the men remarks in Tamil, “Somebody ask these girls to shut up and sit down!” Giggles and sneers follow, along with loud laughter. Very funny, of course. By passing a veiled comment snidely, you have proven your machismo.

She wants to pipe up, but instead I turn and scream, “I perfectly understand Tamil. Please stop commenting. Please stop commenting.” “Huh?!” “Yeah, please just stop.” Someone repeats my remarks in Tamil, along with a mumbled “They speak Tamil.” Even she has had enough now, for second thoughts are replaced with the oh-so-familiar feelings of anguish, exasperation and disgust. Around me, the obnoxious men have gone to sleep. Am I the only person sleeplessly pondering questions of self-respect? How do you have any amount of self-respect left, after having caused anguish?

For anybody who asks me why I need feminism, this is my reply.

I need feminism because I live in a world where all my actions are governed by second thoughts. Second thoughts that have perfectly internalized sexism.

I need feminism because fear for my own safety has become second nature to me.

I need feminism because if anything happens to me, it is because of my clothes, it is because of my face, it is because of MY actions, it is because I was reckless.

I need feminism because consistently, people tell me sexism is no longer a problem-that women are equal now. That because I was an “equal woman”, I had no right to talk about sexism. That every day, I had to take disrespect flung at me, in whichever form, and shut up. That if I dared to speak up, I would be called pretentious, phony, bitchy.

I need feminism because I am tired. I am tired of fear, disrespect, being judged, being called names, of having to learn to tune out and ignore these.

I need feminism because character depends on one’s actions, not on one’s clothes.

I need feminism because I deserve to feel safe everywhere, in spite of what I am wearing.

I need feminism because everyone deserves to be respected, and sexism needs to be called out.

I need feminism because as a woman with “equal rights”, I shouldn’t have to explain why I am a feminist.

I need feminism because I shouldn’t be spending sleepless nights in anger, while perpetrators of sexism sleep peacefully elsewhere.

I need feminism because I don’t deserve being called one of “those girls”. I need feminism because I shouldn’t have to write three pages on this.

I need feminism because clearly, the society is facing a crisis, where women’s lives are unfairly fraught with disadvantages of varied nature. If you could fix that and then tell me I don’t need feminism, I would gladly agree.

Disclaimer: I don’t mean, in any way, to sound misandrist. If I have come across that way, I sincerely apologize. There is no intention of portraying any one category of people in bad light. Whenever I have used the terms people/society, I have meant both women and men. While much anger has been vented out in this piece, I also fully am grateful to all the good people I have met.

Rekha Kamath is currently a Teach For India Fellow in Pune. She teaches second graders in the PCMC Corporation School. She describes herself as a Development Studies Student and feminist.

This is the link to the original article:

https://www.facebook.com/notes/rekha-kamath/second-thoughts/10151974183846987

Nakul.

Ma’am, woh toh pagal hai. Uska dimag kharab hai - the first feedback I get about him from one of the teachers in the school. Everywhere I go, any conversation I have about him, this is all I get to hear. Uska dimag kharab hai, he is an abnormal child. Maushis, Kakas, teachers, staff. EVERYONE. They sometimes make the gesture of pointing their finger towards their head and twisting it when they see me struggling with him in class. I’d like to think they are trying to help me - make a pitiful face and tell me, it’s not your fault, it is his.

The psychology student in me cringes in pain, at first. I do what I can, ask them to speak politely about a child. But that is not the point. Whether or not I try to get all these people to be polite is secondary. The real battle is yet to begin. Inside my classroom.

He enters my class, two weeks after I have started teaching. Apparently, all this while the school has been allowing me to adjust and adapt. I wonder what’s the big deal. He comes up to me and with the widest grin, says, Good Afternoon Bhaiyaa. And at once, the whole of my class is tumbling down laughing. That is when I realize – this is the big deal.

After much thought, I consider my co-fellows’ suggestions, and discuss this in class. It is tricky terrain to walk on, I don’t want them to have sympathy and end up differentiating him. I only want them to empathise. To understand that he has different needs and that it is okay. They are 7 years old, and talking to them about this means putting my faith to test. It takes a long time, for me to get this clear in my head, even longer for them to understand what I am expecting off them. To start with, they stop laughing at him. He is now sitting among his classmates, something very new for him and for others. It’s been a month, and he still calls me Bhaiyaa sometimes. Until one day, when he walks upto me after school and says, ‘didi, ghar pe didi nahi hai.’

With instructions, the rest of my class has started to help him and help themselves. He still shouts incessantly and loves to draw. Publishing is his favourite part of the Writer’s Workshop. By now, he has two best friends in class, and loves them to the core. My class doesn’t laugh at him, but with him. I’m starting to think we are getting somewhere.

One day, during prayer, he jumps out in excitement and manages to push his best friend down the bench. The next day, I am called into the office and told that there has been a fracture and he may be held responsible for it. The next day still I am told he may be asked to leave school. The parent comes and screams at me for having her son sit next to ‘that boy’. A week later I am informed that he has been excused and that he can continue school, though this maybe his last year over here. He needs a special school, they tell me.

I need to keep telling my class time and again, reminding them to help him and each other. This is taking too much time, I think.

Orals begin. I ask my class to revise QUIETLY while I am taking orals. Except for I can hear Ekansh read the poems aloud. I look up, he is sitting with Nakul. Ekansh looks at me, “Didi, I tell Nakul, he learn.”

I call him over for his orals. Good Better Best, he starts. Good Better Best. Om comes over from behind and gives him the book, “See and read, Nakul. Yes, didi? Okay no.”

I smile. 36 tiny little seven year olds have restored my faith in humanity.

Mauna Vratham

The first thing I realized that people always assume that everyone can speak. And once they know you can’t, it turns into pity.

What starts out an attempt to be more self-aware and articulate, turns into a harsh realization. Silence is deadly. To both sides, the one without a voice and the one comprehending.

Silence is beautiful. I walk into a busy market with a bunch of close friends who guide me through every step. In about an hour, they learn my signals and it gets easier for us to communicate. I am getting to self-awareness, I think, at least a point one percent of it. I am extremely conscious, I’d like to say it makes me mindful too. I speak a few syllables by mistake (2 to be precise) and one whole sentence and curse myself for the same. The others say it is okay. I think to myself it is the first time.  I will gradually get there.

People at the market smile at me after they find out, I can’t speak. I’d like to say it is out of kindness. And not pity, but I’ll never know. Some respond to me in sign language. Some don’t respond at all. But all of that, only after I have communicated with them first. If I did not, I wonder if they will know.

I falter. I trip. It takes three times the usual to make everyone understand what I am trying to explain. It takes me a lot of time to figure out, before I start to explain. At some point it gets frustrating. My friends try to be as cheerful as possible. They are always cheerful usually too. At some point, I start questioning myself as to why really am I doing this. It is so much more painful to be silent than being inarticulate ad speaking too much.

But I can speak. God forbid something happens, I can scream. I can call for help. I can sing. I can shout. This is just one evening. Or maybe there are more to come. Silence truly seems to be beautiful.

But is it? In some corner of the world, there is someone for whom this is not just one evening, or twelve hours. For whom this is the way of life. She may not have friends. He may be in deep trouble. She may be crying out loud without a voice. He maybe singing full of love without a sound. Every single day of their life.

I don not now if this has made me self-aware. Or articulate. I don not know if this has been transformational. But has this evening changed my life? Yes, I believe. Yes, it has.

I am loved. And I wish the same for everyone. Voice or no voice.

Peace.

Into Thin Air.

The blemishes are too many
To fade, to forgo
To be forgotten.

She wants to break open
To run free and wild
To write poetry
And have someone read it out to her.

She wants to understand
The song the bird hums each morning
The message the breeze carries within
To capture the dewdrops and store them forever
To save the memories from dying.

She wants to seek comfort, to find solace
In the joy of a baby's laughter
In the tinkling of the wind chimes by her window
In the pitter-patter of the raindrops on a cold winter night.

She wants to wrap the spirit of a shining star
In her scarred and wounded palms
And keep holding on to it
Till the end of eternity.

But the blemishes are too many
To fade, to forgo
To be forgotten.

To The Iron Lady

(Note: Don’t jump to conclusions unless you have read the whole of it.)

I take pride in saying that Meryl Streep is not the real Iron lady, but you, the lady with the iron hand and rule, the chief minister of my very own home town. The way you have managed to bring about change, it amazes me, if not anyone else, I am sure school students will be really happy out of this for they have one less chapter to learn. You have glorified their lives, they will vote for you, for change, for years to come.

A coin has two sides. Similarly, every person, like you and like me, has two kinds of qualities, good qualities and bad qualities. Now, the right thing here would be work upon ones bad qualities and rectify them and enhance the good ones of course. But to use the good ones as a shield against the bad, is to go as low as the fox who used wool coats to fool sheep and feast over them, or as low as Narendra Modi – The Great (Hypocrite).

I appreciate you, for the change you have brought, for the promises you have kept. For the number of bandhs which don’t happen in Kolkata anymore. My mother appreciates what you have been doing, and I mention her because she is the one living in Kolkata while I live in Delhi and am just a by-stander to your hitler regime. It is also important for me to mention that I am not writing this depending on baseless media outrages and mere statements from news channels, of course these are the only resources I have used, but there is also a lot of thought added to what I want to say.

Didi, I am not angry, probably because I don’t live there but here, but I am duly upset.

I couldn’t vote, I turned eighteen only last year and elections happened before I owned a card. But, I wished for change. I wished for difference, and when you won, it mattered to me, because I had wished for this. I don’t support any political party, neither CPM nor yours, but I supported you, as a woman, and as an ardent lover of my hometown. I have looked upto you. Then why Didi?

I ask you, why did you let us down? Why is there not a single woman leader in Indian politics I can look upto? What about the promises you haven’t kept? Why have we moved on from only a frying pan to a burning stove? Why are you challenging democracy? Why are you challenging your own dignity? Why are you doing wrong things?

It matters to me, yes, it bloody does. So what if I don’t live in Kolkata anymore? That place is very much a part of this country I call my own, it is also my hometown, I am never getting over it. And I am never getting over the people who are attempting to spoil it. I thought you were sensible, you proved yourself otherwise.

You have questioned Democracy, you have questioned the Right to Freedom and Speech, you have questioned the Right to Expression. You have also tried and removed every single possible means of CPI(M) interfering in your rule even if the intervention were to be right. Are you this scared? What is the reason for you extreme insecurity? If you think what you are doing is right, then why the safeguards? Am I seeing a loophole here? If the theory of Afterlife were to be true, Marx would be probably banging his head on a cement wall somewhere. Why? I ask you this, if kids don’t study Marx in school, how do you think they’d cope with the huge syllabus on Marx in college? Or is that your ulterior motive, to stop brain drain, erm?

And now you call some random woman who questioned your government, a Maoist. Wow.
Please don’t call me one. We had a chapter on Maoism in Political Science last year, and thanks to selective study, I left it out. I don’t frikkin know what or who Maoists are. So don’t even try me.

You are being of major help to the common man - increasing income, implemented traffic rules, beautified infrastructure, economic development and blah. Waittt. Where is welfare? Are you trying to cover up all your loopholes with the excuse of economic development? Yes? Well, then Mr.Modi finally has competition on the other side of this country, I must say.

I think you need to breathe. And tell those scoundrel followers of yours to stop creating chaos everywhere. My best friend lives and studies in Burdwan. She had written an open letter to you on social media. It was about how much she believed in you and how much you disappointed her. How their college does not have classes, only riots, and how she is living in fear. Some one must have reported abuse, because the letter is not there anymore. Are you this scared, again? You don’t want to even listen to people. This gives me hope - my friend has more power than you do, because her letter scared you off.

Escape is not an option. With Power, also comes responsibility and it is high time you stop running away from it. Face it, woman. You are the (Hon’ble) Chief Minister of one of the most important states of India, and not just the street fighting opposition. Frikkin, act like it. I am 19, a student, inexperienced, I can risk it to make immature statements and write letters like such, but you can’t. You have the power, don’t use it to win fear, ma’am, use it to win respect. Or one day people like me and my best friend and that girl you called a maoist, and many others, probably everyone I know, will lose Faith (a lot of them already have) and you, will wake up regretting that you could have done so much more to the betterment of the state, of this country, of the people, for their love and their faith and you couldn’t. One day, you will lose it all.

Good Morning ma’am. Your life and my country are hanging by the thread. Hold on. Wake up.

P.S. – I write this letter because

1. I still have hope,

2. I refuse to believe that all women ruling this country are out of their mind, I choose this woman to prove it otherwise.

Also, like I mentioned before, I DO NOT SUPPORT ANY POLITICAL PARTY (given that we don’t really have any good options between their selfish agendas), so just because I questioned the Chief Minister and her party, the opposition need not jump around in excitement thinking this is their victory. If you stupid fools had ruled the state properly for the last few eons, this situation could have been avoided.

I am just another girl, voicing my opinion. I don’t know how many of you are reading this, or will read this, but I sincerely hope it this makes a difference.

*photo source - http://manipalblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/04/Source-The-Hindu-Newspaper-Mamata-Banerjee-Cartoon.jpg