"सभी अचानक गुनगुना उठे" - सस्सून

"सभी अचानक गुनगुना उठे 


और मैं भर गया ऐसे उल्लास से 


जो पाए एक बंदी पंछी आज़ादी में 


उड़ता जाये उन्माद में, सफ़ेद 


बागों और हरे खेतों के पार .. आगे ही आगे , नज़रों से दूर 






सभी की आवाज़ अचानक उठी 


और खूबसूरती ढलते सूरज की तरह आई 


मेरा दिल अश्कों से कांपा , और डर 


दूर बह चला … ओह ! मगर सभी तो 
पंछी थे , और गीत निशब्द था , गायन कभी हो न पायेगा."


A Loose Hindustani Translation of Sassoon's 'Everyone Sang' by me. Original reproduced below.

Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was filled with such delight
As prisoned birds must find in freedom 
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark green fields; on on and out of sight


Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted,
And beauty came like the setting sun 
My heart was shaken with tears and horror 
Drifted away…O but everyone
Was a bird and the song was wordless, the singing will never be done.

Learn to Live As Equals for Your Children's Sake

No man, who has witnessed inequality in the relationship between his own parents, can treat women as equals. Rebellious women are bad mothers? I say, submissive women do not make good mothers by presenting a skewed idea of gender relations in the household. Family is the first school. This is where you learn. So, what do you want to teach your girls, that men are in control of their destinies? That no matter how educated, talented (insert more adjectives) you are, eventually it is you who will submit to another person's will?

 
And sons? You want to produce some more control freaks? Each of your tears dropped in silence will bolster the idea in their minds that it is the men who have "power:" to cause pain and to protect. Don't be too happy if your son wants to "avenge" the wrongs you have suffered at the hands of your husband. It is just the same. You, my dear woman, are not seen as an active agent.

There are many brilliant minds who call women as the worst enemies of women. I will just say to them, insensitivity has no gender. In the first year of my undergrad, a senior started a discourse on how gender inequality is perpetuated by women. After all, how many times do the fathers tell their daughters to dress up “modestly” or follow the curfew timings? I could not answer him then, as I did not understand what being a wife or mother meant. Now I do and I have the answer to the idea “women eat women.” Why do fathers even need to involve themselves, when mothers are there to pass the message? And the mothers do it because they are the victims of the violence of inequality, and not perpetrators.

Women are fixated with sons, they discriminate against their daughters, they treat daughters-in-law as sub-humans and all that. With one stroke we absolve the men of the household of all their sins. Certainly, it is much easier to shoot the messenger, rather than attempting to question the issuer of household fatwas. And it is a very convenient situation for the men. Let women fight amongst themselves while their own status remains invincible. The irony is, many women still wilfully become the accomplices in perpetuating gender inequality.

As any regular eleven year old, I wanted to wear short skirts. Too bad, that I grew up in one of the most backward districts in the country. Thankfully, I was blessed with an educated and somewhat ‘modern’ family. I did possess a mini-skirt. The rules, however, were very clear. I was NOT allowed to wear it outside the house. Or, I could wear it in Delhi (then seen as the land of all things progressive) when we visited Naani. Once we were supposed to go to a local wedding and I got ready in my beloved denim mini-skirt with an orange floral-print top. My father saw me and said nothing. A few minutes later, mother told me to change into something ‘modest.’ (What exactly is modest attire for an eleven year old?) I refused. She said, if I did not change, daddy will not take us to the party. I refused again and that night all of us sat sulking imagining the fun and frolic at the wedding that we missed because of my stubbornness.

Father had a frown and he kept grinding his teeth. I encountered this expression many times after that evening. The last time was when I wanted to get married to the man of my choice. After that, I became my husband’s responsibility. My father is your average man, with his beliefs and prejudices. However, I have seen him evolving. With three strong women (wife and two daughters) in the household, he could not continue to behave in a manner that was seen as “normal” by the society around him. Today, he does not object to my sister wearing teeny-weeny off shoulders dresses and partying late-night with friends. He will not object to her choice in matrimonial manners.

My mother always taught us to be strong, though she wasn’t a formidable opponent to the oppressive systems of our society. Her gentle manners and her reluctance to offend those she respected can be seen as her weaknesses. Nevertheless, she posed a threat to the totalitarianism that prevailed in our town, and to an extent in our own family. Drawing strength from her and learning from her weaknesses and failures, I have become the feminist “bitch.” I am sure there are some people who have prophesized that my marriage will break down soon. After all, how can I make my husband do the kitchen-work when ‘my’ friends/relatives call on? And why does ‘he’ change the daughter’s nappies?

I’m not sure if my mother has led a more comfortable life than that of the good submissive women of our town. However, she certainly made sure that her children understood the idea of equality. Upholding equality, I don’t know if my own life is better than my “pampered” neighbours. I catch a bus to save the petrol money because I do not “earn” at the moment. I do not shop at fancy stores because every time I use his credit cards, a part of me dies. Whenever he settles my magazine-related bills, my resolve to make the project self-sustainable toughens. I may not have the riches but my soul is intact. There is no pact with the devil. Penury (if it comes to the worst) and not greed will undo this Faustus. The husband promises to continue supporting my whims financially and emotionally but I do not take it for granted. He is no saviour. Love and respect are not to be exploited.

My husband and I cannot pamper our daughter with exotic holidays, fancy schools, designer labels etc. She travels with me in trains and dilapidated buses because I refuse to spend her father’s hard earned money on air-tickets for my work. He thinks that I am touching extremes. Obviously, he can support the family single-handedly, and I need not observe “austerity measures.” But I’m sure that one day my daughter will see the point and become an even bigger “bitch,” if that is what we like to call the women who dare speak for equality. She will neither take anybody nor be taken for granted.

Do yourselves and your children (of both sexes) a favour and learn to live as equals.

Slut Walk to Chhattisgarh to the Streets of Guwahati

That morning, I could not find the most appropriate attire to befit the occasion. SLUTWALK, arthaat Besharmi Morcha. Besharm is a relative term, with a nuanced understanding spread across space and time. To be besharm, I settled for a pair of denim shorts and a blue T-shirt. I was staying in the Officers’ Mess of National Security Guard at Manesar. As ‘memsahib’ is not supposed to dress like any other girl, and not at all like a SLUT, I decided to wear a skirt to cover the legs. The skirt was supposed to be removed later.

The husband volunteered to drop me and our daughter, less than two years then, at the venue. It was an extremely uncomfortable weather to be outdoors and I immediately regretted bringing the daughter along. But then, it was for her sake that I was participating. Blame it on my hyper enthusiasm, we reached the venue before time. And after the husband left, daughter and I tried to make sense of the scene around us. I also had to get rid of my ‘modest’ avatar. Those now famous denim shorts had to be revealed. But how and where? There were no ‘green rooms’ at Jantar Mantar. Carrying the already flushed daughter to a relatively cool and shady spot, I spotted some minarets of chairs leaning precariously against the wall. So, this was going to be my little dressing (down) room.

A few steps away was a bevy of camerapersons and reporters from all the possible newspapers and TV/Radio channels. One of the camerapersons noticed our presence and kept shooting me while I took off my skirt. Others followed suit, obviously, and zoomed in. It is because of their dogged determination to find the ‘slut’ at the otherwise modest walk at Jantar Mantar that the trio, daughter-denim shorts-I, shot to fame. When I got back home that afternoon, the husband greeted me with a mixed look in his eyes: appreciative and yet confused by my dare-to-bare act on national TV. What?

The ‘media’ had done it again. The story had to be sold and it was important to focus on the ‘sellable’ aspect of the entire ordeal. The mundane act of getting ready for the walk received more attention than my reason to be a part of it. Runs and reruns of the footage did wonders. The men and women from national and international media houses hounded me for ‘bytes’ and would not relent even when I requested them to leave us alone. My two-year old was not comfortable with microphones thrust upon our faces. Thanks to their desire to develop a sensational mother-daughter narrative, I became the face of Slutwalk, Delhi. And yet, the skirt-dropping footage was what people talked about, on and off-record.  Actions speak louder than words, certainly.

I am reminded of my Slut Walk experience today but not only because it remains forgotten after a year or that it failed to achieve anything substantial for the cause of women empowerment. I’m compelled to rewind the happenings of that day to be able to understand the pain of girl from Guwahati. She, unfortunately, has clearly suffered much more than I did. In the Slut Walk case, I was perhaps a victim of the misplaced sense of support. The Guwahati girl, on the other hand, has suffered at the hands of unabashed pursuit of sensationalism. Now that it has been proved that it was the cameraperson who instigated an aggressive and hair-brained mob to molest this hapless girl, one wonders what do the upholders of “media as a pillar of democracy” have to say? To stoop so low to look for a scoop, and to create one when not finding any, is that what has become the norm? Yes there is outrage against such a barbaric act, and the strongest criticism has come from the journalist fraternity. Yet, there is no denying the rot that is weakening this fourth pillar. Only a matter of time when the collapse happens.

I do not wish to launch a tirade against paid-media, sensationalism and other such things. Yet, there are a few questions that I’m compelled to raise on behalf of every individual who has suffered because of media’s insensitivity and ethical malpractices. The business of news seems to be overriding everything else, even human life. Nobody should be allowed to forget about the death of Tarun Sehrawat, the young Tehelka journalist. The Frankenstein’s monster has begun feeding off itself. Many people blamed the young man’s act of bravado for his tragic demise but few raised questions pertaining to the pressure that he must have had to face, to prove his worth. A daring story from the forests of Chhattisgarh was perhaps going to be his ticket to fame. At what cost, though?

While the rot in media needs to be addressed pronto, it is hypocritical to blame the media for desperately trying to feed a gargantuan appetite that the readers and viewers exhibit all the time. The demand and supply dynamics cannot be wished away. Yet, we need to be constantly reminding ourselves that there is a limit to which one can ask for ‘news.’ Nobody deserves to die to fulfil our cravings for some piping hot news on the platter. Nobody deserves to be molested either. 

Tonight I'll Write My Saddest Song

Tonight I’ll write my saddest song.

The refrain is dipped in tears and them moist sighs

That reach the threshold of your heart, cold as a steel blade,

And die knocking, thumping and stamping.

The song will begin with a sweet melody

That we hummed together and made ours

In the dead of the night, when the crickets ruled the world.

The Princess of Dawn dared not disturb us, and the Moon dropped in our eyes.

It rings in my ears still, and brings back the notes forgotten.

This melody was once like a hymn, or a Shaman’s chant

That drove away fears, ghosts and protected me from myself.

I dread it the most now.

And yet, I’ll remember it when I write my saddest song.

You stand in dark, and my words call out.

You turn in your bed, and my dreams fall out.

You take a breath, and my being I doubt.

But I’ll survive and tell the tale.

For tonight I’m writing my saddest song.

Tonight is when I hold the pen

After so many nights, and thousand light years

And words flow as if from a bleeding nose

In a pattern that only a cruel god of tragedies knows.

It helps me, strangely.

And I know you begrudge that too.

But how does that, after all, matter?

When all the dreams were meant to shatter.

  

The melody haunts still, and so do the memories.

And tonight I’m writing my saddest song.

Tonight I wrote my saddest song.

  

Reclaiming the Vagina

(Inspired by watching Scent of a Woman for the millionth time tonight) The other day vagina was trending on Twitter. No, not vagina, but the demand to look for its euphemisms. Twitteratti or tweeps went into a frenzy looking for appropriate substitutes for the vagina. Oh well, anything can “trend” there: people to policies, names to numbers and Jolie’s leg to Sonakshi’s forehead. Vagina also had its claim to fame for a few hours. Tweeple of Tworld were united in finding a new signifier for the “space between a woman’s legs.” There was humour: crass and sophisticated, the characteristic “outrage,” indignations and pontifications amidst the search for a perfect substitute. After the “silencing” of the Michigan representative in a floor debate about women’s health (she used the V word), this was a logical aftermath.

Personally, I have my doubts if anything can substitute vagina. The word works just fine. It is used in clinical sense and clearly conveys what it is supposed to. What further renders the quest for euphemisms and substitutes ludicrous is the fact that even the word ‘vagina’ is a euphemism. Etymologically speaking, ‘vagina’ comes from a Latin word vāgīna, which means a ‘sheath’ or a ‘scabbard.’ So, vagina is something where the ‘sword,’ man’s weapon, is supposed to be kept. The English word, therefore, is a joke unto itself: a canonised euphemism. The prude in us attempts to look for a euphemism for a euphemism. Al Pacino tried to convince us in Scent of a Woman “There's only two syllables in this whole wide world worth hearing: pussy.” The very title of the film can also be seen as a beautiful euphemism for the vagina. Pheromones at play! Slangs are easier to use and relate to. The usage of slang-words, however, poses a serious problem when the aim is to sanitize the language. The ‘taboo’ words are replaced with slangs and euphemisms.

Three years back, an ‘English Honours’ final year student of mine introduced me to a silly-sounding word for the female genitals: vajajay. This slang for vagina was first heard in popular TV series Grey’s Anatomy. A little later, the glorified queen of blah, Oprah “legitimized” the word and used it ad nauseum during her talk shows. There are over 1200 slangs for vagina in English language alone. It appears that too much human effort has gone into keeping the little female organ wrapped in a shroud of mystery and secrecy. In the age of information bombardment, however, the intrigue has remained only in the matter of naming ‘it’ and not seeing or knowing about ‘it.’

The recent TV commercials for the vaginal fairness creams are a classic case of cultural hypocrisy. While the cosmetic companies are bringing vagina- the organ to the mainstream for sheer business gains, they are hesitant to use vagina- the word. As a potential consumer, you are made aware of the fact that fairness (synonymous to beauty) is and must not be confined to your face and body. Vagina is brought out of the closet, yet without its name.

My question remains, why don’t we let vagina be? Both, the word and the organ. Almost all the expletives are designed/coined around woman’s body, especially the genitals. And it is perfectly alright to use those words. We may cringe a little and yet do not really hold it against those who use “geni-pletives.” In my hometown, people are comfortable listening to and using certain words as expletives. But the same people find it scandalous to hear those very words in the course of a neutral conversation. Women, unfortunately, are no exception. Their modesty is outraged during such innocent and neutral conversations but not listening to the ‘gaalis’ that people around them keep hurling at each other. And often it is done in “good humour.” Eve Ensler’s 1996 play, The Vagina Monologues, was an attempt to free the word of taboo. The play has assumed a cult status in the discourse of women empowerment. And yet, even after sixteen years the taboo stays. So do the expletives and the euphemisms. The taboo around ‘naming’ the female organ is almost as barbaric as female circumcision. A ploy to subjugate women by denying them the right to use what is theirs, the organ and its name. The vagina is held hostage, now is time to reclaim it.

इस क़दर..

इस क़दर बात बढ़ जाने लगी,
कि बात क्या है
यह सोच कर ही हंसी आने लगी.
जो चला नहीं मैं तेरी राह पर
दुश्मन तुने कह कर पुकारा
काफ़िर कहा , कभी कहा गुस्ताख
भूला तू हर लम्हा जो था साथ गुज़ारा .
Cigarette का धुआं भी वही है
और प्याले में बची
चाय की कुछ बूँदें भी वही हैं
जो होठों को कभी तेरे और मेरे छूकर निकली थी
और जो यारी का एक छोटा सा सबूत मालूम होती थी .
चल पड़ा तू उस डगर , जो थी कभी तुझे भी नागवार
दूर तू होने लगा , होकर उन अजनबी मौजो पर सवार.
और फिर, इस क़दर बात बढ़ जाने लगी,
कि बात क्या है
यह सोच कर ही हंसी आने लगी.


اس قدر بات بڑھ جانے لگی
ک بات کیا ہے
یہ سوچ کر ہی ہنسی آنے لگی
جو چلا نہیں میں تیری راہ پر
دشمن تونے کہکر پکارا
کافر کہا کبھی کہا گھستاخ
بھولا تو وہ ہر لمحہ جو تھا ساتھ گزارا
سگریٹ کا دھواں بھی وہی ہے
اور پیالے میں بچی
چاے کی کچھ بوندیں بھی وہی ہیں
جو ہونتھوں کو کبھی تیرے اور میرے چھو کر نکلی تھیں
اور جو یاری کا چھوٹا سا سبوت معلوم ہوتی تھیں
چل پڑا تو اس دگر ، جو تھی کبھی تجھے بھی ناگوار
دور تو ہونے لگا ہوکر ان اجنبی موجوں پر سوار
اور پھر،
اس قدر بات بڑھ جانے لگی
ک بات کیا ہے
یہ سوچ کر ہی ہنسی  آنے لگی 

बेटी से तुम डरते हो?

अग्नि का दम भरते हो
पर बेटी से तुम डरते हो?
जब आई पहली बार पहन कर बूट और वर्दी
क्या दिया तुमने उसे-
सिर्फ निंदा की फुसफुसाहट और एहसास की सर्दी?
अग्नि का दम भरते हो
पर बेटी से तुम डरते हो?
कोमल काया को धिक्कारा, तो लौह बनने की उसने ठानी
कितना सिसकी अकेले में
मगर लहराती लटो को काट, beret पहन कर ही मानी
अग्नि का दम भरते हो
पर बेटी से तुम डरते हो?
बचपन में कुत्ते, छिपकली और भूत से बचाती थी वो
तो फिर आज कैसे बन बैठे
तुम उसके रक्षक: स्व-घोषित और दम्भी, हाँ बोलो?
अग्नि का दम भरते हो
पर बेटी से तुम डरते हो?
"अग्नि" बना कर दे तुम्हारे हाथों में तो ठीक है
मगर दागने का अधिकार मांगे
तो कमज़ोर है, लापरवाह, कमतर मगर ढीठ है
अग्नि का दम भरते हो
पर बेटी से तुम डरते हो?
कितने दिन और देखेगी नीचे ही से उस कांच की छत को
जो दमन करे व्यक्तित्व का
गला घोंटे कुछ सपनो का, और बुझा दे कुछ सितारों को
तो क्या सही समझें इसे कि
अग्नि का दम भरते हो
पर बेटी से तुम डरते हो?