It was the year 2004. I had just enrolled in a post graduate programme in Journalism. At first when I came to know that a classmate of mine was from Kashmir, I was curious.
Because I, having lived in a big metropolis like New Delhi, had never 'encountered' someone from the troubled state of Jammu and Kashmir till then. The only thing I knew was what I read in the newspapers or saw on news channels – that Kashmiri Muslims hated India, wanted to be part of the 'enemy' state and were behind most terror attacks.
So basically I was looking for a classmate who would be a devil incarnate. Instead I found a young man who had the same dreams as me, the same ambitions and a will to live a 'normal' life.
I was generally told that the old stereotype holds true - all Muslims hate Hindus and want to 'take over' my beloved country, are radical, multiply rapidly and forcibly convert everyone to Islam. Instead I found a person, who was apprehensive of me because I was the larger majority who thought like this! Me? I would never harm an insect let alone think of harming someone.
He seemed quite defensive in the beginning and I took an instant dislike to him. Our interactions were limited only to professional discussions. With time, I felt he started becoming less defensive and I failed to spot horns on his head.
The uneasiness gave way to exchange of ideas and passionate discussions and debates as the walls and the barriers started to melt away. I realized that this person was neither a fanatic nor believed in multiplying and taking over the country. He just wanted to be a treated as a citizen and a part of the country.
In this case, a healthy interaction ensued and our mindsets started to change. We were able to identify truth from make believe stories and were able to overcome the fear of the unknown. We necessarily do not agree on everything and our political and socio political ideas sometimes differ, after all we are distinct individuals, we have changed. The journey has been eventful and interesting.
And I came to the conclusion that we build up prejudices largely because of two reasons. The first is the fear of the unknown. The second is the subtle and overt propaganda spread by people around us, the media and politics.
There are many people who we interact with, who don't just keep the prejudices in their hearts but systematically spread them too. Only if they were given the power to see what lies on the other side, were given unbiased information, they would be able to decide what they want to believe in and discard propaganda.
The more I thought about it, the more I felt there was a need to bridge the gap between the 'real' and the 'assumed'. Thus, a germ of an idea started in my head. This idea is now being put into paper (actually virtual paper).
Words like secularism, polarization, communalism, terrorism are bandied about. But what do they really mean? How does it affect the people when they are given a certain tag? Why should they be given a tag? Why should we have notions without really seeing for ourselves what the truth is?
The movement 'anti-tags' stems from that idea. We are anti-communalism, anti-extremism and anti-polarization and pro-information. Some might also call us secular, liberal or even pseudo-secular-liberal. As I said, tags don't matter.
Check out a social movement called Anti-Tags here.
Tell us your story. Did you face communal backlash? Did an incident change you? What do you think of propaganda in media and politics? How is it ruining our social fabric? Share it on Anti-Tags.
Age no bar, gender no bar, religion no bar, caste no bar. Leave you name or send it anonymously. Our email is anti.tagsATgmailDOTcom
Cross posted on Anti-Tags
Tuesday, 26 February 2008
Wednesday, 20 February 2008
One Night Stand
Actually I don’t know why call it one night stand coz you know you don’t just stand. That’s how it was the other night. And you people who had naughty thoughts while reading the line above, let me bring you to an anti-climax and tell the story from the beginning.
That evening as I entered the room, switched on the light, I saw the window wide open and some feathers on my bed. I looked up to see a pigeon couple perched on my fan and flapping their wings. As soon as they saw me, they decided that behaving like still life statues would make me think that they were not real. You know, we humans are not that stupid but are sometimes stupid enough to leave the window open.
I tired to shoo them out of the room but they started to dangerously fly around, hitting the blade of the fan, then sitting on one pelmet and then another. I envisioned bird feathers, blood and mangled bodies of bird on my new bed sheet and decided this strategy would not work.
After a while they decided (as you can see- all parties were thinking and strategizing) the pelmet was the safest spot in the room and stayed put there, not seeing the window across the room from which they could go outside. I hoped they would develop some sense and fly. But no!
Now this is the window where the cat loves to jump in and stay inside when it’s cold. Once it jumped straight onto my bed, right on top my blanket and I thought someone broke in and was trying to strangle me. I screamed with all my might and scared off the poor cat. Now every time it jumps in, it meows to let me know its come! Ok I am digressing and this is a story for another time.
So I got worried that the cat might see the open window and it would come in and find a lovely dinner waiting for it. So I closed the window and on grounds of sympathy decided to let the pigeons stay in. So yeah, basically I spent the night with pigeons in the rooms who first stood, then sat down and then slept. At some point in the night, it started unnerving me that I was sleeping in a room where some pigeons were right on top of my head and I, after watching too many horror films where crows start attacking humans, thought they would go crazy and start pecking at me while I sleep. I have irrational fears sometimes.
I spend the rest of the night on the couch.
Epilogue
The pigeon couple was evicted the next morning, amidst much drama, and using weapons like a long handled mop and pointing out the exit. It seems they really like my room because today morning they were sitting by the window sill, hoping the window would be open. I have learnt my lessons well and that window has been permanently closed.
My human friends have told me that the warm tones of my room (orange, yellow and red) make it look very inviting but I didn’t think the animal kingdom also thinks the same because this brings the count of animal species to pay me a visit to four and still counting.
A lizard which has taken permanent residency, (this reminds me - Sumit, how is your lizzy doing? Mine has decided to hibernate for the winters), seasonal insects, cat and a pigeon.
The snakes which live in the garden downstairs haven’t come as yet and so have the dogs who haven’t quite mastered the art of jumping like cats. Other feathered friends like owls, crows, sparrows, mynas, parrots and peacocks are also not invited inside because I think they look better on the trees outside rather than the pelmet inside.
For more pigeons stories in my home, read here.
That evening as I entered the room, switched on the light, I saw the window wide open and some feathers on my bed. I looked up to see a pigeon couple perched on my fan and flapping their wings. As soon as they saw me, they decided that behaving like still life statues would make me think that they were not real. You know, we humans are not that stupid but are sometimes stupid enough to leave the window open.
I tired to shoo them out of the room but they started to dangerously fly around, hitting the blade of the fan, then sitting on one pelmet and then another. I envisioned bird feathers, blood and mangled bodies of bird on my new bed sheet and decided this strategy would not work.
After a while they decided (as you can see- all parties were thinking and strategizing) the pelmet was the safest spot in the room and stayed put there, not seeing the window across the room from which they could go outside. I hoped they would develop some sense and fly. But no!
Now this is the window where the cat loves to jump in and stay inside when it’s cold. Once it jumped straight onto my bed, right on top my blanket and I thought someone broke in and was trying to strangle me. I screamed with all my might and scared off the poor cat. Now every time it jumps in, it meows to let me know its come! Ok I am digressing and this is a story for another time.
So I got worried that the cat might see the open window and it would come in and find a lovely dinner waiting for it. So I closed the window and on grounds of sympathy decided to let the pigeons stay in. So yeah, basically I spent the night with pigeons in the rooms who first stood, then sat down and then slept. At some point in the night, it started unnerving me that I was sleeping in a room where some pigeons were right on top of my head and I, after watching too many horror films where crows start attacking humans, thought they would go crazy and start pecking at me while I sleep. I have irrational fears sometimes.
I spend the rest of the night on the couch.
Epilogue
The pigeon couple was evicted the next morning, amidst much drama, and using weapons like a long handled mop and pointing out the exit. It seems they really like my room because today morning they were sitting by the window sill, hoping the window would be open. I have learnt my lessons well and that window has been permanently closed.
My human friends have told me that the warm tones of my room (orange, yellow and red) make it look very inviting but I didn’t think the animal kingdom also thinks the same because this brings the count of animal species to pay me a visit to four and still counting.
A lizard which has taken permanent residency, (this reminds me - Sumit, how is your lizzy doing? Mine has decided to hibernate for the winters), seasonal insects, cat and a pigeon.
The snakes which live in the garden downstairs haven’t come as yet and so have the dogs who haven’t quite mastered the art of jumping like cats. Other feathered friends like owls, crows, sparrows, mynas, parrots and peacocks are also not invited inside because I think they look better on the trees outside rather than the pelmet inside.
For more pigeons stories in my home, read here.
Monday, 18 February 2008
Flowering Hope
Though it was a cold winter morning, the sun had chosen to shine that day. The fog started to clear and by afternoon, the small park had its first visitor almost after a month of cold, grey and gloomy winter.
The Neem tree spread its branches, and through the branches, the rays of the sun passed making the leaves looking translucent green. Underneath a man slept wearing a tattered blue sweater and grey trousers. He had a shock of white hair, a wrinkled face, and long gnarled fingers. His hand was placed over his eyes, maybe to block the light, as he napped.
At a distance a young father, held the hand of his son while his wife, a few steps behind, held a small baby girl in her arms.
As the two and a half year old boy passed by the flowerbeds, a riot of colours, waved for his attention. He left his father’s hand and ran to inspect them all.
And came back, out of breath saying, “Papa! Red, Yellow, Purple, Orange, so many!” The indulgent father smiled.
The roses, in different shades of pink, peach and red, the marigolds, a beautiful sunset orange, the purple chrysanthemums, the sunny yellow daises, all lovingly nurtured and cared for, by the gardener.
The little girl decided it was her turn to inspect the green grass and decided to crawl on it, all the while gurgling.
The boy, fascinated by the colours and the play of light on the petals, kept repeating the names, furrowing his brows asked, “Why don’t we have them at home?”
The father, seeing the interest of the boy, decided to ask the maali, the gardener about the flowers which could be planted in Spring.
Of course, he didn’t know how the man looked like. No one had ever bothered to find out whose green fingers had lovingly created the beauty they came to see, admired and left.
The young father called out in an uncertain voice to the man sleeping under the tree, “Maali? Aap maali hain? Are you the gardener?”
The man woke up with a start, “Haanji. Yes.”
“Bade aachey phool hai. The flowers are very beautiful”.
“Itney saare colours hain, ” piped a voice. It was the small boy, clutching the father’s leg, peeking from behind and looking at the man.
“I was thinking of planting some flowers for the Spring season... Which ones do you recommend?”
The gardener had an incomprehensible expression on his face while he was thinking. Someone is asking my opinion and appreciating my flowers too.
47 years of working here, he had grown old, giving his life to working in this park. Yet this was the first time someone had made a genuine effort to talk to him.
“Sirji, you can plant tulips, hyacinths, daffodils, irises…,” his voice trailing off.
The father nodded and thanked him.
After a while, as they were about to leave, the gardener came running and plucked out the most beautiful flower and handed it to the boy.
The boy shyly said, “Thank you, Uncle.” And waved him goodbye.
Of course they didn’t hear him say thank you under his breath or the lone tear in his eye, now streaming down his face.
* Fiction story inspired by observing a real life incident
The Neem tree spread its branches, and through the branches, the rays of the sun passed making the leaves looking translucent green. Underneath a man slept wearing a tattered blue sweater and grey trousers. He had a shock of white hair, a wrinkled face, and long gnarled fingers. His hand was placed over his eyes, maybe to block the light, as he napped.
At a distance a young father, held the hand of his son while his wife, a few steps behind, held a small baby girl in her arms.
As the two and a half year old boy passed by the flowerbeds, a riot of colours, waved for his attention. He left his father’s hand and ran to inspect them all.
And came back, out of breath saying, “Papa! Red, Yellow, Purple, Orange, so many!” The indulgent father smiled.
The roses, in different shades of pink, peach and red, the marigolds, a beautiful sunset orange, the purple chrysanthemums, the sunny yellow daises, all lovingly nurtured and cared for, by the gardener.
The little girl decided it was her turn to inspect the green grass and decided to crawl on it, all the while gurgling.
The boy, fascinated by the colours and the play of light on the petals, kept repeating the names, furrowing his brows asked, “Why don’t we have them at home?”
The father, seeing the interest of the boy, decided to ask the maali, the gardener about the flowers which could be planted in Spring.
Of course, he didn’t know how the man looked like. No one had ever bothered to find out whose green fingers had lovingly created the beauty they came to see, admired and left.
The young father called out in an uncertain voice to the man sleeping under the tree, “Maali? Aap maali hain? Are you the gardener?”
The man woke up with a start, “Haanji. Yes.”
“Bade aachey phool hai. The flowers are very beautiful”.
“Itney saare colours hain, ” piped a voice. It was the small boy, clutching the father’s leg, peeking from behind and looking at the man.
“I was thinking of planting some flowers for the Spring season... Which ones do you recommend?”
The gardener had an incomprehensible expression on his face while he was thinking. Someone is asking my opinion and appreciating my flowers too.
47 years of working here, he had grown old, giving his life to working in this park. Yet this was the first time someone had made a genuine effort to talk to him.
“Sirji, you can plant tulips, hyacinths, daffodils, irises…,” his voice trailing off.
The father nodded and thanked him.
After a while, as they were about to leave, the gardener came running and plucked out the most beautiful flower and handed it to the boy.
The boy shyly said, “Thank you, Uncle.” And waved him goodbye.
Of course they didn’t hear him say thank you under his breath or the lone tear in his eye, now streaming down his face.
* Fiction story inspired by observing a real life incident
----------
On a completely different note, I found this fascinating Genographic Project. Someone please gift me a kit so I can find where my ancestors are from.
Tuesday, 22 January 2008
Chekhov and Hosseini
Once upon a time there was a book I bought at a book fair two years ago which sat on my book shelf waiting to be picked up. Sometime ago, on a Saturday morning I picked it up and started to read it when I got bored of doing my French verbs.
For a reader like me who likes to visualize everything, the tone of the stories was a little difficult to adjust to. There are no flowing descriptions, just enough to get you started, visualizing the people, the places, the sounds, the smells and then the astute observations come with melancholic undertones as grayness wraps the words.
Having been swept in the world of Anton Chekhov I have slowly come to admire his style of writing. There is an amazing detached quality, of watching everything from a distance as the characters struggle with their mundane, sad lives and putting it into words. It has to be read to be experienced.
And now I am so addicted to this big fat book which is a compilation of Chekhov’s greatest works, both short stories and plays, that every evening I come home from work, read a bit and then do anything else.
After my Khaled Hosseini hangover this is quite a change.
Hosseini’s stories weave a visual magic. You can feel the wind blowing, see the blue skies, taste the Afghan food, the characters leap out and you feel their pain, their agony, their happiness.
And he has the distinction of being the only writer who made me cry. I remember bleary eyed, awake at 3.00 A.M reading about Amir and Hassan in the Kite Runner, tears streaming down my face, not caring I have to go to office the next day.
And for days I wondered if someone could be like Hassan and if such a man existed, what would he be like? Just like I imagine him to be? I am already dying to see the movie version of the book and keeping my fingers crossed that it doesn’t disappoint me like most books-turned-into-movies have.
They are two very different authors, with very different styles of writing, generating very different reader reactions but both have one thing common - they have produced literary enchanting works.
So, my fellow bloggers, what have you been reading?
For a reader like me who likes to visualize everything, the tone of the stories was a little difficult to adjust to. There are no flowing descriptions, just enough to get you started, visualizing the people, the places, the sounds, the smells and then the astute observations come with melancholic undertones as grayness wraps the words.
Having been swept in the world of Anton Chekhov I have slowly come to admire his style of writing. There is an amazing detached quality, of watching everything from a distance as the characters struggle with their mundane, sad lives and putting it into words. It has to be read to be experienced.
And now I am so addicted to this big fat book which is a compilation of Chekhov’s greatest works, both short stories and plays, that every evening I come home from work, read a bit and then do anything else.
After my Khaled Hosseini hangover this is quite a change.
Hosseini’s stories weave a visual magic. You can feel the wind blowing, see the blue skies, taste the Afghan food, the characters leap out and you feel their pain, their agony, their happiness.
And he has the distinction of being the only writer who made me cry. I remember bleary eyed, awake at 3.00 A.M reading about Amir and Hassan in the Kite Runner, tears streaming down my face, not caring I have to go to office the next day.
And for days I wondered if someone could be like Hassan and if such a man existed, what would he be like? Just like I imagine him to be? I am already dying to see the movie version of the book and keeping my fingers crossed that it doesn’t disappoint me like most books-turned-into-movies have.
They are two very different authors, with very different styles of writing, generating very different reader reactions but both have one thing common - they have produced literary enchanting works.
So, my fellow bloggers, what have you been reading?
Wednesday, 16 January 2008
Har Tasveer Kuch Kehti Hai…
A dictionary defines Photo (fo.to) as a representation of a person or scene in the form of a print or transparent slide; recorded by a camera on light-sensitive material. What it doesn’t define are the memories attached it to, the moment captured in time, intangible emotion in a tangible form.
Sepia toned pictures
Childhood captured in rare frames
Black and white pictures of a marriage
Grainy colour pictures of their children
The first fancy dress competition
The front tooth missing
The awkward teenage years
A sulking face
Five friends
One tryst with making Maggi
The convocation
The first sari
The first big party
Cheerful banter
A coffee shop
A shy smile
A lazy afternoon of reading
Carefree laughter
A lovely holiday
Wind in her hair
A chubby baby
A toothless grin
The warmth of family
Captured for eternity
Post inspired by casually traversing through my e-mail inbox and phone memory. And they say technology makes us distant. Hmmmph!
Thursday, 3 January 2008
A Piece of Meat?
I was out with a female friend at 11.30 P.M on this New Year’s Eve. As we proceeded to walk towards after car after a leisurely dinner, there was a huge crowd milling about. 90% of the people were aimlessly loafing around consisted of groups of men. We hurriedly walked towards our car and that’s when we heard a slap. We turned around to witness a girl screaming at a boy for misbehaving with her, taking advantage of the crowd.
He started to deny but she kept shouting at him. We didn’t stop to see because we realized, we were two girls alone and it would be better if we headed to our car.
I remember someone whipping out a cell phone and taking pictures of us while we sat in the car and backed out of the parking lot. With our backs turned to the person, and his pictures a complete waste, we quickly made out way out of the lot. And that’s when we saw so many men dancing on the streets, drinking, parking their cars anywhere on the road.
Everyone stared in our car. It looked like we were two animals in a zoo to be looked and photographed. In spite of the fact we were ‘fully covered’ and conservatively dressed in overcoats and jackets.
We reached home in about 15 minutes and ringed in the New Year in the safety of our apartment promising we would never go on New Year’s Eve and thanking God that nothing untoward had happened to us.
Next morning’s newspaper headlines has made our resolve stronger. As I read the paper there was a feeling of disgust, then anger and the aftermath of it all left a bitter taste in my mouth.
It was repulsive and there was a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. I fail to understand how can men turn into animals? Or worse than animals. I don’t think even 80 animals will pounce on a female like that.
The sick b******s should be stoned or hanged or castrated. An incident like this in a civilized, democratic state is very shameful.
The men need to be taught since a young age to respect women. Somebody needs to tell them we are not a piece of meat to be hungrily pounced upon.
As for all those people who say that women should not go out at night, dress ‘provocatively’, they need to take a hike because it’s not the women who are at fault, its men who need to control their urges.
I remember missing my school bus, taking public transport for the first time alone. The bus stop near my school where the near empty bus started from, the conductor asking me to sit next to him, stoking my hair and undressing me with his eyes, me terrified, unable to comprehend what to do, suddenly losing my nerve, then regaining it and going to sit in the first empty seat.
Another time, in college, thinking I am much wiser by now, standing, I feel a hand near my crotch and I look up to see a young man in his twenties staring down at me rapaciously. I extricate his hand but say nothing. Just go and stand elsewhere. I have lost my tongue as a feeling of being dirty sweeps over me.
And this another time, I am trapped on the foot board of a bus, an African man decides to massage his penis against my back. Since that day I carry a rucksack with me.
I remember walking down a street near CP wearing a salwar kameez and jeered at by men whistling and singing.
By this time I have learned a bit of karate and I know my basic blocks and punches.
I remember shopping in a south Delhi market, both hands full of bags. A young boy grabbing my waist thinking I won’t react. I remember kicking him with my foot, then dropping my shopping bag to hit him and he telling me ‘sorry sister’.
Another market place, an older man grabbing my breast, me raising my hand to slap him, my mother realizing what has happened, running towards me and screaming at him at the same time, he saying ‘ sorry beta, galti say ho gaya’.
The last time I stepped in a bus I remember a beautiful Delhi, lush green with monsoon rain across my cheeks. Then I remember a man sitting behind me, groping my back. A feeling of disgust, of violation enveloping me. The anger of all these years spilling over, I grab him by his hair and slap him as hard as I can. I haven’t stepped in a bus since that day. I probably would only if my life depended on it. I wrote about it here.
I remember each incident in horrific detail and sadly I know almost every ‘city girl’ has gone through this. Robbed of innocence at a young age, probably scarred for life for no fault of theirs. I don’t think I was asking for it. Neither were those women in Mumbai.
As for the police commissioner who was so insensitive to say this was a small incident, may he be born as a women in his next life.
Read here for another blog reaction of the incident.
He started to deny but she kept shouting at him. We didn’t stop to see because we realized, we were two girls alone and it would be better if we headed to our car.
I remember someone whipping out a cell phone and taking pictures of us while we sat in the car and backed out of the parking lot. With our backs turned to the person, and his pictures a complete waste, we quickly made out way out of the lot. And that’s when we saw so many men dancing on the streets, drinking, parking their cars anywhere on the road.
Everyone stared in our car. It looked like we were two animals in a zoo to be looked and photographed. In spite of the fact we were ‘fully covered’ and conservatively dressed in overcoats and jackets.
We reached home in about 15 minutes and ringed in the New Year in the safety of our apartment promising we would never go on New Year’s Eve and thanking God that nothing untoward had happened to us.
Next morning’s newspaper headlines has made our resolve stronger. As I read the paper there was a feeling of disgust, then anger and the aftermath of it all left a bitter taste in my mouth.
It was repulsive and there was a sickening feeling in the pit of my stomach. I fail to understand how can men turn into animals? Or worse than animals. I don’t think even 80 animals will pounce on a female like that.
The sick b******s should be stoned or hanged or castrated. An incident like this in a civilized, democratic state is very shameful.
The men need to be taught since a young age to respect women. Somebody needs to tell them we are not a piece of meat to be hungrily pounced upon.
As for all those people who say that women should not go out at night, dress ‘provocatively’, they need to take a hike because it’s not the women who are at fault, its men who need to control their urges.
I remember missing my school bus, taking public transport for the first time alone. The bus stop near my school where the near empty bus started from, the conductor asking me to sit next to him, stoking my hair and undressing me with his eyes, me terrified, unable to comprehend what to do, suddenly losing my nerve, then regaining it and going to sit in the first empty seat.
Another time, in college, thinking I am much wiser by now, standing, I feel a hand near my crotch and I look up to see a young man in his twenties staring down at me rapaciously. I extricate his hand but say nothing. Just go and stand elsewhere. I have lost my tongue as a feeling of being dirty sweeps over me.
And this another time, I am trapped on the foot board of a bus, an African man decides to massage his penis against my back. Since that day I carry a rucksack with me.
I remember walking down a street near CP wearing a salwar kameez and jeered at by men whistling and singing.
By this time I have learned a bit of karate and I know my basic blocks and punches.
I remember shopping in a south Delhi market, both hands full of bags. A young boy grabbing my waist thinking I won’t react. I remember kicking him with my foot, then dropping my shopping bag to hit him and he telling me ‘sorry sister’.
Another market place, an older man grabbing my breast, me raising my hand to slap him, my mother realizing what has happened, running towards me and screaming at him at the same time, he saying ‘ sorry beta, galti say ho gaya’.
The last time I stepped in a bus I remember a beautiful Delhi, lush green with monsoon rain across my cheeks. Then I remember a man sitting behind me, groping my back. A feeling of disgust, of violation enveloping me. The anger of all these years spilling over, I grab him by his hair and slap him as hard as I can. I haven’t stepped in a bus since that day. I probably would only if my life depended on it. I wrote about it here.
I remember each incident in horrific detail and sadly I know almost every ‘city girl’ has gone through this. Robbed of innocence at a young age, probably scarred for life for no fault of theirs. I don’t think I was asking for it. Neither were those women in Mumbai.
As for the police commissioner who was so insensitive to say this was a small incident, may he be born as a women in his next life.
Read here for another blog reaction of the incident.
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