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.

A Lifetime Of Memories

Memories are tricky. To only think of all the memories that this place gave me; makes me so happy, that you can only imagine it must have been a joyride. But it is not easy, to reproduce meaning of how these memories matter to me, these tiny little scraps of paper coming out of everywhere at the most mundane of moments, reminding me of why they were written in the first place.

I have been packing these memories away in boxes now. Not only tiny little pieces of paper in actual light-weight cardboard boxes to save space around the room, but making up these boxes to be stored in tiny little corners of my mind too. Memories. A lifetime of them.

And then they begin to disappear. It scares you, but you were the one who started to store them away anyway, didn’t you? To make space for more. And you think they’ve disappeared until this one moment, you listen to this song, the same ol’ one that you sang again and again and again much to the annoyance of those who never understood how four people could never get bored of the same song despite singing it again and again and again. And there it is - a blast from the past - the cliché, but it hits you so real nonetheless.

You think of the old times and you decide you don’t want to add meaning but just to think of them the way they were meant to be.

The good old times, yes.

Like the very first time we ever walked into the Wine And Beer Shop and the sense of know-it-all-ness with which Ritika asked for ‘3 pint tuborg aur ek bada RS dena’ while Pragya and I waited with as much a petrified look on our faces as the ‘menfolk’ in the shop had. Haha, can you ever get over that feeling?

Or the night spent shivering at the beach, waiting as each minute went by, for the sun to rise. *Chal, aaj sunrise dekhte hain* was the plan, and what we did was sleep under those twinkling stars, some of us. While the rest of them built sand castles. Sand castles, soon to be swept away by those deep, dark waves, whose music you could hear while you slept. And the sun did rise, as we stood mesmerized with our feet digging deeper and deeper into the sand, taking the wind in, pausing life, and when we got back, we gave each other the longest smiles that ever existed in the face of the earth. We knew what meaning that moment bore, for each other and for ourselves.

Of the timeless moments spent in the lawns outside the very red brick walls, with Shubi making Freudian analogies on plucking grass, the countless slip-of-tongues Pragya made. (The multiples of which I did too) Of spending all the free time we had making practicals, cursing practicals yet making them with utmost care. Of when Group B stood by each other, personifying integrity by refusing to make entertainment of another’s life. (Remember that, Andy?) – Of learning how multiple relationships change our attachment style, and not necessarily distort it. Of bearing through the most generalized statements with a heavy heart and yet holding on to what we believed in.

One open cardboard box leads to the other and you find yourself staring at more images from the past. Images you thought had been washed away in time, but have managed to linger on in the midst of the storm.

Like that of the busiest morning, where I managed to sneak out of the most important department gathering to celebrate a birthday. It was difficult to weigh, the priorities but I knew my arrival was awaited by people to whom I meant something. Happy Birthday Kusum, we sang, cake in my mouth, my mind split into the thousand other things that were happening around me. Celebrations are the easiest to forget and the easiest to recall. Be it the numerous celebrations we had as a department or the ones Suversha Ma’am gave us an excuse to have. I am like your Grandmother, she said, and this is my gift to you - A gift I still hold on to dearly, the memory of a day well spent. And of course, then there are bit of papers about the everydays of life. The journals from Karuna ma’am’s class, we all resented back then, we all love to peek into now. How time changes the value of something for us! The support stories from Diana ma’am’s lectures. Her own stories. The breaking of archetypes. The breaking of stereotypes. The whole new world like it was supposed to be. And of course, fearing every moment that you entered late into your Political Sc. class, and still sleeping through it with your eyes open, LIKE A BOSS. Turning into countries to understand IR better, I was THE China, no, if I am not wrong? And Fatimah Russia and Jaya something else. Pragya the facilitator. Funnily enough, things you think you will remember better have faded memories you’re holding onto with both your hands dearly.

The tiny little things. The conversations you had. The unending evenings with Kranti at the Hostel. (Read: Pseudo-home). Trying to hug Shibani every chance you get, apologizing thereafter. The cooking food and cooking up stories with Pragya at HER apartment. (Read: Pseudo – conquered home) Studying for exams together but no not really, rather sleeping through most of it. Watching mundane episodes of The BBT and laughing our heads off. Our affinity to end up in the reference section despite our hate for it. Our first night stay and the conversations we need not remember because what matters is that we had them. Stalking people endlessly. (Baaaani, remember this?) The unplanned for, frivolous train travel and dirty feet at the end of it. Cribbing through PMS, cribbing after PMS. Cribbing all the time. And yet being the joyful lot. Being frontbenchers, being hated by the back ones for it. Clicking pictures ALL THE TIME. (Ishti, we made a deal!)

The difficult times. Getting through the difficult times because of sheer love from the people. Samagam. Montage. Trying yet not giving up. Falling down yet holding each other through pieces. That conversation the four of us had sitting in the lower Foyer. Remember that, the day Samagam got over – Anahita, Sandy, Tvish? The Award. The Dilemma. The Sacrifice.

The places. Café. Nescafe. The red-bricked building. The lawns. The mean cats all over the place. 900 photographs. The college Magazine and the Visitor’s Room (What a memory, ah!), The auditorium, room no. 67, the foyers, the empty corridors. The place I used to call home.

The memory of yourself. Careless. Ambitious. With big dangling earrings and a huge purple file. Surrounded by people who loved you to no end. And by people who loved them too.

The memories are too many. Too diverse. All over the place. The cardboard boxes refuse to shut, even when forced. Tiny bits of paper from everywhere, fly around, settle down on your eyelashes. Waiting to be touched again.

Summer Haze.

To hell with the mush we decided. To hell with all of it. And yet, when I saw I couldn't help but smile. I guess love does keep us alive.

I miss you. Challenge accepted and failed. Sorry, couldn't have said that in a better way.

Someday, someday after TFI, someday after the UN, someday after the miracle discoveries, someday  after Africa, someday after the wilderness, someday after all the dreams fulfilled, there will be one left and that shall be you.

Or maybe, we will do it all together.

Mush or no mush.

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.

Twitch your nose. And laugh. Now

There is a sad sad song I just heard  and couldn't help but think about the many things in life that we take for granted. No, we don't do it deliberately, or do we?

When was the last time you hugged your mother? Or danced in the rain? When was the last time you bought your pet gifts? And laughed with your nose twitched at a cheesy joke? Or cooked for your best friends? When was the last time you remember remembering all these things?

When will we learn to value that which is ours, without focusing on acquiring that which is not ours? When will we learn when to be satisfied?

Don't you mistake me. I am not trying to establish dictatorship. AND, mind you, there are SO many things I take for granted myself. I am so used to, it had turned into an emotional construct. But I am trying to not. Before it is too late.

Go, curl up in your bed with a cup of hot coffee and a book by your side and listen to your favourite song and watch Kung Fu Panda later. And when it rains, don't forget to count the drops. Haha, dance, I mean.

Starting Line.

My flight has been delayed by 2 hours, I am sitting at the boarding area staring joblessly at a 2 year old baby rolling himself in the dust of the airport floor. What an age to be in! Bored to death, I decide to read random articles and chance upon this- http://www.indianexpress.com/news/that-boy-in-yellow-nail-polish/1041760/0

I suggest all of you to read it. I love the way she has put forth the idea of cliche and anti-cliche.

Haha, it also reminds me of how we used to dress up Aryan, my nephew, as Radha. Such a cutie he is. Its a long story, I'll tell you some other time.

A lot of things have been happening around. The Delhi Gangrape case is blazing the news and social networking sites. And I can't help but relate the article to the case.

Where does it all start?

Gender stereotypes stem out from a child's social setting and most importantly, upbringing. Boy children are expected to only play with violent superhero toys, or cars, or you know, 'boy' stuff. Girls, are meant to play with barbie dolls and other dolls and other dolls and kitchen sets and basically 'girly stuff'. Boy clothes are blue. Girl clothes are pink. And so are the rest of their belongings, room, bedspread, towel, accessories, even stationery. Fairy tales teach little girls AND little boys that the princess is a weakling, a damsel in distress, waiting to be rescued by the strong prince charming. And in reality, the same little girls and the same little boys fall for this rationale. In a more conservative set up, the sole purpose of a daughter's life is to get married and serve her husband and cook for her in laws, while the boy is to grow up to be the man of the house, and step out of the house to earn a living - these ideas being enforced into a child's mind right from the time he/she are born.

While this trend is the most prevalent in this part of the world, given its patriarchal orientation, we have seen some change over the last few years. Attempts have been made to empower the girl, make her 'strong like a son'. However, like Lalita Iyer mentions in her article, we celebrate it when our girls do boy things and not enough when our boys do girl things. A very common thing we get to hear from parents of a accomplished successful girl is - "Our daughter is our son". On the other hand if the boy decides to take up a 'girl oriented career' (trust me, there are stereotypes related to jobs we are all aware of), he is often ridiculed at. Boys are not meant to cry, sensitive responses from boys are labelled as cowardice. The male ego is not born, it is made to develop.

At a lot homes, examples are set for children, the wives have domestic roles, she is meant to stay home, have babies, look after them. Her 'job' is looking after household chores. She is meant to serve her husband sexually and otherwise if required, not complaining and not asking for anything in return. She is expected to have learnt all of this from her mother. The husband is the provider for the family, he has therefore the right to do whatever he wants, go wherever he wants AND sleep with whoever he wants.

Besides these, there are other societal influences. Alcohol is a boy thing. Visiting temples is a girl thing. Going out is a boy thing. Sitting home is a girl thing. The idea of good and bad is mostly settled by the society and in this part of the world, anything 'good' for boys is bad for the girls.

When the same boy grows up to be a rapist, I wonder why the people get surprised. If you haven't taught a child to be sensitive and respectful of all other people irrespective of their identities, how do you expect them to respect the freedom of a woman?

I urge you to think deeply, the concept of rape is largely associated with power play. Though sometimes, it could be a case of revenge or sheer sexual impulsiveness, mostly it is about gender identities. It is about the man believing that he has more power than the woman. In these cases, rape becomes a platform to assert this notion of power.

In my opinion, rape is psychopathological. It is not normal, but with the kind of edge that men are given over women, the society seems to sanction it. And the society is made of people, like you and me.

There has been a very strong response to the Delhi case. Castrate the rapists, people say. Hang them to death, others assert. The rapists deserve the punishment too. In fact, I believe they deserve to frikkin Rot In Hell. But hanging them is not a solution. It is too easy a punishment. They need to be made to realise the gravity in their deed.

We need to dig deeper. We need to talk about eradicating rape. We need to stop talking about consequences but start talking about the root cause of it.

We need to sensitise people, especially men. Pathology has treatment, and if rape is a case of abnormality, there has to be a solution to remove it. The solution lies amongst us.

This incident left me shaken and crippled with fear. And learning martial arts will not remove this fear, neither will killing the criminals. Stricter laws need to be enforced, policies need to be changed, I agree. But what requires change the most, is the mindset of the people.

When I grow up, I want to have a daughter. And a son. And I am going to teach them to respect each other and the rest of the world irrespective of their gender identities.

The process of changing the society is very slow, the only way I can start is by changing myself. And so can you. And I hope someday change will happen, if not for me or you, for the strong girl fighting for her life at the Delhi hospital today and for hundreds of others who fight this battle everyday. I have this dream.

On an unrelated note, my flight is here, the food they gave me is horrible and I can't wait to get home. 

There is so much more I want to write, and will soon.

Death.

Reading Lolita In Tehran, by Azar Nafisi.

Excerpts from  Part III, Chapter 33.

"Less than an year after the peace, on Saturday  June 3, 1989, Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini died. His death was not officially announced until the next morning at seven a.m.,... thousands had gathered outside his house on the outskirts of Tehran...

...I remember the morning we heard the news of Khomeini's death. The entire family had gathered in the living room, lingering in the state of dull shock and bewilderment that death always brings with it. And this was no ordinary death. The radio announcer had broken down and sobbed. This would be the way with every public figure from then on, whether they appeared in mourning ceremonies or were interviewed individually; weeping seemed to be a requirement, as if there was no other way of expressing the magnitude of our grief.

It gave us all a feeling of unity and closeness to be sitting in the living room, with the inevitable smell of coffee and tea, speculating about the death: desired by many, feared by many, expected by many and, now that it had occurred, oddly anti-climatic to both friends and foes... I always associate Khomeini's death with Negar's simple pronouncement- for she was right: the day women did not wear the scarf in public would be the real day of his death and the end of his revolution. Until then, we would continue to live with him.

The government announced five days of national mourning and forty days of official mourning. Classes were cancelled and universities shut... Everything felt blurry, like a mirage in intense heat. The blur remained with me throughout that day and all those days of mourning, when we spent most of our time by the television watching the funeral and the endless ceremonies...In death, there was a need to humanize him, an act he had opposed during his life...

... but I remember feelings and images. Like bothersome dreams, images from those days mix with sounds in my memory as they did in reality: the announcer's shrill and exaggerated voice, always on the verge of breaking, the mourning marches, the prayers, the messages from high-ranking officials and the chanting mourners, drowning all other sounds: 'Today is the day of mourning! Khomeini, the breaker of idols, is with God.'

...The events of the frenetic day come to me in fragments. The glass coffin I remember well, and the flowers arranged in the container were gladiolas. I also remember the swarm of mourners-it was reported that hundreds of thousands had began to pour into Tehran, a black-clad army waving black flags, the men tearing their shirts, beating their chests, the women in their black chadors wailing and moaning, their bodies writhing in ecstatic grief...

When I heard that many had died that day and that tens of thousands were injured, I asked myself stupidly what sort of status these dead would be given. We gave people more rank and more space in death than in life. Opponents of the regime and the Baha'is had no status, they were denied headstones and were thrown into common graves. Then there the martyrs of war and revolution, each of whom had his own special space at the graveyard, with artificial flowers and photographs to mark the grave. Could these people be ranked as martyrs? Would they be granted a place in heaven?...

The government had set aside huge supplies of food and drink for the mourners. Alongside the frenzy of beating chests and fainting and chanting, rows upon rows of mourners were to be seen on the roadside, eating their sandwiches and drinking their soft drinks as if they were out on a holiday picnic. many who actively disliked Khomeini in his lifetime attended the funeral... I remember talking to a middle-aged man on the staff at the university, who lived in the poorer, more traditional part of the town. He described the busloads of neighbors, disenchanted with Khomeini and his revolution, who had gone nonetheless, like him, to the funeral. I asked him why he went. Was he forced to go?  No, but it seemed the thing to do. Everyone was going - how would it look if he didn't? He paused and then added, After all, an event like this happens only once in a lifetime, doesn't it?
... The Government in a move to turn Khomeini into a sacred figure, tried to create a shrine for him close to the Behesht-e Zahra cemetery. It was hastily built, without taste or beauty: a country famous for some of the most beautiful mosques in the world now created the gaudiest shrine to this last imam. The monument was built close to the burial place of the martyrs of the revolution: a small fountain gushed sprays of red water, symbolizing the everlasting blood of the martyrs.
... At the start of the revolution a rumor had taken route that Khomeini's image could be seen in the moon. Many people, even perfectly modern and educated individuals, came to believe this. They had seen him in the moon. He had been a conscious myth-maker, and he had turned himself into a myth. What they mourned after a well-timed death - for after the defeat in the war and the disenchantment, all he could do was die - was the death of a dream. Like all great myth-makers, he had tried to fashion reality out of his dream, and in the end, like Humbert, he had managed to destroy both reality and his dreams. Added to the crimes, to the murders and tortures, we would now face this last indignity - the murder of our dreams. Yet he had done this with our full compliance, our complete assent and complicity."

Bal Thackeray died. Ajmal Kasab died (rather, was killed).
Or did they really?

I HAD to post this. 

Sheets Of Empty Canvas

"I believe that believing that we survive, is what makes us survive."

- Dr. Izzie Stevens, Grey's Anatomy

You know, I want to take a road of my own. Yes, be famous and all that shit. But that's secondary. YES, it is. This post is non contextual and introspective. And broken, in pieces. Like I am.

I want to take the journey. I think I am already in one. I want to walk. The endless path. I want to travel and not arrive. No human affiliations, no material aspirations. Just go on.

I want to feel the wind on my hair. Listen to the trees sing. I want to see the grass greener. I want to cross over. I need to cross over.

Whats on your list?

Have you ever gazed at the stars for so long that you know one from the other? If you haven't, get a life, do it tonight. Stare at the starry starry night. You're worth it. Trust me.

This space talks to me. The world tells me I am no different, but the twinkling stars have another story to tell. They shine on to me. I am not different, but I am special. You are special, too.

I am not different. But I am the difference. And I make a difference. I know I do. Just the way you do too. Our aspirations may be different, but we are all bonded by them. I am a dreamer. And so are you. And nothing else matters.

I want to hold on the dreams. Never, NEVER, give up on them. No matter where they take me, no matter what is at stake. 

I have so much to learn. So much left. Still.

But I won't give up.

I believe I survive. And I won't give up.