Tempest

Thursday 28 June 2007

It happened to her

R did not entirely understand him. They had this vast cultural barrier and they spoke two different languages. English and well English. But his was unreasonable, tactless and insensitive. She didn’t quite get the ways of her in-laws to be and she hated the food that this new family of hers loved. All bread and leaves and loads of olive oil…ugggh! They thought she looked like a gypsy in those Indian ‘shirts’ of hers (that’s what they call my kurtas can you believe it?!). Where she was loud and joyous, he was quiet. Where she loved going for a movie on a Sunday, he preferred gardening in the backyard for hours. Where she loved candle light dinners in a lovely restaurant, he drank the night away in pubs with his bunch of friends who spoke his kind of English. She cribbed and complained and groaned and grunted. The wedding is in five months and M didn’t think she sounded happy at all. M told her so last night. At which point she smiled, sighed and said she had gotten lucky and had fallen by mistake into her old Cinderella storybook and by some stroke of luck the fairy Godmother had given her the Prince. M smiled her secret little smile then and continued smiling even while R told her there was no way in hell that she would marry this ‘obnoxious’ man.

Mind you she said this in French and spoke from France (which she didn’t let her friend forget for a moment through out the conversation) and she injuncted every odd line with ‘Les francais…ils sont betes!’ She loved calling them stupid. (I think it is something all us students who go abroad carry with us…I love calling the British stupid. I apologise for this rather rude public declaration but in my defense, I do say it with an ounce of affection).

Paris had been a rather shattered dream for R. She’d thought she’d come off with an amazing French experience, lots of French friends, a French love affair (she even confessed to having carried a few V.I.P Frenchies with her as gifts for those supposed beaux of hers, ‘T’wud have been so funny’ remarked R ruefully). But alas, Universite’ Paris Sorbornne turned out to be a French trench emanating French stench of Gucci, Yves Saint Laurent etc and not a single whiff of human warmth and acceptance. Sniff. Though she had learnt and lived French for the past five years she was still not 'gooood enufh' for them to mingle with. She was frustrated, lonely and miserable. Every time she’d try and strike a conversation with a fellow classmate all she’d get were ‘Pardon?’, ‘Quoi?’, and ‘Je ne comprend pas’ at which point poor R initially truly believing that they really didn’t understand her, endeavoured to explain yet again ‘Est’ce que…’ they’d cut her off with a polite ‘au revoir’, an even more polite smile and with a famous French pirouette turn and stalk off.

Oh the despair in beautiful romantic Paris. It was there all around her in the roads, in the chateaus, in the houses…it was everywhere that famed romance and charm of Paris. And so she roamed and explored the beautiful, delightful sights and tourist spots such as the grande Tour d’Eiffel and the beautiful Rue Moufftard, the Montmartre with artists sketching in splendour and took in the gasping beauty of these sights…all alone. ‘C’etait abominable!’ she cried! ‘If romance wouldn’t come hit me on the head in Paris, where on earth would it?’

And then it happened. It happened right there in that magically miserable city. She got hit on the head so hard she had to be revived with a French kiss! ‘Fine fine, it wasn’t a French kiss. Ok so it wasn’t a kiss at all. It was just a blow’, she said. ‘A what?’ asked her friend M in indignation. ‘Ha ha he blew on my face ever so lightly, so warmly, so…’ ‘Yeah yeah, so how did whoever he is get to start doing that?’ M interrupted impatiently. ‘Well he banged into me while I turned the corridor and I knocked my forehead against the wall, so he tried to be a gentleman and blew’ she replied and M could almost see her smug smile over the phone. (More like billowed she added later but then M who knew her so well was already smiling and sieving in only the information she fancied).

‘My prayers had been answered’, exclaimed R. ‘I think it was because I had finally stopped praying in French. I don’t think these arrogant (but oh so hot) French Gods respond to prayers from Indians’, she snorted. T was English and he was the new exchange student in her class for that year. And since both R and T were the only non-French students in class, they unfortunately had to make do with each others company.

Love happens in the funniest of places. It happened to them in spite of his British ‘larger than thou’ attitude and her Indian ‘we’re no less’ attitude. They made their peace on issues of colonialism, rascism, world politics, their first kiss was on agreeing that Tony Blair was ***** ummm lets just say hopeless, and accepted they were in love when he agreed that India was indeed a growing economy and the British economy was fast losing grounds in spite of being a part of the EU. (‘Gosh he groaned and groveled like a baby before saying that! Can you believe it?’ R still couldn’t get over it.) They fought because his English was unreasonable, tactless and insensitive. He never understood why she had this opinion after all the English are known for their diplomacy! She couldn’t digest his meals of all bread and leaves and loads of olive oil…ugggh. But then on one particularly drunk day he had exclaimed that her biryani was ‘outstandingly weird food’ and she’d in equal inebriety agreed to marry him, missing the real import of the statement.

And so M finally gets to see the world and see England for free because her now Indian born, Brit loving and French hating friend was getting married and settling down in London. She couldn’t stop smiling her secret smile for according to her she was benefiting more than anyone because of this Pan European romance. ‘An investment made well in time’ she said to herself and slept that night with dreams of the London Eye, Madame Tussauds and a secret smile on her lips. You see a long time ago M had given R the Cinderella storybook as a birthday gift.

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Sunday 17 June 2007

Let us

Based on a real life incident. All names of characters are fictitious for reasons of maintaining anonymity.

Everyday

Meera jumps off the bus and runs to join the multitude of students streaming into school. Battling the hot loo and trying to avoid banging into any of the other babbling students and teachers who were scuttling along the corridors pretending to be busy, she keeps a look out for any of her friends on the way to class.

‘Hey! Tun-tun managed to come to school today, we’d better finish off the homework’, greeted Shruthi as she walked in.
‘Why can’t we change our class teacher? I mean we’re in 7th now…they can’t possibly keep giving us the same class teacher for 3 years in a row. Its like we aren’t really evolving in learning!’ Meera voiced the daily crib.
‘Just finish off that essay on sati and let me copy. Then I’ll come up with a plan to dispose her off’.
‘Lazy! It’s real sad what we read about sati yesterday right. I heard it happens in villages etc even today. Not just widows but brides as well. We’re so lucky we were born into such educated families.’ Meera commented while sitting down to write.
‘Yupp sounds unreal. Make it real sad and dramatic, Tun Tun will love it!’ laughed Shruthi.

Their days always began with a load of jokes, fun, cribbing, five minutes of intellectual talk habitual of any smart 12 year olds and jokes yet again.

One Day

Meera got off the school bus and caught sight of Shruthi’s bag in the crowd. She called out her name, once, twice loudly and didn’t get any response. She ran after her but it looked like Shruthi had picked up pace and was avoiding her. Indignant, Meera followed her to class all prepared for a confrontation and show down demanding explanation for her friend’s ‘stupid’ behaviour.

The minute she walked into class, she was assailed by Shruthi who hugged her and began sobbing uncontrollably. Immediately understanding that this was more serious than usual, Meera held her anguished friend and waited for the tide to abate. They got to miss assembly and sat in class together while Shruthi incoherently explained everything to Meera.

‘They burned her’, gasped Shruthi.
‘I wasn’t even supposed to know. How could they do this?’
‘Uncle called mom and I picked up the phone at the same time that she did.’
‘I didn’t mean to overhear. They burned her, Meera’, she continued sobbing.
‘My cousin...they tied her to a chair in the kitchen…Mom doesn’t even know that I know…she will be so angry…’
‘Who did? Why? Your uncle will tell the police don’t worry. You sure you heard right?’ asked Meera trying to get a hold on the situation.
‘I did…she didn’t give him enough money…uncle says they aren’t even sure he did it…they tied her to a chair Meera.’
‘They tied her up and burned her… my cousin…how could they…they went to school even and were educated…she died Meera, she died’.

They sat together for sometime not knowing what to say. Being kids, the tears abated soon enough and it became this entire discussion on what they would do to get justice. They psyched themselves up and talked each other into a frenzy of childlike passion on the subject.

Day one

‘Mom, why did they do it? What are the police saying? Has he been arrested yet?’ Shruthi demanded.
‘Don’t ask so many questions. He has not been arrested. They didn’t give a complaint. It was a kitchen fire.’
‘But aunty, you know that she was burned why not give a complaint? He surely will be put in jail. Why does the police need a complaint in the first place?’ persisted Meera.
‘That’s the way it is in this country. And we don’t have proof. Plus it looks like you girls are more worried about the case rather than hurt about what happened to Sheetal.’ replied Shrthi’s mom.
‘But, auty only if we investigate will we find proof…’, began Meera
‘And mom we do care but…’, said Shruthi at the same time.
‘That’s enough. Its degrading for the family. Everyone talks…I don’t want it to rub off on you. What can be done we will do. Please focus on your school work’ and aunty put an end to all discussions.

Day two

‘I heard mom and dad talking yesterday…’ started Shruthi.
‘Shruths you are going to get into trouble eaves dropping like this…’ Meera interrupted
‘You would’ve done it as well. It’s disgusting. You aren’t going to believe, the police inspector in Patna refused to file a case. Apparently he gave the cop money and convinced him it was a kitchen fire.’
‘What? Are they all mad? So she would tie herself up to a chair and purposely burn herself? Like she was a nutcase!’ shouted Meera.
‘Yes that’s exactly what they are alleging. We can’t do anything. Mom won’t listen to me.’ Shruthi said, crying helplessly.
‘But we have laws. We found out…why can’t the police see it’s a crime and do something?’ added Meera feeling as helpless.

Few days later

‘The guy is getting re-married. What if he does the same to her’ Shruthi said one morning.
‘Let’s write to your cousin’s sister and tell her to warn the girl’, replied Meera and set about it like a secret mission.

And yet

‘I wrote to Soumya. She dared reply…brave kid; her mom is a real strict monster. It’s unbelievable but the girl knows and her parents won’t listen to reason and since she is of age and he earns well and they can afford the dowry she will be marrying him.’ Shruthi looked flabbergasted.
‘He’s gone scot-free…’, Meera couldn’t say anything more.

Slowly they got back into their regular schedule and being kids forgot what had happened. The memory remained of an incident that had taken place, there was no reminisce of feeling associated to it left. Even when it had happened, they had gotten over their hurt and pain quickly which only kids are capable of. They had taken it as an event and had passionately wanted to do their bit. That they had not been able to was disappointing but then even that was forgotten.

Meera only remembered one thing…a single line that haunted her even when she grew up..

It happened next door. It happened next door. It happened next door.

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Educated families are not immune to bride burning. It isn’t restricted to villages or towns…it happens next door in cities like Delhi. Being educated people we turn a blind eye to such happenings. We talk about it for a few days, feel enraged, perhaps visit the police station once but then eventually let the matter go. I know we have read articles on the subject very often. I know that we intellectually debate it and are aware it happens. But all this media publicity has in a way made us immune, thick skinned to the trauma that such women go through in the name of dowry. We hear it, we raise voices for a few minutes and then we forget. We forget that it is a heinous crime. We forget that it is a crime against humanity and our very existence. Since they are now everyday words, words like rape, sati, bride burning have ceased to evoke any emotions of rage, compassion or even indignance.

It is sad that many families even today decide to keep quiet instead of taking action against this atrocious tradition to avoid shame that could be brought upon the family in the name of social stigma. And tradition it is. To keep quiet and watch for centuries is tradition. Let us not be too proud of being traditional.

I accept that not all of us can be journalists or activists but we can at least endeavour to be active citizens. In comparison to the population of India, we educated lot are just a handful. Even though we have stringent provisions against violence against women in the IPC, not even 2% of the population is aware of them. At least us, the handful, must try and educate ourselves on what can be done when the situation arises. If nothing else, it’s like having knowledge of first aid.

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Even today brides are burned alive if dowry is insufficient. At least 5000 women die each year from dowry murder, and the official cause of death is typically reported as a kitchen fire. The UN estimates that as many as 25000 women may be killed each year. In most cases, the husband is not punished.

In 1995, amendments were made to the Indian Penal Code, the Indian Evidence Act and the Dowry Prohibition Act, with the intention of protecting wives from marital violence, abuse and extortionist dowry demands. The most notable ones are sections 304B, 406 and 498A of the Indian Penal Code, and Section 113 A of the Indian Evidence Act. To know more about laws against domestic violence read up with Manushi at http://www.indiatogether.org/manushi/issue120/domestic.htm.


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Posted by Pavitra :: 23:10 :: 15 comments

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Thursday 7 June 2007

Solitude can be excrutiatingly silent.

For a few days I did nothing.
I sat on a rock and stared into the sun until it faded into a red sky.
I watched a grasshopper jump for as far as my eye could follow.
I sat and heard the gurgling of water in a dam until blended into my natural existence.
I watched a gardener laboriously plant seedlings in a long row in the hot sun.
I stared at the way tadpoles attach, then detach and then again attach themselves over and over again for hours.
Time stood still and I welcomed the slow infusion of a very familiar feeling spread through my body.
It hurt more than anything this time because it was alright to allow it to hurt.
I watched reality in slow motion until all things real in my life zeroed in on my spirit.
It hurt because I accept it was alright to let it hurt.
It hurt because I realised that acceptance is the most painful yet the purest of feelings.
It hurt because I realised that inspite of facing the truth I was still lying to myself.
In realising the lie my walls of self deception were crumbling.
I confess to still holding onto them for temporary solace
I accept that not all things are my fault.
I accept that by nature I pay for what is my fault but I also accepted that it is wrong to accept blame for what one has not done.
I accept that this has been the hardest to accept because I would then have to be finding fault in those that found the blame.
Those that I give every right to put and hold me to any blame.
It hurt most to accept that the pedastal never is and that the Gods also become mortals when the mind desires.
It hurt to go against my every instinct and accept this simple alchemy that blind respect and love is infact neither love nor respect.
It hurts to accept that ones religion could be wrong.

I bit my tongue and tasted blood.

The taste hurt more than the sting.
A murder is a murder. Would I consider my dearest who committed the crime a murderer?
I drank blood as I realised I would. I would condemn my dearest a murderer.
But I would also protect the murderer from the world of judgement.
I would go against all the written laws on right and wrong and beg for thy forgiveness.
I would feel a heinious crime has been committed but I would still unabashedly stand by.
The throbbing exploded as I accepted that my love would weigh greater than any moral right

The blood tastes bitter as the I face the depths of my own depravity.
The blood is a proof of my acceptance.

But in the solitude as I accept the onslaught of painI understand another cliche...a cliche as old as the sands of time. Life is about choices. There comes a time in your life, when you must decide with no help from anyone; Between right and wrong, between black and white, between good and bad, to walk or fight...

To be honest and true, to be open with your heart, or to hide your feelings, play it safe from the start. To sit back and watch, to listen and learn, or jump into the fire, taking a chance on a burn.

To stay, to move, to not care, or always prove.
To be strong, to be weak, to be agressive, to be meek.
To laugh out loud with all your might, or smile a little just to be polite.
To stay together, to live apart, to think with your mind or trust with your heart.
To live in the past, to always look back, to look ahead to the future, with ambition you won't lack.
To dream, to hope, to quit, to cope.
To be a lover, to be a friend, to be real, or just pretend.

There's much I haven't done right, many a bitter mistake I have made.
All choices made true to the moment, yet to accept the hardest blade.
Accede tis' human to make mistakes, to repeat them raises the stakes.
In denial lies the blasphemy.

"Life is about choices...not because we have to make them,
But because we have to live with them until the day we die."
- annonymous

And I refuse to have it any other way.

Posted by Pavitra :: 10:27 :: 9 comments

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Friday 1 June 2007

Dream in White & Green

She is a little short, about 3 inches and 5 feet. Shy, a sweet smile, an unglamorous boycut, simple and unaffected. Speaks only when spoken to; Capt. Pragati Patil is someone who can easily get lost in a crowd. You wouldn’t notice her in a party. In a serious discussion among more vocal or even among most people she would simply disappear. Until in a soft steady voice she says something that makes complete sense and adds absolute value to the conversation. I met her a week ago, I have spent hours listening to her and watching her at work and I have grown to admire her with each passing moment.

In bits and pieces she told me her entire story; her dreams, her aspirations, her journey and her arrival. First tentatively and later animatedly with untampered original emotion to an awestruck audience; me. “I have always wanted to be an Army officer through out school and even in college I would think that it would be the next step,” she said with unfaltering conviction as she looked back.

MBBS was over and done with. It was just another day on a hot summer afternoon that she got a call. “It was the moment I had been waiting for my entire life.” The interview was in Delhi at the DG AFMS office. By some stroke of extreme bad luck she came down with one of the worst cases of viral fever with an almost constant 104 degrees just five days short of the interview. She was on drip and had to be given anti biotics intravaneously. Both her younger brothers were on their way to becoming doctors themselves. The entire family was aginst her making the 2 day journey to Delhi. Her parents told her it cold be put off until next year. Not to be detered, Pragati decided to go ahead with it unprepared to let go of her opportunity. Together with her younger brother, she taught her youngest brother who was in the first year of MBBS how to inject anti-biotics. She dragged him with her promising her disgruntled parents that she would take care of herself. They made some curious friends on the train as he kept giving her cold compressions and anti biotics and by the time she reached Delhi the fever had subsided. The interview went off well and the DG AFMS, impressed with the girls determination told her to expect her call in November.

Pragati highly excited left home for the first time ever to become an Army officer in January 2006. Her centre was Nagpur and the moment she landed her olive adventure began. She had to get a full medical done to get commissioned. But the ENT specialist in Nagpur was off sick so she had to go to Deolali (“Deo what?, I had asked. I hadn’t even heard of such a place. Imagine how remote it must have been”, she told me. “I was born there”, I ruefully replied). Now, since she wasn’t commissioned, they could not get her a reservation but it was imperative that she leave immediately. She bought a ticket on waiting and got onto the train. After the first 45 minutes or so the TT showed up and told her he couldn’t allow a lady to travel without reservation and she must get out. Scared to get off in ‘No-man’s land’ (“I was as it is going to some no-man’s land,” she said with an apologetic smile) and indignant about being told to get out inspite of having a ticket she told the TT she would stand the whole night if she had to but she wasn’t getting out. And so Capt. Pragati stood. Thus began her journey in olive green. “I have always dreamt of wearing the uniform with the stars. I didn’t just want to be a doctor…I wanted to be a doctor nursing the wounds of soldiers of my proud nation”, she says to me. Lines like these have been said before but the honest coinviction in her voice without a hint of emotion…yet soaked in it, captured my romanticism.

Her first posting was Kamptee, a small town in Maharashtra where she was stationed as General Practitioner. They were possibly the worst 6 months of her life. She now looks back and says she learnt a lot in those 6 months…but this is exactly what any brave person says after facing an ordeal when the memory is just a memory and the pain has already been fought. She was the only female officer there. She was lonely, depressed, and harrassed, “yet I never once thought about leaving,” she says, her voice mirroring well earned pride. The senior doctor would humiliate her in front of her juniors almost everyday, highlighting and hacking mistakes and never once explaining as a fair mentor should. The nursing staff was hostile. “I had asked a nurse to come on rounds with me my first time and give me the proceedure for diagnostics but she refused point blank. They have ranks among the nursing staff as well and it is a sore point for them to have to listen to a young officer just because she is an officer. They rebel against you. I guess it wasn’t just aimed at me, I guess all new officers go through it,” Pragati explained. She took it all in stride. Her parents would call and she would lie to them about the wonderful place she was living in and how nice her colleagues were. She would almost choke on her words and there would be a constriction in her heart. There was no one to talk to, yet she was determined to find her own way as this was her dream. “I had’nt been forced into it, this was my dream and I was not going to let anything ruin it for me,” said Pragati, controlled passion in her voice. And she warmed my heart by smiling again.

Finally it was over and she was sent to training camp in Lucknow for two months. She had the time of her life there. Here she was not a doctor. In fact she forgot that she had ever been a doctor. She was just another kid who was being gruelled like hell by a physical education instructor! They went for 2 km runs in the mornings, followed by work out sessions and then games. She was among the only 10 girls on camp among 70 guys. They were told that they were ‘also men’ here in the Army, she told me with a giggle. They ran and played equally. She didn’t know if they were equally exhausted but she knew she was tired enough to sleep through class everyday without fail. They would go for day long excursions into the nearby jungle in the middle of summer with just a bottle of water each. Their aim and mission was to find the perfect spot to set up a medical camp in war, next to a water body, well away from firing, hidden from enemy exposure etc etc. She had dreamless nights of 5 hours sleep a day for those two months.

‘A minor infection, that was all it was’, she laughed and said to me. Her toe was cut and the nail was taken out to squeeze the puss out. It was the day of the passing out parade and Capt. Pragati refused to take to bed. She wore her DMS boots and ran to the Passing Out Parade, forcing herself not to wince at each step. Unfortunately she was late and there was only one spot left and she had to hold the rifle to be in that spot. Capt. Pragati was the only female officer to be holding a rifle and marching that day. She passed out on a ‘surgical foot’ as she puts it and went on to become a proud officer of the Indian Army.

She is now posted as GP in Naushera Brigade as the only female officer. I asked her how she manages to hold respect being the lone wolf. ‘It’s the way you treat yourself. If an officer is what you are, that is exactly what they will treat you as, neither lady nor man”.
She lives her life content and confident dealing with high pressure office hours with calls later than 11 some nights. I accompanied her today and watched the easy confidence with which she dealt with the men. It is tough to command respect being the only woman around and she does it with aplomb; no shouting, no acting gruff to sound tough. Just a steady soft voice asking the right questions when needed and giving the right instructions as required with dignity. And they listen and respond in silent respect. Watching her in office I felt as if a plug has neatly fit into the right socket with a soft click. She is in her place, as if she was made for the Army.

She lost a life last week as a young jawan cut his femural artery and blood replacement in her small hospital could not be done in capacity. The man was evacuated and he died in the chopper before help could reach him. She saved a life today as one jawan almost gave up due to heat exhaustion. It didn’t make up for the loss but she’s back on her feet, no denial…the pain she accepted…the job she does with a quiet passion

I always believed that there are only two kinds of doctors in this world…those that have lost patients and those who will. But, now I realise there is also a genre that will never stop. ‘I would like to be God but in spite of all the knowledge I cannot be. I can’t save the world. Sometimes it hurt a lot, but at least I can save some.’ Today, Pragati is not only a doctor but also a proud Army Officer and regardless of what many might have said…

She does have it in her.

A salute and thanks to Capt. Pragati for allowing me the privilege of writing this.

Posted by Pavitra :: 12:32 :: 14 comments

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