The Lights are still Out!

Very recently, I came across a play by Manjula Padmanabhan
called Lights Out. An extremely disturbing play, it shows a group of middle class people coming across a gang rape in progress and  doing nothing to intervene. In the first half of the play, the characters go out of their way to ignore the heinous crime; the next half, pretending that it does not concern them. In fact, one of the characters suggest that they take a picture of the crime because its not often that one comes across photos of "authentic gang rape".
As the play ends, we are informed that it is a dramatization of a real incident which occurred in Santa Cruz, Mumbai in 1982. The entire reading leaves a deep impression on the readers, but the final revelation gives you goosebumps. It suddenly makes you feel unsafe even in your own home!
This play was written 31 yrs ago. Lots of things have changed since then. But has anything really changed for women? We can all answer unanimously. NO.
We talk about empowerment, women having successful careers, women establishing their own identities, reaching the pinnacle of success in every field. But how does all this matter when a woman cannot step out of her house and feel safe? I was born and brought up in Kolkata. One would think that I know the streets, know how to commute and can do so confidently. True, but not the whole truth. For every girl that travels through the streets of this city, its an uphill battle everyday.

• You can always feel the the vulgar stares lingering on you when you walk down the road, no matter what you wear.
•  For those who wait for public transport everyday, you would think that once you get an auto-rickshaw or a bus, your troubles are over. But not for us. For girls, its just the beginning. In a crowded bus or a metro, you can always feel people leaning towards you. If you protest, they blame the crowd. Then suddenly you feel a hand brush against you, feeling you up. You try to move to some place safer but the stares and grins follow wherever you go. Finally you get off at your destination and heave a sigh of relief.
• For those who travel by auto, the nightmare is different. When you are sitting in front, some drivers move away from you, allowing you to sit comfortably, their elbows tucked in so that it doesn't make you uncomfortable. But most do the opposite. Elbows tucked out touching you inappropriately, leaning toward you every chance they get under the pretext of steering and making you want to jump out of the moving vehicle.
• Don't, even for once, think that the girls who manage to sit at the back of the autos get off easier because some passengers have the same tricks up their sleeve.

Years have gone by, mentality remains the same. When a character in the previously mentioned play suggests that they take a photo, you cant help but think about that girl in Assam who was molested on the street by 30 odd men and a TV cameraman filmed it for "breaking news".  Is this really the country we want to live in? Isn't it high time that the society changed?


Padmanabhan's Play, Harassment, Women's safety in India, Violence against women

Darkness (Part 4 final)

Peter was petrified. What would happen if he comes up? He could almost taste the fear in his tongue. He strained his ears. He could hear Jean’s voice and a deep male voice conversing. The man did not seem agitated, which was a good sign. But he could sense the fear in Jean’s voice and he also knew that the fear was for him. He heard them move around a bit. Soon the formalities and customary exchanges ended. Jean made some comment about Joyce being away all the while and his remarks grew more and more curt and irritated. Peter realized from his reactions that Joyce was slightly drunk. Seconds turned into minutes as Peter waited for Jean to come up. After almost an hour he finally heard the final burst of abuse and heavy steps storming off. But thankfully Joyce didn't come up. Apparently his room was somewhere downstairs and he stayed there. Sometime later, the door of Jean’s room opened and she appeared. Peter breathed a sigh of relief.

“Tomorrow morning before Joyce wakes up, I’ll take you to the rail station. A train leaves for the city everyday and you have to be on it if you want to live”, Jean whispered in an uneven voice. Peter didn't know what to say. He was recovering well but he had not considered the possibility of going away so early. He stared at her. There were tear tracks on her cheeks. He knew that with Joyce back he couldn't risk staying with her; he also knew that he did not have the slightest intention of leaving her.

The next morning was like a blur of colors of the town and whispers passed between them. Peter and Jean stole out of the house very early. The streets were empty so they did not have any trouble on the way and reached the station even before they had anticipated. The train was waiting at the platform.

She helped him get onto the train. “Take care of yourself”, she said, her voice cracking. Peter could not bring himself to leave without her. He felt like he was leaving a part of himself with her and he was terrified that he would never get it back.

“Come with me. You don't have to stay here!” he pleaded.

“He’s my family Peter” she said.

“But he’s not worth it! He doesn't care what becomes of you and you know it!” Peter could feel a hint of anger and desperation in his voice.

“I know. But I have to believe that someday he’ll realize what he was done and that day, he'll need me to be there for him.”

Peter felt a tear slide down his cheek. Jean’s eyes were tearful but her face, resolute.

“I’ll come back for you when this is over”, he said.

Jean smiled, “I’ll wait.”

The train blew a whistle and sluggishly started moving forward. He waved at Jean,eyes fixated on her face for as long as she could be seen. She was smiling and waving back. As the train left the station, the black pillar at the perimeter hid her from view. Then Peter finally turned his head and looked ahead, to the approaching horizon. The world out there was fast moving toward him. It held an uncertain future. Peter knew that this time around, he would make it. Jean had gifted him his future and he would make sure that the future would be worthy of the two of them. He would succeed; for himself and Jean.

                                                The End

Darkness (part 3)

Peter could faintly hear some sounds, none of them were alarming. Something felt very strange to him. He was settled in a comfortable bed but the pain was excruciating.  He could not move an inch without his whole body erupting in pain. He silently prayed for the pain to stop. But that eerie feeling wouldn't let him rest peacefully. He didn't really know where he was but was sure enough that he wasn't supposed to be here, alive. He slowly parted his eyelids. In the diffused light he saw a girl rearranging something on the desk. There was no one else in the room. The curtains were drawn but he could make out that it was day. The girl turned and saw him looking at her. She quickly came over to his side.

“How are you feeling now?”

She had a very kind voice. “It hurts”, Peter replied. 

He was busy studying her. So, she somehow rescued him and now was nursing him, he thought. She had kind eyes, but it didn't completely sooth Peter’s nerves. She carefully took his hand and checked his pulse. He examined her face closely. She didn't betray any emotion. Fear, anger, sorrow nothing. She had a round face, slightly tanned.

“What’s your name?” she asked.“Peter.”“What happened?”
Peter opened his mouth but didn't reply. He didn't know what so say. He was mourning the loss of his family, cursing the ones responsible, cursing himself for not being able to do anything. Would that answer her question, he thought. Peter gathered himself and hesitantly narrated the incident. As he spoke, he saw the girl’s expression go from, sadness to guilt to pain. 

“Who are you?” he asked, finally.
“My name is Jean. I came here with my brother a few days ago.”

“In the middle of this unrest?!Why would – “, Peter began, confused by the Jean’s words.

“Get some sleep, you’ll be in less pain”, Jean said. Peter was confused but he was exhausted. He felt as if he had been talking for hours. He closed eyes and fell asleep.

Hours went by, followed by days. Peter could soon sit up on the bed without help. As his condition improved, so did his understanding with Jean. Once he was well enough, Jean confided in him. How her brother was in the militia, how he had brought Jean along with him. She was terrified that Peter would hate for being related to someone who had caused him so much pain. But Peter reassured her. 

“I don’t know if your brother was there that day. And even if a he was, I’d hate him. Not you! You saved my life. I would never hate you!” he said. From them on, they became friends. They would talk for hours about random things, discuss the sad predicament of their country with a heavy heart and wonder how long they would be able to go on like this. The mood in the house lifted as Peter recovered. Smiles were more easily seen; sometimes even a small laugh or two. All the while, Jean kept the windows closed. The outside world was so gloomy and murky that the darkness was almost tangible. The windows seemed to separate their world from the rest. Every time the supplies started running low, Jean would have to go out. Sometimes, she would come back and report empty streets; those would be the good days. At other times, she would come back with reports of more killings, each one more horrific than the other. However, Jean never had much trouble because the “guards” mostly knew her brother. All in all, Peter and Jean managed pretty well. They grew to respect each other, and in spite of themselves, grew very fond of each other. They had become so comfortable in their own world that they both had forgotten their worst fears. One night, they were rudely brought back to reality when the doorbell rang. Joyce had finally arrived. 

Darkness (part 2)

Rain splattered down his face. Green, red and black spots danced in front of his eyes. His breathe came out in gasps as he slowly staggered along the row of houses. Peter did not hope to find a shelter but the pain was way too much. The bullet had hit him below the shoulder blades. He was till mobile so that meant his spinal cord had been unaffected by the bullet. But that deduction didn't bring any relief to him. He was still in excruciating pain and slowly bleeding to death. Peter had waited till the man was gone, then somehow staggered to his feet and started walking. He forced himself to keep walking even when all his senses begged for him to stop and fall, embrace the inevitable. But Peter walked on. He had left behind a block almost. He saw occasional corpses here and there and closed doors. No one was willing to help a stranger. Most houses didn't have any inhabitants left. The ones which did, didn't want to invite trouble. Each step reminded Peter that he was alone.

Suddenly he could go no more. He felt himself giving up. He had pushed his body to the limit and now his body was fighting back, it was shutting down. No matter how much he tried, he could not take another step forward. He looked forward. He was standing in front of a small house, with a white door. All he had to do was climb 4 steps. Just 4 steps. But his legs refused. He fell down and despite the pain pulled himself up onto the final step. The front porch was still wet from the heavy shower. He reached for the doorbell but it was too high and he didn't have any strength to get up. He could feel his vision blurring, the dancing spots grew heavier. He was getting dizzy. With the last burst of energy, he knocked on the door, twice. He knew no one was coming but at least the porch was covered, which meant he was safe from the direct rain. Not that it mattered anyway. Where he was going, nothing mattered. Maybe that’s why it was a better place. Maybe he was already there because it was dark, very dark. The pain was almost gone. Peter was finally at peace, he already like this ‘better place’.

Jean hated the world around her. She hated what the world had come to. She had witnessed the most heinous of crimes, crimes she never thought man could resort to. The rioting, the mass outrage, fighting, killing disgusted her. The only thing she hated more was the feeling of helplessness. She couldn't do anything to help the people, to save at least some of them. After all, her brother was out there; But not among the victims, among the perpetrators, the monsters leading the mob. While her brother’s prolonged absence worried her, she was thankful that at least with him gone, the house was peaceful. All she could do now was pray for the departed souls and the ones they left behind. She could only hope that someday this would end. She was lost in thought when she heard a faint knock on her door.

 “Joyce?” She called. No answer, just another faint knock.

Jean remained silent. She carefully listened for any sign of disturbance outside but everything was quiet. Finally she gathered enough courage to open the door.

There was no sign of her brother. Instead, a boy her age lay at her feet. Her clean porch was streaked with red. The boy was bleeding profusely but he wasn't moving. Jean instinctively checked for his pulse. It was there, weak, but there still. He was alive. The unexpected arrival had left her flabbergasted but she took a few deep breaths to calm herself. She quickly surveyed the street to check if anyone was watching, then she slowly pulled the boy inside her house and closed the door behind them. She locked it for good measure. She finally had some work to do.

Three hours had passed. Jean had somehow managed to stop the flow of blood from his knee which had a deep gash. The boy had a bullet wound on his back which worried her. For the lack of anything better, she had used a kitchen knife to scoop out the bullet. After she had dressed the wounds, she scooped few spoonful of water into his mouth, which, she was happy to see, he swallowed. She switched off the lights, drew the curtains together ad lighted a candle. She had made every arrangement to make sure that the house looked in empty. Then she sat down beside his bed and waited.

Darkness (Part 1)

Darkness. That’s what he saw when he slightly parted his eyes. He was supposed to be sound asleep. Then why was he awake? He looked around his dark room. Nothing was out of place. Something had disturbed him enough to wake him up. But what?  Peter blinked and slowly sat up in his bed. He suddenly became aware of some noise coming from downstairs. No, not just noise, sounds of angry voices and cries for help. He felt cold dread creep into his heart. His family was downstairs, he needed to go and help them at once! He jumped out of bed but stopped short in his tracks. He could hear foot steps on the staircase. Someone was headed right to his room! For a moment he just froze. His limbs refused to move while his brain went on an overdrive frantically trying to think of something, anything. Then his instincts kicked in. He hastily crawled under his bed, carefully hiding behind a trunk. From where he was positioned he could see the floor in front of the door. Few seconds later, a streak of light appeared on the floor, growing wider and wider as someone opened the door. He saw a heavy boot step in, followed by another. The pair of boots slowly walked towards the bed and stopped. The very slight movement told him that the owner of the boots was surveying the room. Peter was terrified. His heart was frantically beating and the dread, almost tangible. The pair of boots turned towards the door, the owner having decided that the room was evidently empty, and walked out not bothering to close the door. The noises downstairs were clearer now. Peter could hear the pleas and commands; he recognized his mother’s wail and his brother’s indignant shout. He wanted to run down and help them, but fear had paralyzed him. From his hiding place, the room in the attic, he knew exactly what the situation was downstairs. He was shell shocked but not surprised. He had his family had been living with that terror for days now. In a country torn by riots and war, Peter could only hope and pray for a better outcome but he was very sure that God was too busy to answering his prayers right now. The mob had reached his house. He had to do something. Couldn't just sit there and let his family be killed. He slowly crawled out and stood up. The voices were now outside and had somehow multiplied. The neighbors a small voice in head whispered. As he made his way out of the room and down the stairs, he felt his hand shaking. He crept out of the back door, behind the fence and looked. His jaws dropped in shock. His heart stopped and his leg gave away. He sat down and peeped out from the gap between the fences, tears streaming down his face.

The mob had dug a ditch, some paces ahead. It was almost full already, with corpses. The raid or whatever they called it was coming to an end. The country was torn with strife. Peter had heard the news, fearful whispers. They said the militia was killing people, wiping out small towns and villages but Peter had hope they were just rumors, exaggerated ones. But it was all true. All of it. He wanted to cry, to run and save his family, to kill those cold blooded murderers but he didn't. He couldn't. He couldn't see his mother anymore. She had already been “taken care of” he realized. He felt his heart break into a million pieces when he saw them put a bullet in his brother and throw him in. They then proceeded to cover the ditch with soil. Peter was numb with fear, pain and horror. He had witnesses the horrific end of his family and couldn't do anything about it. He saw the men leave but he didn't have the courage or the strength to come out from the bushes. He trembled in silent anguish. He lost count of time. He just sat there. What had the world come to? Men killed others without any apparent reason? On the basis of what religious or political belief one may harbor? These differences call for spirited debate, not mass murder! His father had always told him, “Son, always respect an individuals point of view even if it differs from your own. You never know, by listening to his side of the story, you may learn something new.” But all those words seemed hollow right now. He wondered what his father would have done… his father…of course! His father wasn't here! He was far away from him, in the city. And he was safe. Peter had received a letter from him that very morning stating that the city life, though difficult, was safer due to the strictly imposed curfews and heavy police cover. His father had promised to bring them to the city the moment he could.Peter cried bitterly. Whenever that moment came, it would be too late. His family was gone. Now he could do only one thing. Somehow make his way to the city and unite with his father. That was the only thing left of his life. Peter decided that he would start at once.

It had begun to rain. Peter shakily stood up and walked over 

to the grave. The loose soil was starting to form mud, limbs 

and faces sticking out of the ditch. He knelt down and prayed. Suddenly he heard a gruff voice, and footsteps. He turned around only to feel an intense pain in his ribs. One of the men had come back!

The man kicked him before reaching for his holster but the gun appeared to have been stuck. Peter took that chance. He pushed the man and ran. He had expected that man to follow but was surprised when he didn't. Peter had hardly gone a few meters when he felt a blinding pain on his back, near his shoulder. He was shot. Peter fell down with a stifled scream. He heard the man come over to him. Instead of killing him, the man just left. Peter was left to slowly bleed out in the rain and die.

Heart ventures, Mind considers

We are inseparable. Having grown up together, we know each other better than anyone else in this world. We have shared happiness, sorrows and memories. We are incomplete without each other. However, we are by no means like-minded. We have our differences, some of which are irreconcilable. For example, I’m free spirited, in love with the idea of love. I believe someday a guy will come and just sweep me off my feet. Our love will be perfect with just the right amount of understanding and honesty between us. I never lost faith in this even for once in the past nineteen years. She on the other hand, is very skeptical. For her everything has a downside and that is the side worth considering first. She wants to have the same dream, but is acutely aware of the fact that it is only a dream and will remain so. I tried reasoning with her but to no avail. It’s not just the matters of heart where our differences lie. We have conflicting opinions about almost everything. From waking up in the morning to finally falling asleep at night, whatever comes across us becomes a subject of intense debate between the two of us. We don’t quarrel though. We are not only well aware of our differences but also the cause of those differences. Thus both of us are justified. The problem arises when either of us has to choose the way. We are considerate towards each other, but that does not mean we appreciate each other’s dominance. She resents my idealistic nature, I resent her pessimistic one. She says I’m too caught up in my dreams and ideas to be focused and practical. I say she is too scared to even hope. Interestingly, our natures are completely interchangeable when it comes to ambitions. She wants to conquer the world (not literally of course) while I just want to lead a happy, contented life with my parents. I want to give them every luxury and happiness they ever dreamt about. This is the wish I make everyday. I throw in a request for a hot boyfriend too sometimes, I kind of deserve that. She approves of this (don’t look at me, I was surprised too!). She says it’s ok to put faith in something, to pray. It gives the person a strange kind of security. I wasn't too happy when she explained it to me this way. She took away the romance of it all.

          The bone of contention between us is probably how she takes every fantasy of mine and completely ruins it with her dry logic. I have tried talking to her, even pleading with her not to do so but she fails to see my point! I told her that she doesn't need to tell my how overtly implausible I am. Deep inside I know that already. It’s just that, I don't want to give on those hopes as they have become a part of me. They give me reason to imagine, to think of a parallel world where all those dreams came true; they allow me to have world of my own. She hates this. She keeps telling me that if I were to live in any world at all, it might as well be the real one. To imagine is but a waste of time. I remember this one time when I got really mad at her. I was talking to her about a particularly favorite book of mine. I told her I could identify with certain traits of those characters. I could see beyond the evident plot and found reason in the seemingly random turn of events and behavior of the characters. It took her but a second to negate the idea. “It’s only a story!” she said, “It only portrays the whim of the author and depicts events which in no world could be true. And the characters are just as unreal.” I hated her and was determined to prove her wrong. I, as is my nature, look more closely to the emotions of the characters. More than their actions, I like to work out the emotional reason behind it. I like to search for rationality in face of completely irrational actions and event. She, on the other hand, is characterized by very strong likes and dislikes. For her, emotions are no excuse for anything. Logic is all that matters. For her the world is pretty much black and white. There are good things and bad things, real and unreal, logical person and emotional fool; and needless to say, each time she prefers to be the former. For me, the world is grey. Well, there is silver, and then there is grey, deep and light. Every person has flaws, virtues, imperfections and good qualities, all mixed in inside them. It’s just a matter of weighing them against each other.

In spite of all there is, the differences and the support, it’s only together that we are complete. It makes me who I am.  While one can never really solve the competition between the heart and the brain, one can balance them out. Indulge a little and restrict a little, dream a little without losing touch of reality, give in a little and hold back some. After all, learning how to do that is called life.

Traditions

                                       “Every day should be mother’s day”

The sun was low on the horizon. The reddish golden glow filtered in through the window blinds into the increasingly darkening room. The door to the balcony was open. I sat on an easy chair, calmly looking at the fluffy white clouds. Somewhere in the house a clock chimed. I looked around, ready to get back to the household chores once again. Then I realized that I didn’t have any today. My husband had taken our son to the zoo. The whole day they were gone. They had found a father-son ritual of their own. This was also my husband’s idea of giving me a break. I leaned back again and closed my eyes. Today, I had the house to myself.

I belonged to an upper middle class family. I was a well educated, independent woman with modern sensibilities. I had a successful career, loving husband and a happy and lively son. I lived in a posh area in a luxurious flat. In short, I had everything a middle class family would want for their daughter. Most importantly, I was happy and content with my life.

The soft breeze washed over me. I could hear the happy shouts of children playing downstairs. I smiled to myself as I remembered how much I loved lazy evenings when I was younger. I could just sit around all day long doing nothing but reflecting on my own, or making up an alternate reality in my head where I had all the things I actually have now. The light all around me faded a little more. I got up to make tea. This thought surprised me a little. I never liked tea, my husband did. Initially I made myself a separate cup of coffee but then I took to tea as well because I was too lazy to make both. Over the years I became used to it. And today somehow my husband’s choice triumphed over my own even in his absence.

A strange thought struck me. I realized how much I had changed for the sake of my husband, not because he wanted me to, but because I wanted to. In a family, the woman is expected to adjust; to take upon the family name, the likes, dislikes, even traditions. The culture or ambience in which the woman was brought up all her life just ceases to be important. But I was always very proud to point out that I was never under that pressure. My husband and his family accepted me for who I was, the way I was. Even after marriage, my husband never imposed anything on me, all our decisions were mutual. He even gave in to my tantrums more often than not. But still, unnoticed by both of us, I had changed. I had made adjustments, changed my likes and dislikes without even realizing it. My love for coffee made way for my husband’s love for tea, my favorite colors got replaced with my husband’s and then my son’s. My favorite shows made way for football matches. My hobbies took a backseat, because I didn’t have time for them anymore. These are major changes, not that I mind much, but still. The funniest part of it was, I never realized when the changes crept in to become a part of me. I remembered how my mother taught me that sacrifices are a part of being a woman. The small things that I had given up may not be great sacrifices but they counted all the same. Women like me have come long way. Became independent, strong but at the same time, we have always preferred to keep ourselves after everyone around us, a sacrifice which mostly goes unnoticed; and when the realization dawns, we even surprise ourselves.

The sun had gone down. My surroundings had become darker. The dirty golden light had almost faded to black. The laughter of the children below had also faded, except for the occasional loud “bye”, the playground below was quiet. Smiling to myself I went to the kitchen. I looked at the small bottle of coffee which my husband had bought for me. Nonchalantly I reached for the tea leaves.

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