A bowl of hot clam chowder with a certain Ms.Brown

The pale crescent moon hung on the ash laden sky, even the usually tranquil night was brimming with the prospect of idiosyncratic souls sparking a genesis. All great stories of acquaintances usually begin with boy meets girl but this one is about two women meeting and their journey, trust me this one is way off the charts. 

The black leather seats on The Beast were heated and sunk right into the road; it embraced the highway and glided with the speed of wind. She drove that vintage Mercedes fiercely like she was a part of the mechanics. The chilly wind outside rushed to touch us but broke down on the clear glass windows, misting my view of the outside, not that there was much to see on that small dark highway. The incoming traffic from the other side flashed a light on the massive diamond on her petite finger and refracted the light in my eye. It was beautiful and went well with her completely black attire for the day, matching the time outside. 

We pulled into the parking, cracked a couple of gravels against the vintage tires and stopped only centimeters away from the small wooden board announcing the name of the place, ‘Lenny’s’ as they fondly referred to it. As I stepped out in the sharp December air of New Haven, I could feel the blood draining out of my face, it was cold! We stood in front of a massive double door and asked for a place to sit. The rather unamused hostess showed us into our cozy wooden booth. I slid inside waiting for the conversation to begin. The car ride had been oddly quite.

The waiter interrupted and asked for our order. Carole smiled at me and asked me if I have a preference, I indicated none. So she ordered two bowls of Clam Chowder and some crab cakes. On went our conversation. Carole asked me where I got the bravado to fly solo across the pond to be there, she was partly amused with me. I was 24 and talkative, it was a long night of knowing each other. Me twenty four and she some six decades older to me, it was one of those one in a million strangers from two different continents meeting stories. It was extraordinary.

I can describe Carole in two words- Vintage Jazz. Yes, I can picture her and still don’t have words, which is extremely rare. Some people have a very harmonious but impactful existence, she has that gift, those symphonies just working together like a Nat King Cole song. The way of life for older generation in India is majorly only passing time after their retirement, she was a refreshing change. Carole was living the life back then and even today.

She plays golf and wins championships, attends lectures in Yale University, extensively carries out philanthropy in the third world countries and the USA, goes dancing in galas, drives like the speed of wind, a concerned patriotic person in these times and above all she is a mother of three amazing daughters. I learned a lot about how to live life, every step of the way. She was always so down to earth and loved me dearly that it left a lasting impression on my mind. The kind of affection I was unused to and I felt eased in even in that very new house and environment.

In Branford, Connecticut, I walked into the most beautiful home I had ever seen. The house was right on the water and you know how obsessed I am with beaches, it was heavenly. Carole showed the way to my room with a little balcony which embraced the ocean outside. My stay with her was of four days and some of the most peaceful ones. We sat down on the kitchen counter with coffee or wine depending upon the time of the day to talk about the changing culture, intentions, religion and politics in the world, it opened the door wide open for my brain to learn and be sensitive to so many alien elements, it made me a little astute to other sensibilities. 

I would deem a visit to Connecticut fruitless without n number of trips to New York to see the wonder that the city is, really. So one fine morning, we dressed up (Carole in her usual black) and off we went to New York to see a broadway play, she was an avid investor in broadway shows and wanted me to experience the enchantment and power of those shows. The Phantom of the Opera was in its usual Majestic Theater on the W 44th street in New York. It blew my little mind; the quality of production, the song, the actors and the sets, I loved every bit of it and it was a big tick on things to do before dying! 

I was introduced to her grand daughter Grace who is my age and such a wonderful soul. We spent the New Years’ at the Quinnipiack Club for a tranquil dinner and an elaborate breakfast at another seaside club in Connecticut where I brought together all the people I had come to visit. Alan, Mary, Carole, James and Jenny, all of them under one roof, I can never forget that day, it was a spectacle!

I left her house with an oddly unsettling feeling. When the distance is as huge as New Delhi and Connecticut, you don’t know when you will see the person again or if you will ever see them again, quick secret, I did.

Through the years, the love and fondness between us grew. We wrote to each other and talked over video and phone. When I decided to get married, I knew I wanted her to come but it seemed like a daunting task and a distance too big to travel for her. I had made a friend in Grace and she decided to represent her grandmother at my wedding. Boy, was it fun, I can’t speak on her behalf but we did try to make her do every Indian tradition possible including performing on stage to a Bollywood number. So much joy and love.

After missing each other even after being in the same country repeatedly, we finally met again last year when I decided to make, my now grandmother, Carole meet my husband at her summer house. The car ride from Orlando to John’s Island in Florida is beautiful and we enjoyed the scenic route to reach a rather Spanish residence with white walls and wooden windows. The sound of our car announced our arrival and I stepped out to see a beaming grandmother with arms wide open to welcome us. It was so wonderful!

Anuj (my husband) and Carole bonded over the diversity of their backgrounds. His take on things interested and puzzled her.  I took a glass of wine and sat in the corner to watch the two of them talk. How I had been planning it for years now! While we gossiped over things lost, a rather enormous puzzle kept Anuj busy throughout the night.

We all have had some or the other kind of profound experiences in life. They were never lived alone unless it was something spiritual. A greater part of all of us are fragments of other people’s lives and their impression on us. A shooting star can only do so much if you don’t ask for the right thing in life and that’s also true for every person you meet. Our mind more often than not isolates us like an island. We feel we are trapped by uncertainty in the form of black ocean on all sides and there is no coming out of it unless there is a metaphorical ship which decides to inhibit us. That ship is the memories and relationships we cultivate. It is not only imperative that we let that ship dock but also let it be a permanent resident. 

I was attending a wedding in a small village in Kerala back in 2013 with Alan. It was a day wedding of one of the FFA’s beneficiary’s daughter. The whole atmosphere was thick with excitement and happiness, everyone was scattered around under the glimmering strings of silver making a roof outside in the bright pitiless sun. The family was in tears thanking Alan for the financial help to make that wedding even possible. A deep sense of indebtedness and gratitude flooded their face. All they didn’t understand was that the sponsor was sitting thousands of miles away in her home not knowing the magnitude of impact she had on their lives. This was one of the countless examples of how one by one Carole helped and changed lives in my home country without an ounce of selfish rationale.

As I sit and write this, I ponder over the decisions I took in life. The outlook for each decision as simple as the last, to invest in ‘living’ life than owning ‘things’ to leave behind a priceless legacy. My relationship with a woman who lives half her time in Branford and the other in Florida is inexplicable and yet it exists. It not only exists, it thrives on love and respect. 

At this point, you must be wondering how I really know Ms.Brown! My meeting her was in the stars hence it was partly written by the astrologer in my life, Alan. I can not thank him enough for this like so many other things. I lost my grandmother when my dad was a young kid, so its safe to say I never really got to know the unconditional love of a grandmother. Carole filled that void by telling me one day that she is like my grandmother and there I had it, the most beautiful relationship that I had missed out all my life.

Today, when I find something randomly just lying on the floor in my house, it reminds me how she puts her phone and cigarettes literally anywhere on the floor or the stairs so that she doesn’t have to ‘remember’ but only ‘stumble’ upon them. Its crazy if you think about it but it makes complete sense in our lives. 

And it all started with a hot bowl of Clam Chowder on a frosty December night……..

Aaye, Thehre,
Aur Ravaana Ho gaye
Zindagi kya hai,
Safar ki bat hai

Chapter 1:The woman in Green Saree

It was black. It always was black. But somehow it looked like a shade darker than usual engulfing the air in the vicinity. A quick scan around showed nothing but the never ending darkness of that day. Stillness kills change and things needed to change or at least the inertia needed to be broken in that moment. It was late.

Pain is subjective. Pain is different for different people. Sometimes it is a series of mind numbing incidents where all you can feel is a gut wrenching pain at every point of your body which makes you long for it to stop or separate the soul from the body and beg for death. The trick is to fool the mind. Life had always been a struggle for her and she knew the dark tunnel which was her life had no light in the end. She didn’t know what it was to wake up to the ‘light’ of the day.

Distant barking of a stray meant the bulb was out and the usual of the day was slowly pacing. An arm on the cool cement floor and other on her rib protruding stomach, Megha stood up and instantly felt the heat rising up from her legs. The brutal burning had melted away the primary hairy cover of those slender legs. It was yet another night when her husband, Sanjeev had come home drunk after losing all his money to cards. She was somehow more determined now to save the little money from her husband which she had earned from working day and night mopping houses of the posh neighborhood. She couldn’t let her two children cry for food. It broke her heart. So she braced herself and said No to Sanjeev. No to losing her hard earned money on alcohol and gambling yet another night.

The result was not something she had foreseen or even imagined in her life. She had been through unrelenting beating and getting thrown out of her own house to sleep on pebbly hard roads while he beat their kids up in frustration. Tonight, to her horror, his aggression had reached another degree of wrath and madness. He pulled out the chain from his cycle and started heating it on the stove. Megha grabbed her kids and sat in the corner of the house with terror in her eyes. She could feel her heartbeat rising to her mouth. Her wailing kids made Sanjeev even more agitated.

The kids watched in abomination as their father wrapped the chain around her mother in a tight circle as she screamed in pain and begged for mercy. It was the first time she wished death came to her sooner than reaching the crest of agony. The sensation from burning was taking over her entire body. She could feel the heat rising up from her ankle to the top of her head. In revulsion she first saw blood then slowly her skin coming out from the sides of the strangled chain. Her legs had deep embedded chain molds on her flesh. She howled in pain as the neighbors came running to the hut. She saw her friend in tears as she barged into the hut along with some other ladies of the hood. That was the last that Megha saw of that night as she passed out on the floor.

It was times like these when Megha wanted to run away from this life. To run away from her husband and her house to a place where she could eat two meals and sleep in peace. Our society has built itself in such a way in the past few centuries that it acts more like a wall of destruction than protection for its people.

A poor uneducated woman only has her husband to define her identity in this unbelievably doctrinal society. What is Megha without the identity handed to her from her husband? The assessment here is at fault but merely thinking about such questions and thinking that she will live on her own terms also seemed wrong to her as her conditioning was amiss. So she continued to drag her life like a half dead snail.

Megha screamed in pain when her friend came rushing to the hut to help her. Sahiba was not only Megha’s friend but her sister in law as well. She pitied and cried with Megha as she suffered silently and ‘healed’ her from those wounds from time to time. But this time it was different, it was beyond repair for her.

Sanjeev’s bloodshot eyes and monster aggression scared her. She froze in her spot when she saw the scenario painted in front of her. Sanjeev threatened, “You either walk out of this door right this moment or I will kill her. I swear I will kill what’s remaining of this ungrateful bitch. Now get out!!!!!”

Sahiba fell asleep outside in the bushes while hiding from Sanjeev and waiting for him to leave. She rushed to get help when she heard Megha scream. She felt guilty and glum thinking about the moment when she fell asleep and let her friend suffer. The next door rickshaw puller dragged his rickshaw to the front door and carried Megha on his shoulder to take her to the nearby government hospital. They couldn’t just let her die with Manoj nowhere in sight. The sun was up and the sweltering heat slowed down the rickshaw, after all a manually pulled rickshaw could only speed up so much with four people hanging on it.

Megha’s breathing had become shallow and she was reaching her last breath when the doctor attended her. Her kids later joined in with other people who lived around their hut. The kids had run out to their friend Raju’s hut at night before their father could have a chance to kill them in that moment of delirium. They waited in anticipation as the doctor tended her.

They say human beings show utmost compassion when the other is in need while it might not hold true for every one of us, the destitute truly value that human connection. 

The doctor stepped out in the dimly light hallway in a flickering bulb light almost making it impossible for others to make sense of how he actually looked. Dr. Salim’s silhouette on the wall opposite the operation room announced that he was a slender 6 feet tall man with little hair on his head. He walked towards them all talking in hushed voices in fear of getting thrown out of the hospital; a treatment they were used to now. They knew they will not be treated equally. 

There is No Hiding Anymore!

The door slammed behind me as the gushing mountain winds made it very clear that they are going to decide the course of things for me this morning. I walked down three floors very carefully to save myself from another mishap of tumbling down the entire flight of stairs in one go. I pushed myself into the car and started my Uber ride like all the other mornings. I saw a bunch of strays right outside my society trying to enter the posh society where the ‘food’ is and the poor security guards shooing them away. I see it as a classic example of how our society operates.

We all talk about poverty, we all know it is real, we know where the real problem lies and its not in one place, its all around us. We have our own definition of ‘Poor’ and what should be done about it. While some of us make a move and make a small change every now and then; in India I see it as a TV time discussion when something crops up about the poor state of our country or corruption even in this area or a talk show host going gaga about something a single person has achieved surviving against all odds involved due to politics.

Indians comprise of 17% of the world population and have more than 20% of the world’s poor, what does it say about the country? If you are like me, if you are like so many others who have the best of education options, house, food and take an Uber to ‘glide’ from one place to other, you see abjection, in your face, literally everywhere! There is no hiding anymore. When I stop at a traffic light in the heart of Connaught Place in Delhi, I see huts on the sidewalks. I see babies crawling on the footpath beneath the baking sun. As much as it pains me, you and I can not even start to fathom the magnitude of the sad state of affairs.

The rift between the rich and poor has distended so much due to our own ignorance that its becoming harder each day for the small section of the society that cares to make a difference. We have made education, when I say education, I mean proper education in a classroom with books and teachers, extremely expensive and out of the reach of the less fortunate. The free education provided by the Government has been reduced to crippled school buildings sans any furniture or a proper teacher to educate the young minds. Price of basic food supplies have sky rocketed in the past ten years which is worsening the dire situation. We are unconsciously ripping away the basic rights that the destinies deserve.

The political gurus will talk about statistics and boast about how the poverty rate is decreasing but is that rosy picture true? Its not complete at least. Studies show that the number of people under Government’s welfare plans have almost tripled who majorly formed the BPL category earlier. They do not come under the BPL (below poverty line) category by the virtue of such programs. The question here remains unanswered then; are we really improving or giving temporary crutches to these people without any solid intention to uplift them permanently from this dark void that we have created ourselves for them?

My cousin recently met with an accident and he was transferred to the nearby government hospital with his wife who was bleeding profusely. Nobody attended them for 6 hours! Can you imagine what the scenario must be everyday when the less fortunate people of the society who can not afford private hospitals turn up at these hospitals? Brings tears to my eyes.

There is no perfect solution to this multi facet problem that is glaring at us. But we not even as responsible citizens but as humans for other estranged humans, should share a little of what we have. Money, time, efforts, anything at all which is under our control. When I go to the huts and dilapidated houses of the beneficiaries of my humble nonprofit, I see pure happiness and a will to work through adversities to make ends meet. I see conviction and twinkle in the eyes of those young faces to make something of their lives and to change their sad state. I love how excited they sound when we talk about future and what endless possibilities it holds for them.

Though in a small way, we focus on each dimension of the well being of these people and uplift them. We are not champions but not docile either, we take a stand when a small highly superstitious group of adults try to stop development from happening in their community. We fight, we strive, we advocate change to uplift and transform.

Do we do enough? No. Can we do more? Yes! Do we get the support we need? Sometimes. We draw our strength from each and every member of the apostolate who joins us in our journey and makes it special in their own little ways. We get great advice, we get special funds for special causes, we get volunteers and most of all, the support of our Founder who relentlessly runs this program and his spirits keeps us all motivated.

I get aggrieved, saddened and very disheartened when I see the state of things in India right now, but I also see people getting immune to scenes of a small baby on the verge of dying on the road side or an old man struggling to walk but begging; in the name of not being capable or big enough a force to stop it everywhere in the country, you can’t hide. The cost of life in this country has stooped down even more. Every life is important and there is no way or reason to emphasize it to anybody. Our nonprofit struggles with politics and corruption to get some money for the right causes which fills me with despondency. 

Can’t we at least let the poor live with dignity? What good will bribe money do to someone which has been snatched away from a poor man and his right to eat or live. Don’t settle in and get comfortable in the luxury of your life, do your bit and raise consciousness around you. If you can’t, give me a call, I will be happy to talk to people who are interested in making a small but a a strong impactful change in this world. Yes, we have to stand united. There is no hiding anymore………….

‘Hazaaron khwaahishen aisi,
Ki har khwaaish pe dam nikle,
Bahut Nikle mere armaan,
Par fir bhi kam nikle’

You can find out about our work here: http://franciscanfamilyapostolate.org/

A feminine hue in a world ruled by patriarchy

Through dusk and through million other nights when we look above to the limitless horizon defining the ground beneath us, we see the same dancing lights but each a different fate, a different silhouette. Your story was written in the past similar to the millions of souls who walked on the same magical dust which bears the green of this world, cycle after cycle, year after year. But is this the story you want for yourself or do you want the power to shape it and change it completely?

We have evolved from being the hard hitting philosophers who thought we inhibit a flat planet to an absolutely unbelievable amount of acceptance of almost everything in life including same sex marriages. Our psyche transformed through the years and conceded us to see things in a new light. We opened up to new possibilities in all lengths and breadths of life.

Our belief system is somehow rooted in our upbringing. It is in the stories told to us while we slept in our mother’s lap. Those stories stayed with us. Those fairytales and heroes added a little to what we are today and how we imagined this world would be for us. My allegories had the universe in them, the cage breaking bird, the talking doll, the monsters invading the earth, the princess falling in love with the beautiful handsome prince and most importantly the damsel in distress.

Yes, the focal point of almost all stories had a damsel in distress. The shades of a woman’s character peaked from the strongest point of the story to being dragged down as the weakest link which needed help. One cannot say it is the Indian society and its narrow mindedness which spun these tales. The ancient Greek mythology essentially talks about women in context of sex and bearing off springs to take the family forward. The powerful men ruled the kingdoms while the women even though possessing powers were seen as subjects of gratification for the mindless war fighting men.

The middle ages saw Christianity in full swing against women who had the extraordinary knowledge and power to transform things and have a profound effect on people. These women were labeled ‘witches’ because they were overstepping the power of the church. The male chauvinistic society could not the bear the pain of women taking over a world which was dictated by them. One cannot justify burning these women alive and torturing them with any number of theories or explanations.

The Hindu mythology worships women and then turns around and makes her an object of pleasure. It keep us right on top of the ladder and then disgraces the same woman by questioning her character and punishing her for sins committed by their counterparts. When Goddess Sita married Lord Ram, she was 16. At that age she had the choice of staying back in the palace to lead her life peacefully or live a primitive life in the forest. She chose the latter because this is the first ‘dharam’ of a wife. The same wife was abducted and 14 years later her sanctity was questioned. She stepped through the blazing fire to prove that she was ‘pure’. But gossip didn’t die. She was with a man who was not her husband for 14 years, could she be forgiven? Could she be pardoned for a ‘crime’ which she didn’t even commit? No. So a pregnant Goddess Sita was sent to the jungle yet again. Lord Ram was ready to accept her back when he saw his two sons but she was questioned and asked to prove her fidelity yet again.

Draupadi was ‘lost’ in a game of dice by her husband. She was married to the five Pandavas against her wish because Arjuna’s mother asked him to ‘share’ what he had won in an archery clash. As absurd as all this sounds, everything has one thing in common; an immensely understanding and forlorn woman who sacrificed everything for her husband/brother/father for their motive of pleasure, property and wealth of the world.

Do these women deserve a better ending? Did you get a chance to change your story? Are women only entitled to these sufferings even though she is the only chance for this humanity to grow and develop into something absolutely beautiful?

We are born the same way beneath the same blue sky. We are entitled to the same upbringing as our brother/friend and we get all that in some cases but we majorly fail as a society to provide that basic respect to a girl. As we age, the gender gap widens even further. Our education is stopped beyond a point, our clothes become conservative some more, our thoughts are regulated, the boundary of what we can do increases some more and the expectation from us escalates even more promptly.

While I strongly believe that men and women are not equal in many dimensions, I demand equality in areas which should be the basic hygiene factors for a happy life. A woman is more patient, emotionally mature and the has the ability to withstand changes for her loved ones in a way most men can’t, so, a woman is stronger. I don’t think a woman can be physically stronger than a man in most cases because God made us a little more feminine and gentle. We are moulded to give birth to a new life, we have our own supernatural and super awesome powers. Why compete with men?

Our society was and is still struggling under the weight of the tales spun thousands of years ago where women served men. Where men were superior. It distresses me to witness such incidents and people, who think women should not be educated or should not work because they can do nothing better than cook or take care of the family. When somebody like Gandhi Ji lied naked in a bed with his grand daughter to test his patience, it shakes me from inside.

It clearly indicates that education alone is incapable of changing our psyche. It will take more than just a good college education to change the rigid mental picture of roles of men and women in this society. It starts with our family upbringing and the way we narrate our fables. We have to change the role of women from being the off spring bearing machine to being the flag bearers of something much more important like shaping the future of our world because who you are today is a strong impression of what your mother/grand mother and countless other women left on you.

We are both part of the same cosmic universe. We are both atoms of the same kind. We feel the same happiness when the season’s first rain impinges against our skin. We feel the same hunger pangs when we are too busy in our commitments. We see the same beautiful night sky to find among the million stars the one which is ours. We both have the same insecurities and love with all our heart. When i put in the same hours in office as you, why do people see that as handwork and my being a woman is seen as a reason for promotion? We walk the same path but what we get out of it is so different, why?

I don’t think we are the same. But I think we both deserve similar respect and opportunities. Me not by virtue of just being a woman, but the by the work I do and how I conduct myself. You and I should be under the same radar. When you are weak I support you and where I fall short, you be my hero. We are all a part of some or the other struggles and we can make it easy by being the stronger one when the other soul needs nurturing. Atoms of the same soul, atoms of the same universe.

 

Aaina dekh kar tasalli hui,
Hum ko is ghar mein janta hai koi……..

A dole of broken serendipity

The rustic leaves on either sides paved a way and led towards the hurtling stream which jumped over the green moss stricken pebbles strewn all over the place. It was a beautiful spot with orange and pink leaves, the water was clear and the sound of the gushing stream was so pure and so serene that floating on the water made so much sense. The first feet went in the water and a sudden rush gushed in the entire body like a volt of current. The second feet came in a second later as the whole body slipped inside the icy cold water. The soul felt calm and just when it was starting to feel ethereal, a sudden fear gripped the body and it started to drown. You can’t float on water after all, the mind thought.

Jhanvi woke up with a start. She opened her eyes in fear to a room full of colored boxes and glittery paper all around. The dream depicted her current state of life. She felt her heart drop once more when she realized where she was and what day it was. A 13 year old by virtue may only look forward to some pancakes or meeting her friends on a sunday morning one would think but the bondages of human society transform a plain simplistic picture of life into a mosaic.

13 years ago her parents weren’t happy to see a girl being born in the family. A girl came with responsibilities, a girl came with a cost and above all a girl wouldn’t carry their family name forward. Her mother got busy trying to conceive another baby, a boy, and bore her second child when Jhanvi turned 1. The whole family was ecstatic on the arrival of the family heir. The little child of hardly 13 months was neglected as though she didn’t exist. The love of a mother could be questioned but not changed which prevailed only for her son. All eyes, all hands and everything was for the son.

Jhanvi reminded them of the cost her marriage would bring to them. The sooner she is married off, the better, her father always thought. A small child of age 5 or 6 didn’t know love because it never touched her. She always watched from the corner of the room when her brother lay between her mother and father while she stood in a corner abandoned. It pierced her heart but she only shed silent tears. Her grandmother was the only one who loved her. She spent nights listening to fairytales and slept beside her with a face saturated with dried up tears.

Jhanvi was 13 when her father’s cousin from the other town suggested that its the right age for her to get married to his friend’s son who was 20 and a plumber. Jhanvi’s mother was apprehensive only for a while and gave in to the idea after a little persuasion from her husband. After all, the wedding jewelry was ready and the sooner Jhanvi was married off, the sooner life became free of any burden for them.

Destiny conveniently chose the worst for Jhanvi and her hand was given in marriage to Pushkar.  She was reading Tagore’s ‘Where the mind is without fear’ which was ironic to the situation in her life when her father walked in and announced that she is getting married. Each word stabbed her right in her heart. She protested but in vain. She knew her father’s decision was final and nobody could ever reverse it.

She stopped going to school from the very next day, why pay the fee when there was no need of education now? Her parents calculated everything and education didn’t fall in their list of priorities when the preparations were in full swing. Jhanvi sat in a corner and cried. Her grandmother tried to relate Jhanvi’s life to her own life and made her understand the sacrifices a girl has to make during her lifetime.

The present day was a horror movie in action. She had seen a small photo of Pushkar and he looked old enough to be her uncle. She was terrified of the very thought of living in the same house as his and yet here she was on her wedding day with no way out of the mess she was in. She could run away but go where? A 13 year old’s vision of the world is limited and her options, zilch.

Her mother forced her out of bed and into the shower. She was immersed in sandal paste and all sorts of things which were yellow and smelled nice to Jhanvi. Her life was a haze right now and she wanted nothing else but a day to comprehend what was happening and what lied ahead of all this drama that was taking place without her consent but unfortunately she was granted nor the day nor the choice to have the final word in anything.

Her henna painted hands were adorned with glass bangles, her head was covered in veil and the blazing red bridal outfit which was bought a fortnight back was put on her. Jhanvi still looked as young as she was, no amount of make up or heavy embellished clothes could hide her innocence or age. The walk from her bedroom to the mandap was a torture and she controlled her tears as a punishment to herself.

Hours later she sat on a bed of a house she had not seen before, a place she didn’t know and a feeling so alien she questioned why she was even alive to do what was about to happened. Pushkar walked into the room and bolted the room. Jhanvi clenched the bedsheets tightly awaiting the horror to unfold. Pushkar came closer to her and forced himself on her. With everything that was left inside her, she gave in. She gave in to a man she hadn’t even seen properly before, she gave in to a pain which made her want to scream her lungs out and she gave up on her life that night.

The murky sunlight filtered through the old frail curtains in the room and hit Jhanvi’s eyes. The events of yesterday had taken a toll on the little girl and although her body still screamed for more sleep, her brain had recalled everything that happened last night and the room came into focus. She saw Pushkar sleeping peacefully next to her. His sight irked her soul. She wanted to run out of the room and out of this life her parents had pegged for her.

There was nothing to do but to get dressed and greet the hoard of family members waiting for her she thought. A small session on how to wear a saree was certainly not helpful as she struggled to drape it around her slender waist. Jhanvi met some good and some not so pleasant people of a house which was now her family. It seemed that there was an awful number of men in the family and very few ladies. On inquiring she was told that she was the only girl in her house and now she was responsible for all the household chores which was short for a maid.

A week passed and the festivities ended. Pushkar didn’t care much about Jhanvi unless he wanted some pleasure during the nights. Jhanvi cooked and cleaned, took care of the family in her own clumsy ways and braved taunts on being a useless ‘woman’ which she was not; she was merely a girl who used to attend the 6th grade a month back and now she was suddenly in charge of some middle aged men she didn’t even know properly.

Jhanvi was 3 weeks pregnant when she found out about it. Her instant reaction was to go kill herself in the nearby pond but the entire family was ecstatic and it was the most happy they had been since she moved in. The whole atmosphere of the house changed except that her pregnancy reminded her of the multiple rapes that she had endured. The child will not bear a single ounce of love but my endless sacrifices she thought. But the child had become a part of her existence and she had to choose between love and hatred. The innate tendency of human beings is to find a soul just like theirs to confide the greatest, deepest and darkest secrets that they have and when they don’t find that soul, they cave in and become dangerous. Jhanvi had that choice of choosing love over hatred, a choice of redeeming her life and living it with a purpose.

Her struggles were as real as her pregnancy. Her family extended no support, she went through the same cycle of torture each day and Pushkar’s desires couldn’t wait for the baby to come. Some of the days the pain and agony of suffering was so much that Jhanvi considered suicide as the prime choice to end everything but her grandmother’s last words rang in her ears. She always seemed to stop herself.

After months of illness and torment, Jhanvi gave birth to a fragile looking baby girl. The hospital was shocked to see such a young mother and vehemently opposed such a practice. The kind female doctor gave the infant in Jhanvi’s arms and shed a tear. She could read Jhanvi’s struggle on her face and felt a sense of guilt engulfing her soul for not handling them off to the police.

Jhanvi looked into her daughter’s eyes and felt a blanket of happiness enveloping her. She promised herself that her fate wont be intertwined in hers, that her daughter wont go through the agony of a life lent to her by others. Just when the infant started crying, Jhanvi vomited blood and gave the baby to the nurse. The doctor tended to her but the bleeding didn’t stop. In horror Jhanvi saw the bed smeared with her blood, her mouth was not the only source of blood coming out of her body. Slowly the room became a blur and she passed out.

Jhanvi didn’t live to see the baby live to even the second day of her life. Her in laws dumped her baby at her parents’ house and asked them to take care of the liability they were not ready to take since their daughter didn’t live to nurse the baby. Jhanvi’s parents were in a state of shock but more worried about the baby which was now in their charge.

Jhanvi lay peacefully on the ground. She had a little smile on her face. The smile of finally getting relieved of all the pain that she went through in her small life span on the planet. The smile was for the freedom from the struggles that were yet to begin because she gave birth to a daughter. Jhanvi was free at last and on that unfortunate night; love and kindness died a million deaths.

{The latest Census report on the decadal headcount in 2011 reveals that child marriage is rampant, with almost one in every three married woman having been wed while she was still under the age of 18 years in India.

What is worse is a whopping 78.5 lakh girls (2.3% of all women or girls who were ever married or were married in 2011) were married while they were not yet 10 years of age. The Census data also show that 91% of all married women were married by the age of 25 years.

The legal age for marriage is 18 for women and 21 for men. But an alarming 30.2% of all married women, or 10.3 crore girls, were married before they had turned 18, as per Census 2011 data released on Friday. In a silver lining of sorts, however, the trend seems to be on the decline. As per Census 2001 data, 43.5% of all married women had been married while they were under the age of 18 years.}

Petite Desires

Running along the crooked lanes of the backwater, she crushed the dry leaves beneath her foot which bore the lines of her destiny. A life which even the dying wont live and a destiny which even the blind wont accept. Bearing an endless spiral of lines on her forehead and needle thin lips, with her blinkers on she kept sprinting towards the dilapidated hut she called home.

The bare hut bore no signs of any festivity round the corner. The sun struck every corner of the hut through the perforated roof of the hut denying the need of artificial light. The tattered charpai was kept at one corner of Mariam’s house which harbored her fragile mother.

Life had been like the life line of a person in coma, straight, without any changes or interruptions, losing hope but trying nevertheless. The same old routine and the same old unfilled needs of life. A normal life was beyond the little girl’s imagination who did not even enjoy the opulence of two square meals which could stop her stomach from grumbling at night.

A tear rolled down her eyes as she narrated what happened to her in school that day. The destitute mother heard her daughter pour out her heart the umpteenth number of time. It is that time of the year when everything is wonderful for almost everyone we know except for those who are sitting inside a hut to retell a miffed heart’s story.

Packing lunch for school was never an option for Mariam’s mother. She never had food or money to give to her daughter. Eating dinner was a rule of the house and they both accepted it silently. It was a feast for little Mariam when other kids of her school brought stuffed tiffin boxes to gorge on and shared with her those little crumbs of leftovers.

Christmas meant better food in those tiffin boxes and the heart’s desire to eat a little bit more. Mariam longed for her own dinky tiffin box which she could finish all by herself. As the christmas days came nearer, the feast went from good to better during the lunch hour of her school. Of course getting a share was wholly dependent on her friends, but she always kept her hopes up.

That afternoon, Mariam was starving since her mother failed to feed her at night. She was sickly and yesterday was a tough day for her. Hungry out of her mind, Mariam kept waiting for her fist of rice from her friend’s tiffin box. The school bells clanged and she turned around with greedy eyes towards her friend who was taking the last bite out of her lunch with some of her other friends. They ate everything during the class and laughed at Mariam for being a clingy only for food.

Tears rolling down her face, she pushed open the school gate and ran out of the compound. The tree laden roads masked the scorching run rays from Mariam’s face. The old postman with his rusty old cycle rode towards her and passed a greeting. Mariam looked up and ducked behind a dingy lane to avoid confrontation.

She passed those typical humungous houses all decked up for christmas which aggrieved her even more. The mortar road radiated unbearable heat which pounded against the teared up and worn out soles of her shoes. A rock finally stopped her as she stumbled up against it and fell flat on the muddy grounds of the church. Blood leaking down her knees, she climbed the stairs of the church and sat down on the cool floor panting for breath.

In the microscopic years that she had spent in this world, her mother sent her daily to the morning masses. She taught her everything about the values of life and the importance of being a good human being. She did it all.

Today however was different, she questioned God. Her mind was full of questions as she saw the well dressed children of her age getting out of swanky cars to the cool shade of the trees to come and pray. Were they better than her?

Why was God so biased? Why could she not even fill her stomach with food while they got to have everything that she could not even imagine? She sobbed and sobbed, peeling each layer in her mind which doubted the existence of God and the unfair ways in which everything was happening around her. Why the disparity?

The little mind was interrupted by the Father of the church who sat beside her with some cotton, bandages and antiseptic. His smile calmed her down. She looked down at his hands and smiled. The pain in her heart had overridden the physical pain in her life at the moment, it seemed that God had in fact decided to interfere.

“Why the tears my child?”, asked the Father.

“Why is God so partial? Why can’t I have food to eat and a place to sleep which does not drop water all over me when it rains? Why can’t my mother be not sick? Why can’t I have shoes that don’t bite me?”, Mariam enquired with eyes so sad, it made the Father cringe.

“Everybody is different my child. I know some who don’t even have their mother or a roof above their head”, said the Father and looked at the kids who entered the church with their parents. He pointed out to them and said, “ You ask me why you are not as fortunate as them? what do you know about their life? maybe they have bigger problems to face in life! God is looking over us and he sees everything you are doing. No, you don’t have what you should have, but there is something really worthwhile waiting for you at the other end of this struggle”, the Father explained and smiled down at the little face which looked back at him with an intrigued look.

He bent down to clean her wound and took her hand to walk down the church aisle to the mess. He fed her but could not pacify her anger. She was disturbed and her condition was worsened by her wound. A little child, what else did life want from her.

Leaving behind a confused father, she ran towards her house, towards her mother, who no matter what, cared for her and fed her more than what even she ate herself. The father’s words rang in her head but the mind did not understand the reason that the stomach did not know. Her life had always been a chain of these incidents and she had no hope for a better tomorrow which killed the spirit of Christmas and everything associated with it.

Inside that little girl was a desire, a desire so small that killed the possibility of any dreams. A desire to eat, a desire to sleep and a desire to live without the pebbles on the street hurting her tender feet against those endless lines of pointless destiny.

90 seconds at the Traffic Light

As the car came to a screeching halt at the Def Col red light, a burst of energy appeared on the road. A gang of paltry young boys jumped in front of the impatient, horn honking cars. They smiled widely in the bitter Delhi cold in minimal clothing while I was shivering inside my warm car sans any smile.

One of them knocked at my window and shoved a Sachin Tendulkar book to my face. He had 5 others which were the best sellers in the market. Of course he did not know what was written in those milky pages, only the front cover images spoke to him. I was curious to know if these boys went to school. I asked him if he went to school. He wasn’t too thrilled about the question and asked me not to waste his time.

I noticed the other boys.They were jumping around in their Santa hats. One of them was selling beautiful stone bangles and was trying to convince an over dolled up aunty that it was a steal for her at his prices. They had learnt the trick of the trade. They knew who would buy what as the boy standing outside the other car was trying to sell all sorts of music CDs to a bunch of adolescents who were already singing on top of their voices.

I tore my eyes away from those cars and struck a deal with my boy. I offered to buy his book if he answered my questions. His eyes lighted up and he nodded in agreement. I paid him 150 bucks for my Sachin Tendulkar biography which I was never going to read. I fired away my questions.

He told me that he hardly went to school. He only attended school when he needed the free food which was served during the lunch break.So he could climb the wall, eat and disappear. I shivered this time not because of the cold but the sheer atrocity of what I was hearing.

I interrogated him on how he was able to sell these books if he had no money to eat. He passed on a smirk and started his sentence with, ‘Madam Ji’ which irked me. He revealed that there was a man who was a kind of ‘Don’ of the book supply business for kids like him. He supplied them books and demanded a fixed amount for each book sold. The money they made above it was theirs to enjoy.

They were beaten up if they lost books or did not sell at least 1 book each day. He was cruel but he provided them bread and butter. They could not annoy him. He spoke about the man with a hint of fear and respect. He was some sort of an idol for him. The thought alone was ridiculous but it was his life.

The timer ticked for the last 5 seconds and he turned around automatically. His mind was trained to the 90 seconds clock. He flashed another smile and ran away before I could ask his name.

If we do a rough math then hundreds of thousands of kids suffer the same fate. We are failing as a society to help these children escape this cage of callowness. There are two kinds of kids: One who have a family and the other who don’t and live in orphanages. We need a plan which captures both these groups’ needs and endeavours. If the kids are seen as an extra hand to earn then with education we have to provide them a way to earn that extra cash.

My nonprofit does free counselling sessions for parents of kids like these who need to understand the gravity of the situation. They are holding back an entire generation from doing some good in life. I am not saying they will end up living luxurious lives but they after educating themselves they will take a more informed decision. A decision which will be better than selling books at a traffic light, in 90 seconds.

What we can do:

1. Check if the nearby orphanage is sending its kids to school.

2. Ask your domestic help if she/he is providing education to her/his family

3. Volunteer with some organizations who are striving to bridge the gap.

4. Please donate and adopt one child for her/his education needs only.

The ones who do not fall under these categories will be difficult to track. I am hoping that we will be able to help at least 30% of such children in the near future with all the great work that the nonprofits are doing.

Let us join hands to fight against disparity, poverty and injustice to these kids. India’s future is dependent on these kids. Let’s make this work!

Delving into the moral ambiguity of caring for the stranger as I walk the streets of New Delhi

New Delhi and its people are full of contrasts. The menaces of greed and violence, the degradation of people and land, the juxtaposition of natural beauty and man-made horror and, finally, the sublime joy of human love, sacrifice and loyalty are always, everywhere, on full display. The world seems to shed all shyness here and display every possible permutation of beauty and sadness on these old, old streets.

Charity Spring is about caring for our world and helping those who care. I noticed something disturbing within myself today. Giving is its own reward, but when is giving harmful? Am I one to judge? How can I discern who are the deserving poor and who among us are not being honest about their capacity to care for themselves? And then there is the universal and time-worn dilemma of whether to give money to an addict who really does need nourishment and acts of human kindness to help keep him or her tethered to the world of the living, but who you are quite certain will spend the money on the addiction?

Several days ago, a list of America’s Worst Charities was published. It was the result of a yearlong collaboration between the Tampa Bay Times and the California-based Center for Investigative Reporting, the nation’s largest and longest serving nonprofit newsroom dedicated to watchdog journalism. CNN joined the partnership in March 2013.

Such a damning assessment of fake charities exploiting the goodness of donors wanting to do the right thing. Horrendous findings. Many hundreds of millions of dollars raised from a giving public thinking they were really giving to the brand name charities that the corrupt ones named themselves after.

While I was walking towards the metro station in Old Delhi recently, I saw this man. He seemed to me like he was a healthy man, sitting comfortably on the path that lead to the subway with hands folded and eyes closed. He didn’t say a word. He was just sitting there, but with what seemed to be an imitation of pain on his face. Now I say imitation because from the direction I was walking he caught my eye early and it was a lengthy walk before I reached the place where he sat. I noticed that he squinted his eyes to steal looks at the passers-by, though he seemed want to to appear to be blind. Some kind people were dropping coins in the plate just strategically placed before him.

India is a rather interesting place to live and New Delhi tops the list of cities I’ve seen. The contrasting shades of life are so painful that you almost cry — and sometimes do. While you see people flying past in a Porsche, you also see some people literally dying in the streets from hunger and exposure.

Our society thankfully has created many shelter houses and free food distribution systems. In some ways this support system, as needed as it is, both elevates and demotes people who are destitute. Beyond the minimum sustenance required for survival, what is there to aspire to, to hope for?

Mother Teresa once said, and I think it has something important to say to what disturbs me here, that being unwanted, unloved, uncared for, forgotten by everybody, is a much greater hunger, a much greater poverty than the person who has nothing to eat. Elsewhere she wrote or said, “Only in heaven will we see how much we owe to the poor for helping us to love God better because of them.”  Is it for me to judge?

What am I to think or do about individuals and charities that at least seem to be exploiting the goodness of others? Give blindly or use deceit as an excuse not to care — not to see?

Whether or not that man I saw in the subway was truly blind and destitute, is there ever enough cause to stop us from caring, whether or not we are being deceived? Is caring its own reward?

The shiny little mirror

Sunlight danced on the round crooked mirror hung from a huge Banyan tree which swayed with the breeze. It flashed a silver light on everyone who passed it. It was particularly irritating for the barber who was trying to fix his customer’s hair beneath the cool shade of the tree. It was probably the best barber’s shop of that small village near the canal. But it was on object of desire for that little 10-year-old who thought it emitted light.

Rani was 10 but knew much more than any girl of her age. She loved to dress in all colors bright and oozed with love and innocence. She ran to her mother who was blowing into a small pipe to light the chulah and demanded that useless mirror. The fascination attached to the mirror was limitless. Rani’s mother shooed her away and told her to do her homework. Sad and feeling dejected momentarily, she ran to her elder sister Jyoti.

Jyoti was a plain-looking high school student. She was average in studies and average in almost everything she did at her school or house. It bothered her mother but she remained oblivious to such hints and remarks. Her aristocratic nose built an aura of seriousness around her which prevented her from making friends easily. Her life was centered on her bubbly baby sister Rani who was everything she wasn’t.

Jyoti tried to reason with Rani and explained to her the reason behind the light emitting mirror. The sheer craving for something as magical as that mirror did not allow Rani to relent. Jyoti knew she couldn’t afford anything and her heart died a little inside when she saw her sister crying for something as small as that broken mirror. Instances like these made her question God and his ability to provide equally for everyone.

The family sat down for dinner on the damp earth in the open space at the centre of their house. Their father was a poor farmer who worked day and night to provide two square meals to his family. Rani was still sulking for that mirror when his dad asked her lovingly the reason behind his princess’ bad mood. Rani narrated to him the story with a shine in her eyes and hope of a bright future with some silver light in it.

Her father though very poor, pulled out some coins and placed it on Rani’s palms. Rani screamed with joy and planted a kiss on father’s cheeks. Jyoti smiled content with her sister’s happiness. Their mother complained about lack of discipline due to too much love from their father. She mumbled under her breath and cleared the dishes.

It was 9 in the night. Coins jingled in Rani’s pocket which had been sewed by her mother several times during the last few months. She couldn’t wait for tomorrow. Anxious and out of breath she went to her sister who was standing on the terrace overlooking the huge Banyan tree.

“Can’t we go and buy that mirror now? Please, please, please, please?” pleaded Rani.

“Don’t act silly. Who is going to be there at this time of the night to give you that mirror? Besides, we have to request the barber to give us his mirror, it is not for sale for now!” reasoned Jyoti.

“I can’t wait. I can try at least! If you want to come then you can come with me otherwise I am going right now. Alone!” said Rani.

She ran down the stairs leaving Jyoti behind who got worried and ran after her sister. Jyoti chased Rani and asked her to slow down which she did. As they walked down the narrow alley that led to the open ground where the huge tree stood, they heard some noises. Jyoti immediately smelled something foul. But as she turned around to go back, she saw them walking towards her and Rani.

A group of 4 boys were looking at them which made Jyoti uncomfortable. She tightened her grip around her sister’s hand and ran towards the tree. The boys laughed and followed them. The chase was easy for the boys as they overtook the girls and dragged them to the nearest canal.

One by one they raped the two girls. Their screams were stopped with a cloth in their mouth. They had come prepared searching for a prey. The monsters were intoxicated and out of their sense. One of them suggested killing the girls. Others protested but gave in citing no other options to escape being caught.

One by one the girls who lay whimpering on the ground saw each other’s throat being slit by a sharp knife. The heroic act was not over yet. They wanted drama so they dragged the girls to the open ground and hung them from the tree. They had a good last laugh and went to have a good sleep.

Rani now hung above the small shiny mirror which swayed in the warm night breeze….

 

The story is loosely based on a recent tragedy which happened in Uttar Pradesh (India).

When a simple Facebook LIKE means something!

I work for a charity in India which is headquartered in the USA. Being a simple organization, we always worked and focused on doing things on ground rather than on social media platforms. But the growing presence of all nonprofits on the social media platforms made us re-think our strategy.

We could go on and spend hundreds and thousands of dollars on advertising. But we decided to take it a bit slow by doing something different. We decided to use the money set aside for advertising for something good.

The Franciscan Family Apostolate’s blog explained this yesterday. I decided to take the liberty of copying the blog post for you. So here it goes-

“And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.” 
― Anonymous, Holy Bible: King James Version

We firmly believe in the idea of making this world a better place with help from people like you. When we saw that our social media presence was not as good as we would want it to be, we decided to reach out to you. We hope that love and mercy still exist in your heart. No, we have not come here to ask for donations. We want your time, we want 2 seconds from your busy schedule.

Remember the time you spent on Facebook scrolling down infinitely to see other feeds? We want 2 seconds from that time. We want you to join us on Facebook. Not just you, we want you to invite your friends and family to do the same. Why would you do that?

We are donating $1 for every New Like that we get on Facebook. Our current tally is 113. So say we become a family of 500+, we will donate $400 to a needy society in Andhra Pradesh where we run our projects.

For $400->

~A family could start its own livelihood with say a cow, a shop or a vegetable selling business.
~We can give medicines to the HIV/AIDS clinics in villages of Andhra Pradesh.

We will add-on to the amount if we get more people to join us on Facebook. We want to grow our family because we want more people to be aware about our programs, our cause and our struggles so that people can join us later.

https://www.facebook.com/FranciscanFA

This is our Facebook page. Please SHARE, LIKE & Blog about it.

Let’s extend our hands and pull some of them to this side of the world. I know you want to do this as much as we do!

Much love from the people who need you right now 

“Shoot for the moon, even if you fail, you’ll land among the stars” 

Please take out 2 minutes from your time and SHARE, BLOG & LIKE our page on Facebook 🙂

Thank you!