The Red Suitcase

My red suitcase has opened up by itself, almost magically. 
Oh well, not really. 


I had left it unzipped after fishing out the toothbrush last evening.


I see my crumpled soul 
lying in a corner,
Barely covered by my peach saree's green border.


"This needs to be smoothened out," I murmur 
and stash it in the laundry corner.

Inside the vanity case, some kisses were jostling for space with lipsticks purple and pink
And they play with my memory like building blocks
or a chain's link.
In the right corner, hidden beneath the stack of unwashed T-shirts lie
The caresses and contours, the fragrances of Dunhill-Rum-Sweat-Antiseptic-Navy Cut-My Hair Oil (stolen)
And I sigh.
The suitcase needs to be emptied, the soul smoothened.

YOU

You may intoxicate, 
How will you benumb?
I may drown in you
Or to a fragrant reverie
My being will succumb. 
Droplets- big and small
Each worth a million
Each a story teller
Will grow old at the corner of my mouth.
Clouds around me 
And the rainbows in my eyes
Have a habit of fast
losing iridescence and becoming gray.
You slow it.
But that's it.

You, after all, are not that potent.

WE PROUDLY BREW

Oh you bright serpent of human faces
Slithering in the corridors of Connaught Place 
(and other Places)
Waiting for the Manna,
Brewed, processed in swanky kitchens!
As the drops of the dearly gained ambrosia wet your tongue,
You begin to talk:
Of hunger, of silence, of the poor, of violence, of rape and red-tape, of disability, of corporate social responsibility, of riots and various diets, of this and that and of that and this.
You hiss.

You shed your skin and leave it crumpled inside the napkin that comes with a mug of Starbucks. 
WE PROUDLY BREW
WE PROUDLY SPEW

लल्ला मेरी, देख तो ज़रा की सहम रही हैं बेटियाँ तेरी।

gaal ga'ndiy-nyam bol pa'diy-nyam
Dapineym tiy yas yih routse,
Sahaza-kusamav puuz karineym,
Boh amalloun ta kas kyaah mvotse

They may abuse me or jeer at me,
They may say what pleases them,
They may with flowers worship me.
What profits them whatever they do ?
 I am indifferent to praise and blame.

      ~लाल देद 

लल्ला मेरी, 

देख तो ज़रा कि सहम रही हैं बेटियाँ तेरी। 

आँखें खुली उनकी डर के साये में 

चलना सीखा तो लहूलुहान पगडंडियों पर 

लोरी के बदले सुनी कर्कष बंदूकें 

और खेल के मैदान तो कभी उनके थे ही नहीं।

मौसिक़ी, संगीत या चाहे कुछ भी कह लो उसे 

सिर्फ कुछ बोल और हरकतें नहीं हैं,

जिंदा होने का एहसास है।

जिन्हें देखने की इजाज़त नहीं मिली कभी, 

उन सपनों का आगाज़ है।

रंगों को तरसीं जब काली चादर जबरन उढाई 

और बोलने को तरसीं, हर सहर हर शाम 

किताबें तो दास्तानगोई का हिस्सा मालूम होती थी,

कहीं दूर, परियों के देस में जो मिला करती थी।   

कुछ बोली तो मारी गईं, या तेज़ाबी बारिश का शिकार हुईं 

कुछ जिंदा तो रहीं, मगर घर से बेघर हुईं 

जीने की आरज़ू ने केसरिया खेत छुड़वाए ,

उनके बरफ के गलीचे और नीले आसमान भुलाये 

गर्द को ही कोहरा मानकर शायद सब्र कर लेती होंगी। 

अब जब कुछ बुलबुलें चहचहाने लगीं, 

तो मालूम हुआ की फिज़ा बदलने का वक़्त आ ही गया है।

क्या मालूम था मगर कि सय्याद तो फिर भी बैठे हैं ताक़ में 

जो मौसम-ए -बहाराँ को खिज़ां बनाने का ही दम भरते हैं 

और अब फिर से डर की सोहबत में रहने को मजबूर है बेटियाँ तेरी   

लल्ला मेरी, 

देख तो ज़रा कि सहम रही हैं बेटियाँ तेरी। 

Blank Stares: Of Rape and Rehab

“Mumma meri Kummo se baat karogi?” (Mother, will you talk to my Kummo?) asked excitedly my 2 year old daughter drowning whatever my mother was telling me on phone. I asked my mother about this ‘Kummo’ who had activated such enthusiasm in Nyasa. “Her name is Kamala and she teaches Nursery kids in the school. And when you send Nyasa to me, she becomes her governess,” told my mother. So, Kummo is the one who handles my child and I better be thankful to her. After a week when I travelled to my hometown to fetch Nyasa back, I finally met Kummo and her sister.

My mother has been running a school in what can be called one of the most backward districts in Uttar Pradesh. Whenever I get too busy in my professional ‘shenanigans,’ I send Nyasa to her grandparents where she can be taken care of in a much better manner. All the parties involved love this arrangement. Including Kummo.

When I reached my parents’ house that noon, I saw Nyasa being fed khichdi by a tall teenaged girl. She was dressed in the way almost every small-town girl does: a pair of unaltered jeans with dirty and worn out cuffs, a synthetic kurta and a shiny stole. Her hair was tied in a high pony-tail and she wore inexpensive earrings. A dusky complexioned, completely average looking girl who greeted me with a Namaste and stood aside to facilitate an emotional reunion of her ward with the mother. As I learnt later that day Kummo took care of Nyasa during the school hours when my mother was busy in her office downstairs. She bathed, clothed, fed and even tutored the two year old. Her elder sister, who also teaches in our school, paid occasional visits during the school recess but Nyasa hadn’t taken a fancy to her.

As a nitpicking mother and an ungrateful daughter I observed Kummo very closely during my stay there for one reason initially and quite another after the first day. The girl appeared a little unstable, extremely sweet at one moment and quite detached the other. She stared continuously at a spot without realizing it. She ran without really having to. I found her really irritating at times. I was waiting for my mother to come upstairs after winding up for the day. How could she trust our most precious treasure with a girl who was definitely mildly idiot if not totally a crackpot! I never realized in my sanctimonious demeanour at that moment that Nyasa was MY responsibility which I comfortably transferred to her expecting world class arrangements in a god-forsaken mofussil.

“Mom, this girl is a crackpot, her hair is dirty and she has no sense of hygiene. And she stares a lot. Find somebody else. Can she actually teach? Just because her sister was a student here doesn’t mean that you have to employ both of them.”  And so on. I had endless complaints. My mother, as usual, made an angry face which was an age-old signal to shut up. She then declared, “This girl is a rape survivor.”

“Stop being so judgmental,” she demanded. “And, haven’t you noticed how happy your daughter is in her company! Nyasa is an extremely headstrong child and hypersensitive one at that. You think it is easy to find somebody who can be so patient and genuinely caring. Why don’t you find one in Delhi?” I was ashamed of myself on many accounts. How could I be so callous that I chose to ignore her patience and loving ways with Nyasa and focussed on her messy hair! That she was a rape survivor hadn’t sunk in at that moment.

“You ask me why I have employed her, so here are the two reasons. Firstly, the sisters belong to a poor family and do not have means to support their education. Whatever I pay them here goes towards their education. I agree that they are not great teachers but at a nursery you don’t need educators. You need people who can connect with little children. They take long leaves during the exams and come back to teach once done. And with all your gender equality activism in a metro, do you realize how difficult it is for a girl who was raped and brutalized in childhood to survive in a small town like ours? She is a little unstable but at least she is putting up a fight. Isn’t it our duty to help her and the family to put the trauma behind them?”

I was suitably chastised.       

Next morning when I woke up to Kummo’s shrill voice, I was gripped by a renewed sense of guilt. Her instability was an outcome of horrible deeds of some depraved men and it was as if she was questioning our collective consciousness through her blank stares. Her ways did not change but my attitude towards them did. I learnt a new lesson in empathy. Till now rape was something distant, which happened to some unfortunate women. A woman myself, I had hitherto distanced myself from rape, it only happened to unknown people. It would never happen to me or my friends or family, I had thought. I had tackled it as clinically as possible to save myself the emotional drain. When I faced Kummo, however, all that was bound to change and it did. The reality behind her odd behaviour and the pain behind her loud laughter educated me like no literature, seminars or debates on rape would.

I still keep sending my daughter to my parents at regular intervals. In the past one year the bond between my daughter and her Kummo has strengthened. Whenever Nyasa is set to come back to me, Kamla asks about her next visit. Last birthday the sisters gave Nyasa a cute little yellow bag. I tried my best to stop them but their loving defiance was way stronger than my concern towards their economic status.

Last night Nyasa asked her father all of a sudden, “Dadda, aapko Kummo yaad hai? Aap Kummo se miloge?” (Father, do you remember Kummo? Do you want to meet her?) What a coincidence! I was outraging against the brutal gang-rape of a 23 year old medical student that is sending shock-waves across the country and has jolted even the most insensitive and apathetic of cops. While almost everyone is demanding a befitting punishment for the brutes- ranging from public stoning to bobbitization, I am more concerned about her rehabilitation if she survives. The brutalities suffered by her body will unfortunately deprive her of a normal “physical” life. The doctors have said that she might never be able to eat again. She has decided to live and has shared the sentiment with her mother through a written note.

I pray she gives no blank stares upon recovery for I now have at least a little understanding of what lies beneath them. And if there are any, they must meet cheering and empathetic faces. Rehabilitation and assimilation of rape survivors is far more important than punishing the culprits. One sneer here or one jeer there can annihilate even the bravest of us while we are picking up the pieces of our brutally shattered life.  

* The rape survivor's name has been changed to respect her privacy. 

** Image courtesy http://www.kabar24.com

Draupadi asks...

Sakha, why did you come to my swaymvar,

When you had no intentions of marrying me?

Our eyes met surrounded by the lusty gaze of Princes.

(Was I the prize their manhood waited for deservingly?)

Blue-skinned with honey eyes; you were not to be missed,

Balarama was by your side, but you talked to me  

With your nonchalant gestures and movement of lips,

The memory of which is both fresh and distant,

Just like a forbidden dream: cherished but not to recall.

The eye of a fish had a fate captured inside:

To be disgorged, displayed and dictated upon a woman

Who was supposed to make her choice.

Oh, that star-crossed bride!

If I really had a choice at the swayamvar, I would have chosen you,
But you were immune to my charms.

My eyes should have decided my husband, not the ones of that fish. 
But you were immune to my charms.

Your eyes spoke to mine when Karna lifted the bow.

I jilted him, insulted him, crushed his manhood so,

(He must have sworn there to quash the confidence

That this doe-eyed princess drew from a pair of lotus-eyes.)

I then weaved the dreams and clothed them in blue colour

Only to be jolted out of them by a growing murmur

A Brahmin now came forward to test his prowess,

Better than the rest, I conveyed to you, with a hint of coyness

And you assumed I was smitten by the fair-skinned.

But when he hit the fish’s eye, tell me, were you chagrined?

Arjun was second only to you, Sakha, in form and in speech

But did I deserve a mere consolation? Tell me, I beseech!

You pronounced that I have been won rightfully

To stop the princes who began to resemble a sight ugly.

Arjun was comely, and I was consoled, for you had chosen him.

He was your kin, thought I, and the pain suddenly grew dim.  

With you in heart, Sakha, I allowed Arjun to claim me,

And what did your Arjun do?

He surrendered me to the whims of an ageing mother

And unmistakable lust of his elder brother.

Hold my hand, Sakha! Are my five fingers the same?

No, and how can they be?

They are but a reminder of my husbands,

Who turned into a robust fist, united by me.

Five pairs of arms have been known to this body,

But the memory of those blue-skinned ones is still not foggy.

On some days I wondered,

Would it have been better to be one of the thousands?

A princess would then have steered clear of the woodlands.

But tell me, Sakha, how do you distinguish them in dreams?

In mine, even five become faceless, formless, bereft of seams.

Also, what if you cried a wrong name in throes of passion?

Did the consort forgive or decide to chasten?

But most importantly, Sakha, tell me why I invite blame and violence,

While you enjoy devotion, love, awe and obeisance?

I’m ridiculed for my five husbands who were thrust upon me

And your thousands of women become a matter of glory?

You are worshipped despite stealing women and inaugurating battles

And I save my husbands' honour yet blamed for their troubles.

I stay hungry to feed the clan, and you eat to do the same

What’s more ironical than this: we both share a name.

क्योंकि आज "मेड" नहीं आई.

कल रात को जब उसे चुपके चुपके रोते हुए सोते देखा

 तो दिल में कुछ तड़क सा गया था.  

सोचा कि आज फुर्सत से बेटी के साथ कुछ पल बिताउंगी,

(रोज़ तो उसके कमरे में आते ही त्योरियां चढ़ा लेती हूँ)

आज किसी काम से कहीं बाहर नहीं जाउंगी.

मीटिंग नहीं, और ना ही ई-मेल्स में समय बिताऊँगी 

साथ साथ कोई खेल खेलेंगे, और शाम को पार्क में झूला झूल कर आयेंगे   

प्यार से निवाले गिन कर अपने हाथों से उसे खिलाऊँगी

ना-नुकर तो करेगी मगर मैं हार थोड़े ही मान जाऊँगी!

tinkle tinkle lillistar सुनाएगी तो ताली बजाकर उसे गोद में भर लूँगी

और जब johnny johnny बोलेगी तो  "Yes Papa" मैं चिल्लाऊँगी

दोपहर को कोई भूली बिसरी कहानी उसे सुनाने के बहाने 

बचपन को एक कोने से निकाल कर तकिये पर साथ लिटाऊंगी

हर शब्द को पकड़ कर यादों में बसाना उसे आता है

और हर शब्द को भूलने का स्वाँग मैं करती ही चली जाऊँगी

कहानी फिर वो मुझे सुनाएगी और उसका सर मैं सहलाऊँगी

सो जाएगी जब बाँह का तकिया लगाकर, मैं भी सो ही जाऊँगी

शाम को पानी के गिलास के साथ जगाने की कोशिश करुँगी 

और "जल्दी तैयार हो जाओ" कहकर घुमाने का लालच दूँगी

फिर पार्क तक जाने में दौड़ लगाएंगे और 

"मैं फर्स्ट आ गयी" सुनने के लिए उसे आगे निकलने दूँगी. 

लेकिन झूला झूलने से डरने लगी है- उसका डर कैसे भगाऊंगी?

घूम कर वापस आयेंगे तो साथ में मिलकर टीवी देखेंगे 

गाने और न्यूज़ की जंग में उसको ही जिताऊँगी

फिर खाना खिलाकर, Night-Suit  "टॉम एंड जेर्री" वाला पहनाकर

एक नयी कहानी या कोई पुरानी ही सुनाकर gale लगाकर सुलाऊँगी 

मगर, सुबह उठते ही फ़ोन पर खबर मिली कि आज "मेड" नहीं आएगी.