Shout!

Rape. A word that every girl above 10 years of age has heard. And sadly, many of them (below that age too)have experienced. A word that causes as much of a stigma as it causes pain. A word that unfortunately has lost most of its significance given its commonality.

Im calling rape a word here because today we regard it as just that. The word is sprawled over the newspapers that we read, the channels that we watch and the entertainment that we partake in. But many of us have forgotten to look beyond the word. We as a society have ceased to remember that what we deem as a word, is not merely that. It is a phenomenon. An ugly one at that.

A phenomenon that has become so embedded in our society that our collective consciousness has become agnostic to its brutality. The reports are read, and followed by a shake of head and some angst,but forgotten the next hour.

Why is it that we have become immune to a crime as grave as this one? Why doesn’t it shake and stir the nation anymore. A few isolated cases do, but the attention is very temporal and recedes into the background as soon as something more “interesting” comes up.

Why is it that no wrath towards the criminals lasts? Well, the answers to all this are many. And all segments of the society are to blame. We as a nation have become so news hungry that things catch our attention only so far as the next attention grabber comes our way. We as a society have become so immune to the word rape, thanks to its commonality that we have come to accept it as a part of life. And we, as citizens have lost all hope of any justice given the condition of our legal infrastructure.

We all somewhere know that in all likelihood the offenders will get away, with the help of money or influence and the victim shall never be avenged, infact, she will be harassed yet more by the same people.

The rape victims today, with their lives scarred and bodies violated are nothing more than “cases” scribbled on police registers- those who do find their way to the police stations. The others are like cancers, they eat the victims, and perhaps their families, till death comes as a relief.

We have all heard hair raising accounts of black incidents, we have all seen the fearlessness with which all this is done and we have all heard and seen and felt for the victim whose body has been so objectified that she begins to hate it, whose life is so bruised that any other pain matters no more. But then, why have we not stood up for them?

I think we have lost our ability to stay loyal to our causes. We have given up, we have moved on, we have a new cause everyday and every old cause loses its significance as the next day’s newspapers make their way into our homes. And the media is equally to blame, for they too have failed to stick to their stance, and mobilize the nation for a cause. For a cause as worthy as rape, for an evil as gory as sexual violation.

I, for one, believe that rape is a crime much worse than murder. Its stigma and the pain has to be borne by a person who has been murdered but is yet living and breathing. And no punishment is enough for a rapist.

Its us who have failed all the women and girls whose rights and lives have been perpetrated. Our law and order system is disappointing and slow because we allowed it to rest, by staying silent. The rapists get away and are growing fearless by the day because they are not scared of us, of what we can do to them.

And all this because we have given them reasons to be fearless, we have made them fearless.

But why? Are we not strong? Dont we feel for victims or have we stopped caring at all? The thing is that we have ben too dormant all this while. And that has what made the criminals so active and the law so drowsy.

Without fear of punishment every crime shall leap and more lives shall be ruined. We have to create fear. We have to stand up.

Let’s not just read reports in newspapers, or watch news on televisions. Let’s get out of our slumber, and recognize our causes. Let us shake our judiciary out of its laziness.

Iam all for death sentence for rapists. As I said, their crime is worse than murder. And even if everybody doesn’t share that opinion, Iam sure that no one disputes that these people should be punished and that too speedily and staunchly.

Whatever form they are in, let us not our beliefs go waste. Let’s not be silent anymore. We are the only ones who can prevent this nation from being mass raped, by standing up for those who are bearing our burden for us.

Let us scream, shout and silence the triumphant roar of these wild animals, who have grown too fearless in their victories.

Mute Revolution

Winter and its white ways,

shore peacefully in my barren lap,

they knit together my papery day,

as I dream in corridors empty,

and pour sand in that glaring gap.

Light! That rests on my window closed,

and the static jingle in the air,

the picture that I carefully tossed,

has moved not an inch,

being entangled in my hair.

The rusty moment on my pillow,

and its yellow glow,

it bathes the love lying on my right,

which stirs not,

for he hasn’t spoken to it all night.

The empty casket and the crumbled words,

lie strewn about my feet,

folded in a blanket of birds,

that stretches its hands,

to reach my lap and embrace the heat.

Rivulets in the bedsheet,

and pants of the white marble,

the intruding mirrors they greet,

and with courtesy unending,

introduce them to my floored towel.

The rusty moment on my pillow,

and the love on my right,

which does not with passion glow,

it stirs not,

because he hasn’t spoken to it all night.

Lko Diaries

Prologue..This was my fourth visit to Lucknow in these two years. And by the virtue of that, I assume myself eligible to write about the place…

Lucknow (Lko-as Indian Railways has christened it) is a city with multiple shades. Like most other places in India it is a confused, yet cheerful city.  Most people will rave about the kebabs that you can savor here, but there is something else that caught my imagination this time.

Needless to say, the kebabs are awesome. So are the biryanis and the akbar chicken. But the city that is known mostly for food, actually cares little about it. The people here want little else saving their Paan and Supari. The sad part is that the tradition of carrying spittoons got lost with time. The world is their spittoon now and nothing (roads, shops, historical monuments, house walls, vehicles) have been spared. It a place, that is quite literally, scarred with red.

And then there is the smell..the pungent smell of the betel leaf that is everywhere. Apart from that, there is the smell of beef..the prime ingredient of the much-loved tunde kebabs.

The auras apart, Lucknow is a place of a weird inter mesh. The mingling between two religions, millions of different people and a clash of histories. Most hindus in Lko eat beef kebabs, because the mutton ones just don’t taste that nice. And it’s not about religion or blasphemy, it is about belonging. This is where you live, and this is how you have to live it.Besides, what is the point of just staying at a place and not living it?

Lko is full of these questions, questions written loudly on faces and gestures. And there is no singular influence. If Hindus eat beef then muslims also relish butter chicken. If we can spot hindu women visiting the Dargah, we can also spot burqa clad women entering the Shani Mandir. If some hindu and indeed Punjabi girls have learnt to mellow down their wardrobes given the culture there, there are equal number of muslim women who have given up the burqa in favor of jeans and liberation.

But the essence lies in the fact that none of this raises any eyebrows. It is calmly put under that category of human behavior that alters itself as per its surroundings. What indeed does raise eyebrows are the affairs and marriages between the two religions. That is violation, all else is merely adaptation.

Every single person in Lko is used to namaz blaring through the loudspeakers at set hours of the day. And everyone is comfortable with the immense muslim history that is scattered all over the place.

Lko is full of muslim history. The imaam bada’s being the most popular. It is interesting to observe the crows here. While the muslims come with all due reverence, hindus come for various reasons..photography, history and architecture. Nevertheless, there is this mutual understanding and non-interference sort of pact.

There are a lot of places in India where the respect for other religions is co-existent with ways of life. But Lko is different. The respect factor apart, there is an acceptance of the way of life. People here don’t want to change the minorities and majorities. They are simply okay with all of it. There is nothing called a muslim or a hindu dominated area because there are hardly any boundaries.

A cloth brand name like Banarasi Das does extremely well as does shekhawat ke kebabs. And there are a lot of other examples. I know that for people here it will be all so familiar that it might just be in the cliché category. But one has to visit Lko to feel this thing-that i can’t call co-existence. For that is common. What I can call it though is a calm acceptance. And blurring boundaries between this life and the other life. Here every hindu is living a part of his life in a muslim way. And vice-versa.

We went to taj, and we went to Chowk. And if I being a Delhite could pin point the change in my behavior patterns at the both the places, it was only because the other people were so oblivious to it all. The ladies who do bulk shopping at Banarasi Das are every bit clever businesswomen there, but when in taj, with their kids and husbands, they are quiet wives and considerate mothers, a little hindu because they don’t wear the hijab, and a little muslim because their heads are covered. Partly hindu because they will first go the butter chicken way, and then a bit muslim because they shall return to their mutton gosht at the end of the meal.

That is what is different, and yet  so utterly familiar that no one shall even stop to consider it.

Its amazing actually-to see the collection of the most beautiful chandeliers in the world in the chotta imaam baada,and to sit comfortably in the Taj lobby, with a set of people who are certainly confused, but so comfortable with it that they forget that there is any confusion at all.

And before I start sounding all that confused myself, maybe we should stop. As an epilogue- I suggest that everyone visit the place to know what I mean. Enjoy the food and take in the monuments. Gulp in the history and shop in the malls. And do it all as a part of them, because Lko is one city that will not make you feel like an alien.

Yes, there is eve teasing and there is bad crowd, and we, being a girls gang went through it all many times over. Yet, there is comfort. The comfort of roaming in the residency park on a cold winter day and watching the old uncles laugh and walk. And when it is namaaz time, a few of them will simply go and kneel at some quiet corner. The others will silently walk away a bit and lower their laughing sound..enough for us to hear, but not enough to disturb them.

P.S- as soon as I manage to upload them, there shall be a photo feature on Lko coming up!

Tick tick tick

They fell off my clock,
and landed,
ever so smoothly,
beside my slippers white.

Not a sound,
neither a word,
they hummed the melody,
that in my palm rested.

Not tempted by the crisp biscuit,
nor by the loose button,
they floated past the stone precious,
that on my neck breathed.

Not verse,
neither any song,
they weaved the tale,
that got eclipsed in my eyes
not before long.

Not scattered,
Neither haphazard,
they fell clear,
like a pile of water,
on ground of clay.

They fell off my clock,
mounted on the wall,
a few seconds,
just a few….

So few,
that he never even noticed.

Far Beyond…

Shards and shards of strings blue,
around my feet
and between my fingers
they hang loosely
the ones that I could not sew.

In my eyes,
and on my forehead
like needles in my skin
buzzing in my conscience
untamed, black flies.

Pinning me down,
in my square space
walls within walls
and pieces of cardboard
in my tresses brown

In my nails
and my palm bare
sizzling on my tongue
purple as ever
when the taste fails

down my cheeks
casting trickling scars
like stars from my lashes
and a bleeding moon
that from my eyes has leaked

nights set upon yellow days
tied…tied I remain
but beyond my glass
is a world
that moves, plays and crawls
when I can only gaze.

Nights set upon red days
still tied I remain
but raindrops splash the world beyond
they fall only on my glass
and not on my face…

Daybreak

Memories in a crystal droplet,
they fizzle through my hair,
and soothing many a tresses,
fall on my shoulders bare.

Water in my eyes,
and water beneath my skin,
water in my clothes,
water it has always been.

Mountains on the horizon,
and sun rays on my palm,
his whispers in my ear,
and autumn on my arm.

Skylark in heaven,
and froth on the rocks,
stars on my back,
and twilight in my box.

Song in the fields,
its lyrics on my lips,
thorns in my fingers,
eagles over the cliff.

Pine trees in my step,
rain in my hands cold,
night in my kisses,
and a million moons in my dresses’ fold.

Tors black over my vision grey,
Moors beneath where I lay,
Sand clinging to my feet wet,
and high wind in my vessel of clay.

Words of wind on my tongue,
fire of storms in my verse.
the wheels of carriage upon my forehead,
as they live the road’s curse.

Darkness in my eyes,
and stars in his fingers
dreams asleep in our cradle,
as dawn on the border lingers.

Memories in a drop of dew,
that upon my arm curls,
the frozen water of his eyes,
that thrives upon me,
in thousand dazzling pearls…

watery shadows

Scattered

Scattering lights and the palace of Satan,
Across rambling tracks I tread,
As the monotonous humming of eagles,
Blots my thoughts and crowds my head.

Past the drought struck wailing windows,
And the wet collapsing walls,
I dwell in the homes of atheists,
Where Eve sells and Adam falls.

The meek whore passes by,
And puts her trembling hands on my breasts,
The next moment receded her into the rain,
But in my soul her agony rests.

Countless dreams crowd the streets,
And in the robe of these insomniac skies,
A thousand prismic lights blend,
And thrive in the white of my eyes.

Amidst the filthy pit,
An infant silently shrieks and wails,
The sea gulps down his pleas,
But his accusation in my bosom prevails.

The muddy paths assume queer turns,
And the tracks I tread become tangents,
I walked towards the untamed tides,
Me not Me, but a Million Fragments…

P.S- Written almost a year back, in Mumbai. Yes, the season was monsoon.

Away from the sun…

The sun set beyond my window,
I could stop him not,
Though I screamed and cried,
He kept on descending behind the clouds.

I held my hand out,
he held it not,
I shivered and trembled,
As he introduced me to dark alleys.

His clothes I did clutch,
But he responded not,
My caresses were no use,
He ahead in the oblivion walked.

I pleaded with passion,
But he was a stone,
He looked at me not,
Even though tears in my eyes shone.

Further he went,
And undid my shaking grasp,
And with a final bow,
He faded into the dark.

I stood there,
My light from me taken,
And the shadows in my soul whispered…
“He never really belonged to you”

The Rainbow Scoop!

damp colors..

And I just tasted the Rainbow…
It sizzled on my tongue,
And left on my lips,
A shade of luscious blue.

I licked at it lustily,
In my soul I let it seep,
Even as in my eyes it shone,
And it drank my sleep.

The sun hurt it not,
But the raindrops made it glitter,
It sipped on my light,
And it let me in its shadows wither.

It breathed into me,
The sundried leaves of color,
The ones which on grey evenings,
In its robes it did succor.

It awakened wrath black,
And in my veins let the darkness flow,
It bathed in white the stone of my eyes,
Ah! The colorful rainbow!

purple dreams

Again in my eyes they swell
pour down like wrath supine..
O thou soft rage
why don’t you scream and
grant me solace

Run run, find me at the end
of the road where nothing remains
whisper in my ear the hatred
that over the night has
in my bosom spread

Plunge and drown,
in cruelty thyself soak
O people of nameless nations
come onto landless fields
and let thy nomadic spirit roar

throw those black pebbles
in waters of winter
let the ripples awaken
the pain that on the last stair
snores in a slumber deep

Enter the web
and tangle in your name
carve in pearly letters
the words which the wind
bespoke of unto you
in last night’s rain