Parde ke peeche kya hain?

Smelly lanes, wet clothes leaking down ancient balconies, beefy men with ogling eyes, slimy pools of spit and paan staining the dented footpaths. A visual, olfactory overload hit me, as I stood taking in Budhwar Peth. When I say Budhwar Peth, I don’t mean the electronics or stationery hub of the city. I’m talking about exactly what Budhwar Peth makes anyone even mildly in the know think of. Yes, the notorious Red Light area. “I’m happy about your cause, but does it HAVE to be this?” was my mother’s concern when I told her I would be coming here for the next three weeks. I wondered myself. There are organizations dealing with children, cleanliness, education, nature, HIVAIDS and so on. But why was I so hell bent on Saheli that dealt with prostitution? Was it curiosity? Fascination? An attraction for this enigma of a world only whispered about?

I parked my bike cautiously with muddy feet and tossed a mandatory dupatta around my neck. Right across me sat some women wearing bright saris and gowns, flowers in their hair and indifferent faces. A group of youngsters passed by, looked at them, at each other and exchanged a smirk. I rolled my eyes and set off towards the office. The magnitude of what I had gotten into set in, sparking excitement and unease. Saheli HIVAIDS Karyakarta Sangha is a CBO (Community Based Organization). A CBO is when the community in question works for itself and we volunteers simply assist them. While climbing the stairs, I passed the Community Kitchen that bustled with women and spicy aromas, the Care Home, a day care facility and a tiny library with a mirror. The next floor was the main office. Shelves exploding with stacks of files and papers, Zaroor condom boxes, a rudimentary computer and lots of very visual posters invited me as I settled down expectantly, welcomed by simple, warm co-volunteers. We were briefed, told to completely shed any inhibitions and specifically, respect this uncharted territory we were about to enter.

The work was miscellaneous. It ranged from taking a woman to the clinic for a variety of things or bank transactions (an unforeseen revelation of my ignorance), helping out with forms and other administrative work or teaching kids how to make a paper boat. This diversity heightened my experience and I ended up learning lots of things (like bank transactions). I once took this woman, Renuka, for sonography. It started out awkwardly, since she hardly knew any Hindi and I’m genuinely ashamed of how my Hindi sounds. My conversing cues had abandoned me and a long walk stretched ahead. We walked silently, nearing a group of giggling women with undersized, pink gowns accosting aloof-looking men. It felt like a movie. Subconsciously, I quickened my pace, only to look around and see Renuka chattering with these women. I cautiously retraced my steps. Should I look at them? And smile? Or stand a bit apart? Just join in? I didn’t even speak Kannada. Finally, we reached the clinic. All I knew was that she was from Karnataka and had been in the business since nine years.  It was only after being the mediator between the doctor’s questions and her answers did a chill run down my spine. Renuka was twenty, with a six year old son and a past of five abortions. Felt like a nasty slap. I recalled stupidly my irritation the last night over making chapatis. It felt so insignificant. Equal time spent on earth and how contrasting a destiny.

Thinking of such incidents triggers a part of me that relishes talking about “those Saheli days”. We were once to admit a woman to Sassoon Hospital for some appendicitis issues. Little did we know that we were unsuspectingly entering a nightmare; in the superlative. My first impression of Sassoon was of a railway station with railways replaced by ambulances and stretchers. The gigantic digital clock, huge cylindrical pillars, sleeping people scattered across the floor and a strong stench of urine, gutkha, sweat, alcohol, spirit and any other nausea inducing smell possible. Patients with a chopped limb or a twisted foot or a partially smashed skull lay writhing on dirty, stained beds. Blood covered cotton balls flew around like dandelions, only the meadow here resembled a battlefield. The doctor called his interns “interns” while wheeled beds with shrunken old women were tossed in and out of elevators.

 We rushed around getting the woman’s tests done and convincing the doctor to admit her only to be told at the end of four traumatic hours that she was probably just pregnant and had been lying the whole time. The only thing that stopped me from smashing a skull then was that I’d already seen one. In this exasperating moment I wondered, if at times, we were spoon feeding these women. I looked around at the people who came here, mostly illiterate, confused but they found a way, right? Did these women really need us volunteers to hold their hand and take them everywhere? What stopped their want for independence? Or was that a completely alien idea for them, considering most of them have never left their brothel? We requested the woman’s companion to go collect the reports if we told her where and how but she vehemently rejected the idea which shocked me momentarily. I don’t know if one can blame them for this fear of being in the public. They live a life behind the curtains and it must be daunting to suddenly shed them off and run into the light. In fact, when we went right inside the brothels on field visits, most women wished they could change their address for ration cards.

Like anyone else, these women yearn for social approval and equality. They know and have accepted what is thought about them, but it is we who fuel the stigmatization. So many people became uneasy when I told them where I worked. A girl I know started crying when we were simply walking in the Budhwar peth area, not remotely close to the lanes. People cringe at the thought of walking through “the area”; parents advice their children to take alternate routes. It’s like a mental void, flourishing but never spoken about. It also is some women (most of them, breathtakingly beautiful) making a living. The brothels usually house their families and every day, the women go downstairs for work. They are proud mothers and often support a drunkard partner. They invite you warmly into their tiny homes for tea and show you their daughter’s school work. They sit together watching TV and wisecrack-ing. They try to talk to you in broken English and share wafers. They remember you the next time you come and grin from their perch at the brothel door. They also sometimes, meet a man, fall in love, pay out all debts to the Madam with his help and shift into a new flat and sometimes a new city to start afresh (I met two such cases. It was magical).

Saheli doesn’t promise a rescue from the grim world they live in. It’s dark, dreary and almost completely deprived of hope. Saheli polishes this hope, brings it to a shine, lights up the shadows and then makes sure it lingers. It’s as simple as that. I thank this wonderful place for letting me be a part of it and drastically increasing my appreciation for pretty much, everything.

Chocolate or Vanilla? Complexities of the Complexions!

  If the pen is picked up purposefully after more than a year, one tends to take one cautious step at a time. In a desperate pursuit of a flow. And the hope, that once it’s found, the results will leave them awestruck and humbled. Hope is what keeps us mankind going, isn’t it? Its hope that keeps a mother from slapping her nasty tongued son that one day, the tongue will mellow down. It’s the hope of not being caught that terrorists hold on to when they hatch another lethal plot. And hope again that 2012 won’t really happen that lets movie stars sign films premièring in 2014. It’s all connected to something so simple, and yet so mighty.

  Speaking of might, my mind currently happens to hold a mighty dispute within itself. Something I keep gnawing at and then tossing away, unfinished. So suddenly, I feel the need to vent. Let me be more specific. Recently, I heard of a distant cousin being rejected by a family because "She was south Indian dark!" That statement left me fuming. And disturbed. It’s horrifying that this mentality still dares to exist amongst the seemingly educated public. In this time and century, when inter continent marriages hardly raise an eyebrow and Katy Perry sings passionately about supersonic aliens. What I’m trying to say is that something like the COLOUR has been trivialized to the extent of not mattering at all.

  Or so I very naively assumed! But a little bit of TV sent me tumbling into a staggering reality, which was suddenly all around me. I am referring to this absurdly persuasive tendency people seem to possess. The Inappropriate Glamorization of the Fair Skin. Look at the heaping cosmetic commercials. The putting of ‘fair’ and ‘lovely’ or ‘white’ and ‘beauty’ together. There’s “white perfect” and “natural white” and “fairever”. We didn’t even stop at that and actually came up with a “fair” and “handsome”! And trust me, these are just a few known handful. And they are rapidly catching up. Fairness creams and face packs actually have a market of a whopping 2,000 crores in our country.

  It’s preposterous. How a certain mentality compels one to be ashamed of being dark and strive towards perfection which is somehow synonymous to being fair! A director suddenly notices a girl after she’s glowing with fairness. A random girl lightens her skin tones and wins beauty pageants! I mean. How? We also have soaps about the woeful story of a dark and a fair sister where the dark one undoubtedly has to face a horde of hardships. A bizarre victimization, if you think about it. Of a perfectly normal human being. 

  Fair skin was considered superior before. That was gotten rid of. But it just keeps seeping back in. Like a tea stain that refuses to leave an otherwise perfectly functioning shirt. It’s like a craving that refuses to be exhausted, a fetish and an obsession that threatens to devour one gullible mind after another. The media seems to be hell bent on accelerating this epidemic. And our country has around 36 million TV users. A seemingly innocent commercial that holds roots in one’s mind. Its perplexing how most people will stop at nothing but pure white marble. There have been incidents where girls as young as 6 have inquired about fairness treatments. The woman’s complexion is specially taken into consideration so that the couple may have fairer children! It bewilders me how one can even think of sorting equality within religions, classes, castes etc. while we are still stuck with something so ridiculously insignificant.

  Meanwhile, the color discriminator’s son did finally find his piece of the moon. While my smart, very educated cousin with a respectable bank job, a delightful sense of humor and slightly more Melanin pigment remains matchless…waiting…hoping.

This one was actually supposed to be published in my college newsletter. But the issue got delayed and it was too stale by then. Hence, here goes.

Being New

Portfolios were done. Interviews gone through and a long holiday was spent with anticipation of what was in store. Things had been heard, assumed and hoped for. Amidst tearful parents and rooms that reeked of freshly done pest control, we had arrived. At MitID. The river was discovered and Raj/ Green Hut/ Red Chillies were determined as the possible mess backups. Noisy breakfasts and lunches made us aware of our huge number. It was picture perfect when suddenly; back breakingly hectic courses woke us up, and kept us awake. Still do, in fact.

Then came the seniors, and with them, interaction sessions. One couldn’t help feeling strangely intimidated by people who were just a year or two older! Though the fact that they’d gone through this turmoil AND had emerged victorious, did add a whole lot of respect and wonder. Mavshi’s and Kaka’s were introduced. People, slowly and steadily, began to vanish from class. The tuck shop now had a whole new, ever hungry crowd. So did the stationery shop with the hassled old man and chatty lady. Corridors filled up with us, foundationers struggling to straighten out the crooked pillars of  similar looking passageways. 

This is when frustration started setting in."Redo" became a dreaded word, doled out generously. One would be seen marveling at the brilliance of someone else’s drawing while at the same time feeling annoyed at not being able to get it right. Weekends would see people galloping away while the mood at the institution (as we’re to call it) was somewhat gloomy. People began to lose weight. And some of them even had second thoughts! Cribbing began, giving way to regret in some cases and strong will power in others. Coffee was grimly sipped and eyes were kept wide open. We were finally working.

And now, we are quite a few courses old. And have learnt the ways of this place, somewhat. The night is suddenly the savior. Its like a time of the day that was never utilized correctly. Till now. Of course, there are times when I feel like blinking for a long time just to catch a few winks (literally) of sleep or the shoulder beside me tries to lull my sleepy head during those tedious lectures but oh well! It’s just business as usual. And I still end up at the tip of the backlog iceberg, which, just like the nauseous smell hovering around the roads, keeps floating around my brain! The hostel never sleeps. Might be people slogging it out, or people on the phone strewn across the corridor with one leg on the railing, talking dreamily in hushed tones. There are also the adventurous kinds who watch movies even when they have their own icebergs. And then there are rooms that invitingly keep releasing Maggi/coffee aromas. Just like the tuck shop, but here, the aromas are of a deliciously varied kind and you can actually go have the treasure within, with sugary words and a hungry face! 

The feeling of alarm when you’re told that “the warden has called you”. The relief when you finally clear all of the design drawing submissions. The rhythmic calm I feel when people play the guitar during night permission and in the hostel. The inward joy I got when the beats of the dhol resonated through the building and the happiness with which I clapped my clay covered hands after the Malyali ladies did their Onam dance. The laughing and getting creeped out together while watching thrillers and How I met your mother episodes. The horde of comments that landed up on a single Humble Plea for a lost wallet. The musical high experienced during navratri with the whole session of getting ready for it. The annoyance at seeing the evening snacks menu. And. The missing of all of this when I go home on the weekends. And this, is just the beginning.

Now, I may have miles (piles, rather) to go before I sleep. Staying up might turn me into a puffy eyed zombie. And my nose might wilt away and die, courtesy The Smell that has even reached the hostel now. But, slowly, steadily and somewhat willingly, this place has now become my home, almost.

Disarrayed Platter

 The fingers ache to type and yet the mind keeps wandering..unable to hold one thought for long...pondering over each thought, each memory, each feeling and experience and then forgetting it the next instant.Like a sieve which was filled one moment and is suddenly drained, the hard, unwanted crumbles left in its masses. And you are left groping for what already passed. There's just a hullabaloo of thoughts which are noise together but need the slightest bit of working upon to turn into something sensible, individually. Just like a drop wont mean much in the sea, but when you see it in the form of a dew drop, it is suddenly photo-worthy. Or probably the way just a random top you picked up in the store looks so beautiful when you wear it. On the other hand, there's also the notorious category of thoughts that, you really wish never stepped into your thinking space. They stick to the mind and refuse to go. Viciously entangling every vulnerable feeling into them...say, like an evil magnet and just like a coriander leaf stuck in your braces, refuses to leave your helpless mind. So much so that you are left wondering whether you just might be having an OCD(obsessive compulsive disorder). So why does what you want leave you while what you don't, stays on? But hey! that's just one of the funny mathematics of life, right?

  I just spoke about individuality. Individuality  A mere word that speaks so much. The aim of most of humankind. Be it companies, youth, artists, designers! Being different is the thing to be. Be it through hairstyles, clothes, tastes in music! I know people who try to be different through the way they talk/ laugh, even write their name!! Almost no one wants to be part of the herd. Those who are, willingly or otherwise, are scoffed at and looked down upon. Titles like, "coward" or "meek" or follower" to name a few are thrown upon them, by the apparently "different" people. But. Wait a minute, what exactly IS different? The dictionary explains it as unusual, assorted, unlike others and so on.But does that mean everyone's on a quest for being unusual? Is it necessary to stand out in order to be different? Does that mean that the ones who dress normally and don't speak much are all the same?! I went to a couple of design colleges for interviews recently. And couldn't help noticing the people around me.Not because of a general habit of observing, but because several people drew my attention. They stood out. It was either loudly cut/colored hair/clothes. Or maybe the make up. Or just a bunch of beads that adorned a dominated neck. And, after feeling like a plain commoner for some time, I couldn't help wondering...were they trying too hard? Was it their way of reaching out to the difference in them or was it just attention they seek? Or maybe I was just judging.

  They asked me in an interview, "Why are you different?" and I came up with something like "because I have a unique set of genes." It might sound lame but here, it was MY way of NOT answering the stale question in the ol' chewed-and-tossed-over way. They laughed. And we spoke about less delicate issues. Mission Accomplished. But, moving back to difference, individuality and their meanings, what they mean for me is basically, independence. Having faith in yourself and in what you feel. And being able to express it. Otherwise, those used ideas are always there! Many of our music composers will tell you that. But being different, for me, means a difference in perspective. And the ability to express it. Being original. You dont need to walk around in leaves or claim it to people. Its who you are and not what you portray.

  Fearing the inclination of this particular piece towards "preachy", I shall bring an abrupt, but tactful end to my flow of thought at the moment. The mind, currently, is like a dark, heavy cloud. Not because of any signs of gloom in it, but because its just waiting to burst open. And, what I have spoken about here, is just drizzling.

  The fingers were aching to write and the disarrayed thoughts came out, slightly blurred. Just like one feels after waking up from a deep, tumultuous sleep. It might leave you with a heavy head. But the feeling of satisfaction that lingers is unmistakable. 

WHY GETTING INFECTED BY CONJUNCTIVITIS IS ACTUALLY AN AWESOME THING!!

    Well, just yesterday, when i woke up from a deep slumber, looking forward to another day in college, my eye just refused to open. I tried, but it got kinda painful, sticky and watery. With the other eye leading the way, i rushed towards the mirror and with horror, discovered that the concerned eye had diminished in size, the eyelids had swollen, it was blood red and some yellow gook was oozing out. After the initial disgust, the obvious dawned onto me, Well, I had gotten infected with conjunctivitis. Also known as 'madras eyes' in layman's terms.
       Like a normal human being, who doesnt really know much about the illness, i was pretty scared. But then, after further speculation and hours spent with the thing, i kinda realized that hey, this is one rare supposedly 'bad thing' where the advantages FAR overweigh the disadvantages...!!!!
       I'm not saying that getting your eyes red and watery is like, a kickass thing to happen, but here's a list that formulated in my head as i wistfully lay with the eyedrops in well....my eyes...

So here's the thing- WHY GETTING INFECTED BY CONJUNCTIVITIS IS ACTUALLY AN AWESOME THING!!

1.You get the usual sympathies and well wishes and lots of pampering.

2. Bunking class and college are added incentives....I mean, come on!! how can you let other innocent
    people risk getting your dangerous disease by going out in public??? Its practically social service, to say
    the least.

3. No one tells you to do too much work. More than love for the ill and affection, they basically dont want you to go near things cause they fear infection.

4. No more are typical phrases like, "mom leave me alone" heard in the house.....thanks to the fact that mothers are actually too scared to come nearby, and let you be in peace in your own room.

5. Annoying siblings, just like the mothers, also keep away, and trust me, a break from the usual brotherly troubles is like a boon very well deserved.

6. You arent even expected to study...."Its causing strain to my weak, whithering eyes, mum!"....(of course the fact that I'm actually online at the moment means a very contrasting thing)

7. Its as easy to sleep as.....say...to clap your hands or whatever else is easy. Personally, I find it very hard to sleep, but to my obvious delight, these red eyes have actually given me the reward of nice, deep, slumbers whenever i want them. :)

8. You get to sport glamourous glares without looking lame in the cloudiest of weathers.

9. You can just scare people away....one look and poooof!!!

10. And here is the best part of all. Believe me, apart from reddish, watery eyes that become sticky when you wake up and a momentary feeling of grossness when you look at yourself in the mirror, Conjunctivitis is absolutely nothing..i mean, it doesnt even pain!!!
  

 Yup, thats it....as for now. So seriously, next time you see some red eyed bloke acting all cringy.....you know what the TRUTH is!!! And of course, this has kinda led me to believe that yeah, EVERY cloud, however dark, stormy it is DOES have a silver lining. Its upto you to find out the brighter side and turn it into an advantage. :)  

ok God, its time to speak up

Dear God,

                Well, lets begin with the usual pleasantries....so, i hope alls well in heaven and the demons and all are not causing too many problems...:-) We all are pretty fine here on earth...yeah the icecaps are melting and stuff is getting polluted RAPIDLY but yeah...we are taking one day at a time...and just about making it...so now I'm gonna get to the point.

                 Since a very long time, I have been wanting to seek audience with you....for the sole reason that my confused mind is not willing to completely accept your existence and at the same time, deny it. Its groping in the dark....and swaying around for light....its uncertain and unsure...its agnostic. The fact that i am addressing it to Your Almighty means a lot, doesn't it? I wouldn't mind carrying on with the 'agnostic' tag but the self conflict it creates is not exactly desirable. One moment you are arguing with someone and the other you are like, hey..God can be there...and you just keep questioning everything all the time. I want to get it cleared but then again my mind asks for proof...which come on God, isn't really something YOU could boast of. And that makes the whole thing even more difficult. :( I mean, OK...I'll say that yeah i believe in you but then, WHAT do i believe in???

               You may call me lazy but i don't see the point of travelling to crowded temples, standing in HUGE queues that sometimes consist of even a few floors!! We buy a bunch of flowers, a coconut and a li'l packet of pedhas or something and after hours of strangling around with millions of devotees, all we can really hope to get is a momentary glimpse of 'You' before being rudely shoved away by these huge, burly guard-like men. If a temple is what i want to visit, i might as well go sit and reflect in a nice, peaceful temple where the people are few and no one says much...I honestly prefer this calm to that chaos. A quiet garden with beautiful flowers and the distant ringing of a bell to the sticky floors of crowded temples strewn with dead flowers and wilting petals that stick to our bare feet. This is when i actually feel of You as a possibility..that smell of incense sticks coming along with the breeze...it makes me WANT a divine force..someone watching over me....listening to my wishes...planning my life...deciding my fate...its actually a very comforting thought, God..when we feel only our heartfelt prayers will bring good health to our ailing mother...or give us the brains to pass our exams...I suddenly feel in love with my surroundings and feel good about everything.

                And then, I go home and switch on the television. And the news channels are screaming about some terrorist attack....i change the channel and another channel shrieks about a rape victim being killed and the killers roaming around...i am immediately saddened....its the everyday news, i know that...but my thoughts begin to wander towards You....tell me God, if you exist, why is there so much evil? It might be an extremely immature question to ask, I know that but still...why do so many terrorist organizations flourish around the world? Why are so many innocent people ruthlessly murdered at their mercy every year? Just the other day I read about a stampede in a famous temple. Really, God, hundreds of people died there at your doorstep. What happened then? You just let them die? Why do the jihadis still plan and successfully implement their dreams (now realities) of hardcore destruction? Why do rapists and corrupt politicians move around fearlessly and truthful whistle blowers are killed brutally?Why are powerless women regularly beaten up by ruthless chauvinists and no one can really do anything to them?

                Tell me GOD, WHOSE side are YOU on??? What happened to those ambitious ideas like 'victory of good over evil' and 'u reap what you had sown' and 'what goes around come around' ??? Why do they seem like just a far-fetched, fairy tale like thing now? THIS is the reason i don't feel like believing in you...this is the reason my faith dwindles...and trust me, once gone, FAITH is very hard to come...even if its in YOU, God....

(maybe) one of  your subjects....

Swaroopa