Seventy-Five

August 19, 2022

 

Over the last few days, there are times, often in the afternoons when the ground suddenly drops from below me and I find myself at the edge of a crumbly bottomless pit. My words tumble into that void and I reach out to grasp the few I can. 

 

India turned 75 on August 15th. A great milestone for any nation. Like many I took time to feel the gift of being born in this multi-cultural, fierce, and loving land. Without ever being religious I always felt a strong sense of identity of being Hindu with its rich culture and literature — radical myths and characters of every shade of the rainbow — twining within, giving me fragrance and depth. But the greatest gift of India for me have been my school and college days where classmates of every shape and religion shared each other’s food and stories. 

 

Even though I was born after independence the freedom struggle had deep meaning for me. Uncles, aunts, told stories of their protests and as I grew, I felt a strong civic sense — a need to fight for equality and justice for all. This was my India. Of course, I was privileged by my class, my city life, my education, while many others were not and probably felt differently about their India.

 

I walked the streets around Dhoby Ghaut with my daughter at noon on August 15^th. We had just seen the doctor and were looking for a place to eat lunch. We talked of India and though there was a lot of sadness about the erosion of democratic values there was no prescience of what we would see that evening. 

 

Eleven men — who in 2002 gang raped five members of one family and killed fourteen, including a three-year-old whose head they dashed on a stone — being garlanded outside the jail, and later at a special function held to felicitate them. 

 

Those images are etched into my brain as are the images of Bilkis Bano, the five month pregnant woman who they had raped and left for dead in 2002, was etched in then. She called these men, her neighbours, uncle and elder brother and begged for mercy, but they held her down and took turns. They raped her mother alongside her. 

 

These men were released as a celebration of our 75^th — freedom for saffron, gang rapists, and murderers in Amrit Kaal India. Remission is part of a judicial system and state governments were encouraged to set prisoners free to celebrate this 75th, but apparently gang rapists and others who had committed heinous crimes were not to be included in this. Yet a ten-member committee consisting of MLA’s and leaders of the ruling party, and government officials set all eleven rapists free. One of the MLA's said, the men were Brahmins and had good values. I don’t know if they could have done this. This about eleven men who had been tried and convicted of the crimes.

 

The rapists must have been remorseful? Nope, many are insisting they were innocent and framed by some NGO. I can guess which NGO will be named. 

 

I am shattered. I take refuge in my little email group where we share our feelings of horror and hopelessness, and exchange articles written by others similarly shattered. I am also shattered by the lack of outrage in the general public. Many too numbed, too ‘conditioned’ by the excesses of the BJP to react?

 

But what if these had been Nirbhaya’s rapists? Would society be more outraged if those men had been released? The eleven men, rapists of Bilkis Bano, looked well-fed and groomed. They were fed laddoos and themselves were distributing them just outside the jail. 

Sitting here. Stopped momentarily. When such horrific happenings do not stun citizens, I think it is time for us to take stock of who we are as a country and do something, even if we haven’t a clue where to begin. 

Welcome August

August 4, 2022

 I haven’t set goals in a while, but August certainly has goals. 

 

I told my artist friend, on our chat yesterday, that I had been able to drop my compulsive news following, and now instead of staying up late to watch debates or checking on news from India every hour, I check twice a day and switch off the late night shows and read. Mostly this is true.

 

Reading eight books in August is one of my goals. 

 

I woke after only about four hours of sleep this morning and said goodbye to my spouse. He’s out for a work trip. I couldn’t fall back to sleep and brewed the last of the white tea from Teabox, the one called Silver Needles, cultivated in the foothills of the Himalayas, with more caffeine content than black tea. The day seemed to smell of rich, strong, black, assam tea. Don’t know where the full-bodied, malty, fragrance in the air came from, but I closed my eyes and breathed it in. I drank my less fragrant golden tea slowly and read, finishing the first of the eight books—Either/Or by Elif Batumen—this morning. Then took a picture and posted it in the FB book group a friend had added me to a few years ago

 

The low ache of separation, even when it is only for a day or two, felt in the first hours of apartness, hit me as the not-so-empty day stretched ahead. I had a schedule, and I was tired. Always a challenge to negotiate. 

 

My artist friend completed his PHD defense last week and now is a doctor in waiting. We hadn’t chatted for a couple of weeks, and it was special to hear of his frenzied preparation, moving viva, and the cauldron of feelings after. He said he no longer felt stupid, and we laughed and discussed the areas in which we feel stupid. He had been told that he was stupid since he was a child and in some ways I had too. I solved it for myself by studying Physics and doing well in it. I developed an arrogance, try calling me stupid now, I’d emanate to the joint family who often pulled me down. But later when I started karate I felt very, very, stupid. I told myself that karate was my side passion, a hobby, and it was ok to be stupid there. I couldn’t say that though when I began teaching it and had to grapple with my insecurities. 

 

I don’t know why we don’t like feeling stupid. I want to embrace those stupid parts more. 

 

What next, I asked him, and he told me his plans related to deep listening and art. I shared what I want to work on. I had been trying to write about my karate journey with little success. It was rich but it felt without much body too. Last week an insight-bolt jolted me. It makes only intuitive sense yet, but I began to think of the second event/activity in my life that had altered me irrevocably, the one that my human rights activist self was born from. These identitites, karateka and human rights activist, journey like two parallel rails of a train track. I think I need to see if I can braid them together. 

 

Along with the ache of separation there is a feeling of freedom that comes with being alone, even if it is for a few days. I miss my solitary travels, or days by myself in my home. I don’t know why I need this, since my spouse never restricts me. But this need exists along with the equally strong need to have somebody to be with. 

 

We talked of other things too on our chat, and there is so much more to reflect on and write about as July was very full, but the day’s tasks call.