When Colours Turn Muddy

Is Holi really the festival of colours? Well, in some imaginative, idealistic notions, it must be. However, as a non-participant on Holi festivities, yesterday I saw less of an iridescent display of colours, and more of black faces, muddy water and police patrol-plus-barricading, enough to give a feel of an imminent curfew. Is that what the festival of Holi has come to mean and symbolise?

Within the comfort of my house, I smeared colours on the faces of a handful of neighbours. Not for once did I feel like stepping out. Not alone, at any cost. Why? Because Holi has come to mean a threat to me and my body. I am sure a lot of girls would agree with what I am trying to convey here. There are so many outstation girl students I know, who, if devoid of a large and protective friends’ circle, lock themselves up in their rooms, too scared to venture out till late afternoon, when the Holi festivities have subsided. What kind of a festival is it which restricts a girl’s mobility or makes her feel unsafe ?

It doesn’t start (or end) on the Holi day. It begins much before. A week in advance, suddenly, the guys of your city get a free licence to accost your bodies with water-balloons, often also filled with colour dyes. Now, I am not saying that girls are their only target, but perhaps my exposure has only been limited to that aspect of their festive mischiefs. An innovation I recently came to know off, via troubled rantings of a college friend is stuffing water balloons with eggs and then using them as a harmless Holi weapon. How cool? Right? No. It is not. It is harassment, to say the least. On our way from college to an all-girl’s market trip, I and two other friends of mine were hit by two water balloons in a moving auto. I know the pain and the impact it created on my arm, and can only imagine how my other friend, who was hit on the cheek, would have felt. All this in the name of festival fun. Needlessly said, the girl’s day out had to be cut short, for who would want to roam around in market places with wet clothes, clinging to one’s body. The world is not short of ogling men now, is it? Oh, and it was not some innocent five year-olds who had played Holi with us in their own twisted way, but lanky teenaged lads. I wonder where do they adopt this tradition from, if it can be called that. One more water-balloon assault later, I decided to stay away from travelling to college till Holi gets over.

What perhaps I have dictated is a minor ordeal, if one may even call it that. The pain my arm experienced subsided in no time. There are, however, many hideous tales of Holi molestations I have heard from here and there, which stay on to pain girls till years later. Holi is a licence for men to touch, run and even maul a female body. Have you ever felt a male hand touching you at inappropriate places under the pretext of colouring you up because that is what the tradition demands? Have you ever seen men, ostensibly your family members, first drench you in front of a crowd, and then admire the shape of your body as the intoxication of bhang strengthens? I am not claiming this is the rule. I am only saying that this happens too. I have been lucky it never did with me. But many of my acquaintances have not been so fortunate. Even worse, many, I am sure, are not aware how an excuse of Holi is used by men to intrude into what is their space, the threshold of which should only be crossed upon gaining consent.

All these thoughts came running to my head after I saw a large gang fight break out in a slum dwelling visible from my house. All faces were painted black, the only difference perceivable being in the shape of bodies distinguishing men from women. Intoxication and loud music perhaps gave a fillip to whatever the argument was about and fight of the muddied faces kept on getting stronger. What caught my attention in this madness was a woman caught in the exchange of blows, who could only manage to wriggle free when she was thrown outside the fighting group to land on her haunches on the wet ground. The next I noticed was a police van hauling up the ruffians (that’s how they all looked) and dead silence returning to the field of frenzied celebrations.

May be this is not the way the civil classes celebrate Holi. They have their other civil ways of making this a festival of fun, amusement and entertainment. Holi is said to be the festival which is a great leveller. All faces, coloured in similar hues, are made free of distinctions of caste and class. The one distinction that does remain, however is that of gender. Perhaps that is the reason why a DU girls’ hostel had to seek a ban on a Holi procession, alleging obscenity in the all-male parade taken out in Delhi University’s North Campus every year. The girl residents claim that crude remarks and indecent gestures made by those boys amount to harassment, and this despite being accompanied by police each year. This is the condition of our education eden, infiltrated, of course, by some who are labelled ‘anti-social elements’.

Amid all these harrowing feelings about Holi, what gives me pleasure is the soft touch of my ten-year old nephew’s fingers applying variegated hues of gulal on my face. It gives me pleasure to see sweet gujias being exchanged among neighbours and relatives who scarce find an opportunity to meet in their otherwise hectic schedules. It also gives me pleasure to see the sweet playfulness dissolve and dissipate, for one day, hierarchies within families. And the best piece of news I heard was from Benaras, where the widows this year celebrated a floral Holi. Radha and Krishna, whose Holi celebrations shade our legends and folk songs, would be happy to see a dash of colour in the lives of those consigned to colourlessness. It were the sufi peers who saw Holi as the coming together of communities and smearing on each other not just gulal, but love. I wonder where the spirit of Radha Krishna, of the sufi traditions of Holi is lost.

Still, I do hope you all had a wonderful Holi, which was safe, vibrant and full of mirth!

Image Source - Photographs by the hugely talented Snigdha Manoli Menda. Used with permission. 

A Month Down The Line

            In her brief tryst with the world, she acquired many sobriquets. Some called her Damini, some Amanat and others Nirbhaya. As was revealed by her grieving father, her name, actually, was Jyoti. Well, more apt. While receding into eternal darkness, while being embraced by death, she lit a flame which illuminated many.

            A month since the heinous incident, and it makes sense to ask where is it that we have arrived. Protesting multitudes have gone hoarse shouting slogans. The injuries incurred during an unwarranted state response have now been healed. Perpetrators have been nabbed and shunned not just by the public, but by their co-inmates. A deluge of insensitive comments by people in power have been issued to make a mockery of the composite, vibrant culture we show off to the world. Debates on death penalty and chemical castration have mellowed down, but not before they acquired a more nuanced character. Some parents have gone paranoid with safety concerns; others have opened themselves up more to the world and refused to bow down to fear. A committee has been constituted to suggest reforms for greater gender parity and safety. Fast track courts have been established. In the backdrop of all this, a family has been silently weeping for the loss of that brave child, who loved buying new clothes, and who was the promise of light in their life.

            A few days into the protest, a gentle female friend of mine left me a text. She had a concern. While she thought that the protests were okay, she wanted to convince me that it was, after all, the girl’s mistake that she was in that circumstance. It took me a nano second to take umbrage. Callous, barbaric, incredible, pathetic and downright preposterous comments about rape, adequately reflective of our incorrigible patriarchal mind-set, had been emanating from the mouths of almost all in whose face a microphone was thrust. These were the high and the mighty of our society. However, behind closed doors of humble, nondescript houses, in our very generation which has catalysed this movement against rape, there did exist similar ideologies. My friend was but one example. I wanted to shout at her. I was at pain to understand how does a woman not understand the pain, the agony, and the rights of another woman. A moment more, and I did realize, that all this is reflective of the very disease which has conditioned us. Women, before they challenge men to grant them equality, have to liberate themselves from their own subjugated psyches, their own complexes when pitted against the perceived superior males.

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            This article was intended to evaluate how a month of protesting, debating and displaying our anger has altered our environment. The sceptics shall be quick to guffaw and dismiss this collective anger as frivolous, transitory and inconsequential. The believers shall offer a version in absolute contradiction. However, what happened in Delhi on that fateful night has not left anyone of us untouched. We have our takes on it, and it is important that we accommodate the perspectives of each other in a collective understanding of the incident and its aftermath. That is the only way we truly learn.

            So, have these protests stopped rapes? No. They did not. They couldn’t have; because, no matter how motivated a group of young protesters, it is still not sufficient to weed out what has been a part of our society since centuries. Yes, rape has been a part of our society. There have been Kings known for their penchant for ‘deflowering’ maidens. Why? Because a woman’s body has been seen as something to be conquered, controlled. So, when not fighting wars, these Maharajas would love sorting out virgins and violating their honour, and, interestingly, even keeping souvenirs from their conquests – which could be a stained bedsheet or a nose-ring (worn primarily by virgins). It is understood by most now, that there is nothing sexual about rape. It is more of a measure for ‘disciplining’ the weaker sex, of showing them their place. Yes, the rapes have not stopped, but this understanding has been put their in the open. A month down the line, we have grown up a little.

            The most instant response to this incident of rape were deafening cries of a quick and definitive death penalty for the convicts. Did that happen? No. It did not. I do not know if it will, and I don’t care if it does. The government, the media and the judiciary took note. Emotions and rationalities collided. And today, even though the debate rages on, it is perfectly understood that perhaps death penalty is not the solution to this problem. If anything, it will worsen the situation at hand. A rapist might be tempted to kill his prey, in an attempt to dispose off evidence and the conviction rate for rapes, which is an abysmal 26% now, might fall to as low as 2%.

            There is no clear cut solution to the problem at hand, but if any, our only chance lies in working at the very roots. The feeling of superiority is infused in the male since his early childhood, when he is treated preferentially over his deprived sister. He knows he can shout at his mother and get away. The same treatment, unfortunately, is carried forward to schools. Girls are singled out in schools to ‘behave’ themselves when seen in male company. The feeling of being exclusive of each other’s environment is inculcated at the step when a teacher attempts to segregate the sitting pattern to create a clear line between girls and boys. Sex education is still a far fetched dream in most educational set ups. The chapter on reproduction is taught like a forbidden secret – to be heard and forgotten – no questions asked. I do not know how can it be done, but boys and girls are not taught to be comfortable with their bodies at the very age when it is changing and is perhaps the single biggest source of anxiety for them. Many of you might have had parents who shed light on these topics, but trust me, most girls discover the meaning of word ‘periods’ in hauntingly embarrassing situations in schools.

            How is all this relevant to the rape talk? Well, if not this, then what is? When a passing car stopped by me, passed comments at me and wanted give me lift lest my ‘gora badan’ be tired of walking the distance at home, I knew I would not tell my parents about it. The reason is simple enough. It is ‘my’ freedom that would have been curtailed, while that car would have roamed free. ‘I’ would have been the person bearing the brunt of someone else’s perversion. These are ideas ingrained in us. A girl in class fourth was being inappropriately touched by her classmate, and she felt not anger, but guilt at his invasion. Why? Who taught her to be guilty? She suffered in silence till she fell sick. Why could she not talk to anyone about it? She knew something was wrong, but what, she had no clue. Perhaps if her teachers or parents had been better sensitized by counselling, or whatever means, it might not have been a dent for life on her psyche. Sensitization. Of parents, peers, police, judiciary, of everyone. It is a long term solution, but perhaps our only bet. What has to be weeded out lies deep within the mind like a tumour. A noose around the neck will just not do the trick.

            At the end, I cannot help but quote Dushyant Kumar in what seems like the most perfect context –

“Sirf hungama khada karna mera maqsad nahi
Meri koshish hai ke soorat badalni chahiye
Mere seene mein nahi toh tere seene mein sahi
Ho kaheen bhi aag lekin aag jalni chahiye.”

"I Am Ashamed To Be An Indian Today"

It is the first emotional response, but this is what it needs to be. What kind of madness has been put on display outside the Rashtrapati Bhawan in Delhi? The Delhi police is acting like hired goons of the party in power. Tear gas shells and water canons are being unleashed on thousands of young protesters. And what is it that they are demanding? Not money, not jobs, not the sun and moon, but something as basic as protection.

This issue has flared beyond just a sexual assault case. Its an eye opener for the kind of polity we live in. Did someone just call our state a 'mecca' of democracy? I am sorry, our democracy, if anything, is hitting the nadir. Those brutal rapists used rods, and our honorable police force uses lathis - is there any visible difference to boast of?  And yes, the government issues statements asking protesters to maintain peace - those very protesters whose are hurt, both physically and mentally, at the kind of insanity and idiocy the state is treating them with.

Why would Pranab babu not come out? Is he afraid of being lynched or raped? It was never about a rape in the first place. It was about the way we allow the authority figures to trample on the perceived secondary groups in the society. The male dominates and feeds off the female, whom he perceives is nothing but a secondary accessory to him, who is here to satiate his needs. The state walks all over its subjects, thinks of the public as mere roadways to power, whose importance is understood only every five years. For rest of the time, they may rot, cry, suffer - unless their plight can become a political agenda, nothing about them matters.

Mrs. Dixit cried two nights ago on tv. But how could she cry alone? So now, she and her friends in the elite circles of Delhi ensure that the whole city cries with them. Tear gas shells. How does this idea even enter the heads of the police force? Are anyone of the political bandhs treated this way? Will tomorrow parliamentarians who protest and upset the function of the prime organ of democracy be treated the same way? Does the police even know why it exists? To protect PEOPLE. Yes. People. Here, however, a new tamasha, a new definition of the police is being invented. This is a force which protects just the state, the authority figures, the political class against the most vicious threat that they could ever face in life - public out rage. Our police is not longer a civil force. It is a state force. And these are the ones from whom we expect promises of safety. We sure must be a mad lot.

There were no politicians, even from the opposition, who took an immediate stand on the theatre of lunacy being played out on the Rajpath. Now, that is understandable, isn't it? The sons and daughters of India need to be protected, but that can happen only after press statements are cut to perfection, political agendas perfected, game plans initiated and party high command consulted. I heard such authoritarian tactics were employed in the North east and Kashmir region of our country. As a resident of the National Capital Territory of India, who thought her city is capable of being called the best in the world, my heart goes out to all those people who dare to stand up for what is right. Solidarity is the least minimum we can show, and that we will. Tweets are coming in from people associated with the protest, urging people to get out and join them and not let the movement fizzle out. I reiterate, it is not about a single girl falling prey to sexual inclinations of few perverted animals. It is about an entire generation falling prey to delusions of power.

The rape infants. They rape our elders. Now they rape democracy.

Hah. They are protecting themselves against the people who put them there. Theek hai. Galti toh hamaari hi hai.

Can't Stay Mum

Everyone is talking. Yes. Everyone. On facebook. On twitter. On TV news channels. On other mediums I do not care to surf. Something so repugnant has happened in city that our collective conscience has been shaken and invoked. There are cries of 'hang them' echoing across from some sectors. There is the customary government bashing which has begun. There are 'statements' from political leaders which are being circulated with a mock grin. There are silences which are being criticized. The world around me has plunged into rage and fury so deep that it has begun to asphyxiate me. Till a moment ago, I wanted to stay mum, and cut myself off, and hide from all this brouhaha. But how is that even possible when a woman my age, with bright possibilities, is battling for her life after suffering a deplorable and painful incident, one which is likely to alter the way she lives her entire life? I am pained, but what is my pain in comparison to that woman's, whose life is now the matter of public debate, of national shame?

A fresh chill of fear runs down my spine each time I think of the incident. Only a few days back I was thinking of rebelling against the evening curfews imposed on me, so that I could fall in love with the night-life of my city - one which I dearly love and pride upon. However, even my logical arguments now will have just one answer - I would be condescendingly reminded of the Munirka victim, and there closes my case, my attempt to be liberated from one among numerous restrictions. Honestly, I am not even sure if I want that bit of freedom now. What if its me the next time? What if its my sister, my friend? That's how we understand the magnitude of an event - by placing ourselves in it. The shudder comes again. And lasts a little longer.

Rape is an act of a diseased mind. It has little to do with sexual appetite, and is more of an expression of a violent streak, of a male ego needing that sick satiety of domination. That girl is a medical intern, who found just some time for entertainment. Medical students have a hectic life; a life they willingly devote to the cause of others. Little did she know that a hospital is what she would be immediately rushed back to, only now in a different role. And oh, not immediately. After suffering 45 minutes of excruciating pain, humiliation and violence. 45 long minutes. Her boyfriend, who came to her aid was brutally beaten and discarded along with her, reminding me of how hard is it in our society to stand up for something right. Shushed, maimed or murdered - people who dare to right a wrong meet similar fates. In that moving bus was being played the theatre of a severely rotten, barbaric psyche, while the city around continued to put up its façade of civilization.

Its immaterial what the CM of Delhi, or the Chairperson of NCW say on this incident. It is not their daughter who has suffered this humiliation. I, on my part, have no interest in determining the merits of capital punishment contextualized to such cases. I am more interested in knowing what is the psychology which makes man a predator on fellow human being. The humiliation of the Guwahati victim is fresh in my mind; and I cannot even begin to imagine the agony of that girl who had been repeatedly raped for several days by students of Jamia Law faculty. These are one-off examples. Unfortunately, there are an infinite number of cases which never even surface, which go unreported. It has been testified in many researches that many women have their first tryst with sexual violence at home. In most cases of molestation, the perpetrators are known to the victim, are her kins. This unleashing of sexual prowess has even come to be accepted as a matter of fact. Yes, ours is a patriarchal society, ascribing to the worst definition of the concept. The male world conveniently ignores the identity of the female world. Till there, albeit is should not be, it may be acceptable, but this male world also feeds off and preys upon its females - now draw lines somewhere, will you?

There are many parents with bright daughters who will sit down with them, tell them to be back home early, to be safe, to keep themselves, covered, to not travel alone, and who will also perhaps buy them a pepper spray. However, I do not know if there are any parents out there who will also sit down with their sons, and talk about this incident, about consensual sex, about respecting their female counterparts. How much can the authorities do when out entire value system is corrupt and ridden with worst kind of sexual politics? In this very world, coexisting with us are fathers who abuse their daughters (sons too), brothers who abuse their sisters and mothers who helplessly watch. The role played by women in this sexual politics is abhorrent as well - for it is them who meekly accept their status as the inferior, second sex, who do not fight for respect. In my little journey of life, I have been reminded of my weaker stature in the society more often by women I came across than men.

She, and I am glad her name is not being juggled around by the media, I am sure, was a girl with bright possibilities. earnestly hope and pray she recuperates well and soon, and comes out a winner a in life. Yes, I know it is too much to expect, but I still hope she turns those possibilities into opportunities and becomes a daughter whom her parents are proud of. The word 'daughter' reminds me of a small incident. A friend's mother was ecstatic when she delivered her, when she was blessed with her first daughter. Beaming, she went to share this news with the principal of the school where she worked. Matter-of-factly, the Principal responded - "Koi baat nahi, agli baari ladka ho jayega." Where in the world are we going wrong?!

To hell with all of you. Women are grand. Daughters are glorious.

A portrait by - Priyanka Tampi

And Innocence Cried

“Children begin by loving their parents; as they grow older they judge them; sometimes they forgive them.” -  Oscar Wilde, The Picture of Dorian Gray

            There are subjectivities in life. Subjectivities are not distortions, but beauties which the Creator has lent to this world so that we may enjoy it in myriad ways, with no scope of monotony. Our great misfortune, however, lies in the fact that we standardize life. We think our way of thinking supreme. And once convinced, we seek to impose our way on the rest of the world. One category which always emerges at the receiving end of this order is that of minors. Their innocence breaks our heart, but more often than not, we come across cases where the same innocence, or lack of worldly knowledge and etiquettes, becomes a reason for them being subjected to rigorous and cruel castigation. Corporal punishment, of which we have gotten used to reading in papers, is perhaps the worst way employed to shape a child’s psyche or to do the so called good deed of disciplining him.

            In a leading national daily, I recently read a horrifying account of what the cane-approach to disciplining a child can do. It can lead to his death. Yes. And the death of a child is an enormously saddening loss of potential and possibilities. A stray incident of callousness enraged a hapless child’s father so much that he dealt a quick blow at the back of the child’s tender head. The father, of course, by being a stickler and allowing no room for inconsistencies, was in his way, ‘disciplining’ his child. The only loophole which emerged in the whole exercise was that the child died. At this is the kind of incident which does not gain media mileage like instances of corporal punishment inflicted on students in large public schools do. Mass memory is short lived, yes, but can we really forget those many cases in which a teacher’s short temper led him to physically abuse a child and in the process severely dent his psychological well-being as well?

            Our educational set up follows the dogma of in loco parentis, whereby the school authorities have the same rights over a child as their parents. In a bid to mentor and shape future of children with similar zeal, teachers have been known to use infliction of pain as a tool to make them follow rules absolutely. A slap on the cheek and cane-blows on fists are thought to be miraculous devices which can, with minimum effort, reform a minor and make him a good student all of a sudden. These physical assaults are many a times reflexes of a teacher who prides himself for his no-nonsense attitude. At other times, public shaming is also employed as a pre-meditated and rationalized method to set right what could have in actuality been simple acts of naughtiness. The effects of ignominy are not entirely unknown to school or parental authorities. Rather than reform, they cause a child to withdraw, to be distrustful and to lose faith in himself. Incomplete homework, talking while lecture, inability to answer in class, low scores or committing mischief – any of these can invite severe retributions, disproportionately higher than the supposed ‘crime’. Yes, plain naughtiness or intrinsic incapabilities are crime for today’s students who are expected to ace the break-neck competition with their peers. Besides inflicting obvious punishments, I personally feel it is a great folly on the part of teachers when they establish gradations in their batch of students. Yes, it is good to set examples from within students, but not to the extent that it fosters disharmony and ill-will. There is some talent inherently present in each student; a teacher (and even parents) are responsible for helping their pupil realize and nurture it.

            I was lucky to have studied in one of the best public schools in Delhi, which honored tradition as much as it endeavored to keep pace with the racing times. I, personally, have not witnessed any incident where my teachers resorted to corporal punishment of any sort to ensure compliance. In fact, my school was the kind where talents were given a fecund climate to prosper and each child identified for his merit. However, I have known friends whose teachers have left no stone unturned to make them feel like they are a liability on this planet. I also know parents for whom red chilli paste is the formula for ensuring highest grades. At other places, in the name of tradition, students/minors are not allowed to embrace changing weather of the day. They are curbed, controlled, shamed and two firm deductions which I can draw from all the above is –

1.       Using reprimands, coercion, imposition, control, etc as devices to curb students from treading down the road deemed harmful for them is almost like making sure they go there. Nascent brains are supple and obdurate at the same time. Yes, they can be and should be molded, but putting them under sudden pressure just makes them go on the defensive, eventually closing them to any contradictory (and right) opinions.

2.       Even when he indulges in a wrongful deed, for once trying to understand why a child did it, using forgiveness in place of rebukes opens up an opportunity for an elder to mentor him for better actions in the future. When he sees concern and not anger, a young adult would feel secure, and then not just listen to your advice, but may be seek it too.

            This is not to say that elders are always right, but as far as I go, I feel they have an exclusive responsibility towards understanding the psyche of the generation they are nurturing towards maturity. A child can do wrong. He will do wrong. He has to do wrong – otherwise, how will he learn, grow and mature? 

Are you all aware of a helpline (1098) dedicated to protecting children against abuse, which includes harassment by his teacher? And here I was thinking that it is school is supposed to be that protective environment in which a child may explore his infinite possibilities. Ironical, isn’t it?

A child has often been likened to clay. He is like putty which bears and impression of everything it comes in touch with. He sees and observes and derives conclusions for himself. He trusts easily; but when chastised without explanation he can be confused and disoriented and can end up hating the very forces which are in a position to shape his future. The impressions a child’s mind forms in his early years of life are carried on throughout life. They go on to shape the person he eventually becomes. The responsibility on the shoulders of parents, thus, is superlative. This responsibility is not to control – which is what it is mostly misconstrued as – but to allow blossoming of a child’s potential. Given the present scenario, I do not think it is a child, but his mentors who need to be set right. 

(Originally written for Scroll360.in )