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Category: Life

  • From deserts to the page 3: Story of Waris Dirie

    From deserts to the page 3: Story of Waris Dirie

    Based on a true incident

    Female genital mutilation is a very sensitive social issue which violates the human rights reserved for woman. It is also practiced in India in some parts of Maharashtra. This story is about Waris Dirie who is a victim of FGM and how she fights all the odds to become a supermodel. 
     

     

    Running away

     

    The song 'Titanium' by David Guetta reminded me of her. She was Waris Dirie.

     

    I am bulletproof. Nothing to lose. Fire away. Fire away.

    Richocet, you take away. Fire away. Fire away.

    You shoot me down. But I won't fall. I am titanium.

     

    Her feet were bleeding. The thorns pierced her deep through the veins of her feet. The thorns of life had taken away her freedom. Through the cacti and reptiles of the barren deserts of Somalia. She fell. Only sand could be seen everywhere. She looked up at the sky. The night sky was too black. As black as charcoal.

    In her darkest moments, there were stars shining bright in the sky. Twinkling forever. Giving her a ray of hope to get up.

     

    "Mama, I don't want to be away from you."

    She saw her mother's face. She wanted to be back. With her. With her little brother, Jeez. He always used to say,

    “Will you make me a doll some day?"

    She could not help it. Her feet were sore. They were bleeding. Blood was oozing out from her heart.

    She was free now. Free from that old man. That old man looked like a scarecrow. The turban on his head was a bag of rags. He smelt like tobacco. It had choked her to death when she had to meet him. The wrinkled face with that pot belly. His pointy nose was like a woodpecker's beak. And those dirty yellow teeth. His eyes seemed as if they were desperately thirsty for something. Something he had found in her. She was devastated. Her mind was full of random thoughts.

     

    After all, he was the prince of my dreams? I felt like I was falling into a deep well. I couldn't live with a man like him. Why did dad want me to sell me away? I couldn't marry that man.  I wanted to sit on those hills with Jeez and spend all my life with our sheep. Mama used to send us with the herd every morning. We would play with stones and leaves. I was so happy. Now, I was not ready to lose everything for that old man.  Mama and Jeez must be searching for me. But I am too far.Too far from home.

     

    Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Her feet were sunk deep in the sand.  She felt numb. Her feet didn't hurt anymore. The blood was frozen. Again, her mind was overflowing with a lot of things.

     

    I didn't want to run away like this, mama! I couldn't help it. I am too small to live with an old man like that. I am only 13. I am sorry. I know I have a weak heart. I am not brave. As you had always said,

     

    “Waris, you are beautiful. But you are weak. You have to be brave!"

     

    She ran. Ran through those deserts for days. She had to reach Mashi's home soon.

     

                                         *******

     

    Meeting the witch

     

    At Mashi's home, Aunt Teesta was annoyed. Waris could sense that. Her anger. Her fists were enough to kill Waris. She was always like that. Full of hatred for Waris. She sat on the doormat and waited for her aunt to speak.

     

    Aunt Teesta was plump. She looked like a big fat pumpkin. Jeez used to call her 'Pump'. And those arched eyebrows were always frightening. She was a perfect witch.

     

    "Waris, we can't let you stay here. You should go and live with Uncle Daan. He will take care of you."

     

    Waris was relieved. Uncle Daan was a nice man. He lived very far our home. In London. With his wife and two children. He was a Somalian ambassador now. Mama always used to say good things about him. He was the only ray of hope she had had. Everything seemed fine until the cruelest words struck her eardrums.

     

    "After all you have run away from marriage. How will you live now? What have you done? It is a shame to have you here!"

     

    Aunt Teesta was indeed a witch. Waris sat on the door mat. She looked at the polished floor. Her feet were still sore. All she could do was remember mama's words to be brave. Her mind was full of thoughts again. Rushing with all sorts of questions.

     

    "Am I a bad girl? Does running away from a marriage mean death? Can't I live alone? What about those big beautiful women on the television screen who live in big cities? Are they all married?"

     

    Just when she was thinking about all that, Aunt Teesta pulled her to the kitchen.

     

    "Now girl! If you have to live here till the evening, wash these utensils and those clothes there in the corner."

     

    Waris was happy. At last she had got some work to do. But she was too tired to do anything. Her frock was torn from all sides. The frills were gone. Mama had gifted it to her for her last birthday. She couldn't throw it away. Mama was with her. In the threads of her frock.

     

    Aunt Teesta collected all her things and put it into a case and called up Uncle Daan.

     

    "Yeah! This good for nothing girl has run away from home. I am sending her to you. Come in the evening."

     

    Never did things go so fast in Waris's life. It was like an adventure for her.

     

                                      *******

     

    Less than a slave

     

    Uncle Daan's house was humongous. Waris reached the staircase. She could look at her face on the floor. So much of cleanliness all around. He was too rich. Too rich to even hire a maid fir themselves.

     

    "So, how come you came here?”

    “Mama was getting me married. I was afraid. I ran away. "

     

    Waris was so happy there.  With all the fluffy and soft mattresses on the beds for sleeping. Beautiful bathrooms. A playground. A dining table full of chicken rolls, apples, bananas, grapes and what not. She felt like a drooling dog for a moment.  It was like a heaven for her.

     

    "Come here Waris! Wash these clothes today. I was looking for a maid all this time. Good that you are here now. My money will also be saved. You are like a blessing."

     

    A blessing. She didn't get it. She was confused. Little did she know that the heaven was a grave for children like her. Children who run away from homes. Who are a shame for the family. Who wore ragged clothes. Who didn't behave like good girls.

     

    Her days went on like the days of an obedient servant. Waris was missing Mama and Jeez. She kept on thinking continuously.

     "Mama never made me work this much. I used to love boiled potatoes. She would cook for me sometimes. I want to go back. I will be made to work all days. I know. Washing clothes. Cleaning utensils. Watering the plants in the garden. Washing Uncle Daan's car. Cleaning up of the doghouse. Everything was fine until I found out that I have to sleep outside the house. On the doorstep. No fluffy  pillows or soft mattresses. And I had to bathe near the doghouse. No watching of television. Not even a glimpse of it.  And I had to wear old torn clothes of Uncle Daan's pampered daughters. "

     

    Waris felt like the princess of the kingdom of slavery. She was so content that she could have gone into the doghouse and told him to bite her to death.

    One day Uncle Daan stormed into the house yelling away like some mad king.

     

    “They have thrown me out. My term is over. I can't live a poor life. I don't want to go back there and be shepherds. They will take away this house, car, money…."

     

    She was cleaning the floor with a mop. The mop had got dry again. She had to drench it again with water. She had to go out. To the doghouse. To get some water and drench the mop. Uncle Daan was still shouting. Waris walked out.

     

    "How will I live then? I will have to live all by myself. I should have lived at home with that old man."

     

    Uncle Daan's term as an ambassador had got over. A shrill voice went right through her ears and hurt her too much. It was his wife. She called Waris to her room. Waris's legs ran in sheer hope of some shelter that she would suggest her. It was hard for her to expect such a thing from Uncle Daan's wife. But she didn't lose hope. She reached her room's entrance. The doorknob was dabbed with fresh flour. She had to clean it.

     

    “So, I don't think you can stay here anymore girl! Pack up and go on your own way. We are helpless. "

     

    Waris was heartbroken. She was too young to do something on her own. That is why she had ran all the away from her home. She was talking to herself again. Like a mad girl.

     

    "I was wrong about expecting anything from her. I am suddenly feeling all alone here. I have only one piggy bank I had got with me from home. Jeez and I had collected all the coins for getting a cycle which I had seen one day on the far distant road while we were with the sheep. I remember I had hidden it in the garden at Uncle Daan's house. Near the doghouse below the marigold flower pot. I had to go and get it. That was the only hope I had had. I will have to go and get it."

     

                                            *******

    Photography and my speech

     

    Those days were full of misery and poverty. Waris had no food to eat. Not even a crumb of bread to taste. Not a glass of water to quench her thirst. The months of January and February were killing her. The chilling weather and the snowfall were too much for her body to bear. Dustbins were the only hope she had of finding something to feed herself. Nobody understood her when she tried to talk to others in Somalian. The nights were spent on some platform near a pub or a bar where she could find left over food to eat too. Uncle Daan had left her only with a passport for her. She was almost like a stray dog on the street. Dirty and shabby. Ignored by all. She knew nobody there.

     

     After so much of roaming around the busy streets of London, Waris got a job in a restaurant as a housekeeper. After all those days on the streets. Finally. She had a job. Waris cleaned the floor with all her passion. The floors had to look better than those at Uncle Daan's house. After all, the man on the counter paid her daily for her work. She had to impress him. Cleaning all the glass tables and seats. Removing the leftover food from the tables. Emptying the dustbins. She loved working there. She didn't have to go out and look for food and water packets in those garbage bins.

    The apron she was given to wear was even better. The lace was so like velvet to touch. Waris went into the washroom and admired herself in the mirror.

    “Look at me. Mom was never wrong. I look so good in this apron. The blue lines go well with the cream color."

     

    It had been three whole weeks when she had noticed a man on the third table at the right corner of the restaurant who used to stare at her daily.  A plump man with a pot belly. His eyes popped out his round glasses. The suits he wore were to loose. He dressed clumsily. Something was hanging around his neck. Every now and then he used to click at the buttons of that instrument and it flashed very quickly. The gapped teeth smile he gave to Waris was too scary for her. She ignored her.

     

    Little did she know that he was the famous photographer, Terence Donovan who photographed for the famous Pirelli calendar.

    That day things had gone out of hand.

     

    Waris was cleaning the dustbins when that man called her to his table. She went to him with her heartbeats racing like anything. She was afraid. She had run away from home to escape from a man. And now she had to face another one. He gave her a small card which had something written on it. Waris knew only Somalian. English was too tough for her.

    That card took her to so many world tours, ramp walks and her career had started there.

     

    And that was a turning point for her. From the deserts of Somalia to the cover page of the Pirelli calendar.

     

    Terence found her beautiful. Waris went for the career of modeling. After all the running around from home to the dustbins to the restaurant. She had found a ray of hope: Terence Donovan.

     

    It was the great day. She had to deliver a speech in the United Nations representing her motherland, Somalia. That day was a revolutionary day. She had spoken her heart and soul.

     

    The brown dress she had worn made her remember the apron she had worn in that restaurant. And the favourite blue frock Mama had stitched for her. Everything was still crystal clear in her mind. The auditorium was filled with so many people. People from different countries. Different families. The whole world had gathered that day for her.

    The podium was not far away. Waris reached it in no time. She adjusted the mike. The lipstick on her lips seemed too much for her. She wiped it off with her handkerchief. Her eyes scanned through the whole audience. She saw that man. The man who had helped her to reach there, on that podium. The one and only Terence Donovan. She cleared her throat. And she began.

     

    "A very good morning to everyone present here. I am Waris Dirie. From Somalia. My motherland. A place where women are never allowed to go out of their homes and are suppressed like anything. A place where I had spent my childhood until I had to run away from my home leaving my family because they had sold me to an old man. They were getting me married.

     

    Someone asked me in an interview for the BCN news channel that what was the most important part of my life which was a turning point for me. I still remember that pain. I had crawled on the floor in our hut for weeks. I was bleeding. It is called female genital mutilation. I had gone through it when I was five years old. Mama took me to the old woman who lived far away from our hut. And she held my legs and arms tightly while that woman was using a blade to mutilate. I was screaming in pain. Then she stitched it up with some thread.

     

    It was a life changing event for me. Today also millions of girls are facing the same problem. I am thankful to you people who are listening to me patiently. I hope a day will come when Somalia will be free of such practices. Not only Somalia, I am sure thus must be going on in other parts of the world too.

    Being a supermodel today and getting a platform to express my thoughts about this issue gives me immense pleasure. I just …."

     

    Waris was crying. Her throat had got choked. She couldn't speak more. A glass of water didn't suffice her suffering and pain. She continued with her speech.

     

    "Mama always used to say that I was beautiful but I had to be brave. Running away from home was after all the best decision I had taken for the women of my country. I guess I have been a brave girl today. Thank you. "

     

    Many girls and men were waiting for her in the auditorium. Each person was craving for an autograph. She was a supermodel. She was Waris Dirie.

     

                                           *******

     

     

    Waris Dirie

    waris dirie

    Waris Dirie is a Somali model, author, actress and social activist. From 1997 to 2003, she served as a UN Special Ambassador.

     

    Waris was born into a nomadic family in 1965 in Galkayo, Somalia. At the age of thirteen, she fled to Mogadishu in order to escape an arranged marriage to a much older man. There, she briefly lived with an older sister and her family. Waris along with a few relatives later moved to London, where she resided with and worked for an uncle who had been appointed Somali ambassador. When his term in office ended, Waris remained in the city and held a job at a local McDonald's. She also began evening classes to learn English.

     

    By chance, Waris was discovered by photographer Terence Donovan, who helped secure for her the cover of the 1987 Pirelli Calendar. From there, her modeling career took off, appearing in advertisements for top brands such as Chanel, Levi's, L'Oréal and Revlon.

     

    In 1987, Waris played a minor role in the James Bond movie The Living Daylights. She also appeared on the runways of London, Milan, Paris and New York City, and in fashion magazines such as Elle, Glamour and Vogue. This was followed in 1995 by a BBC documentary entitled A Nomad in New York about her modeling career.

    In 1997, at the height of her modeling career, Waris spoke for the first time with Laura Ziv of the women's magazine Marie Claire about the female genital mutilation (FGM) that she had undergone as a child, at the age of three along with her two sisters. That same year, Waris became a UN ambassador for the abolition of FGM. She later paid her mother a visit in her native Somalia.

     

    In 1998, Waris authored her first book, Desert Flower, an autobiography that went on to become an international bestseller. She later released other successful books including Desert Dawn, Letter To My Mother, and Desert Children, the latter of which was launched in tandem with a European campaign against FGM.

     

    waris darie 1

  • ITS ALL IN YOUR HEAD

    ITS ALL IN YOUR HEAD

     

    With a book in her hand and a frown on her face, she was sitting on the couch with the TV airing her favorite sitcom.

    But her mind was neither on the show, nor on the book. And how could it be? It was a first time coincidence that all her three room mates were out for that weekend.

    A chilly February night, an eerie atmosphere and she- Home alone! That was enough to make her uncomfortable.

    The mere thought of staying alone for the first time was enough to scare her.

    She had assured her room mates, who were ready to cancel her plans, that she will be completely fine on her own: “C’mon guys, it’s just a matter of two days. Stop worrying so much about me.”

    “Babe, why don’t you come along? It will be fun there!”, her friends were anxious.”

    “Idiot!”, she hit her head with her book.

    “Noooo, are you people mad? I don’t want to play a gooseberry. And anyway, it’s your day guys. Go and enjoy.  It’s not your problem if I have Long distance relation, Duh. You guys please go.”, she had replied.

    She remembered that while her mother had been anxious for her daughter living all alone on her own, her father had said “Our daughter has grown up now, Reena. She will be doing her master’s. She is a fighter. Don’t underestimate our brave girl”. Dad had full confidence.

    Even her grandmother had invited her over the night that lived around 2 kms away. But she had declined it too. And now, she was repenting. “Idiot!”, she hit her head with her book.

    She wanted to retire for the night. Sleep was taking over but fear kept her awake. Fear of the unknown. Having a look at the watch she realized it was 11:45.”Oh shit! I better am slept before its 3.” Being an English movie buff, she knew that ghosts become the most powerful at 3 in the morning.

    She made a plan in her mind. Go to the bedroom, dive on the bed, pull over the blanket all over the head and body, shut eyes and pretend like she has slept so that the demons would not come haunting for her. “But Jesus Christ, how do I get up?” Her legs felt numb with the fright. She felt as if somebody was keeping an eye on her. She’d never felt so helpless.

    Finally she packed all the courage together and got up to go in her room. Suddenly, she heard the sound of a door closing, slowly, with the intimidated sound of its hinges coming out loud, clear and real slow. “Is somebody there?”, she shouted with a shiver in her voice.  She never knew the doors could be so horrendous. Though she zeroed on the explanation that it was probably just some wind coming out through some window, she was too panicked by then.

    “Happy Valentine’s Day, my love”, he said while giving her the bouquet.

    She searched for her phone and thought of calling her parents, but stopped. But then she didn’t want her mother to get worried for apparently nothing. Roommates? No. She didn’t want to be made fun of, especially after being so assertive in sending them. Calling up granny’s home would not be right at this time of the night. Now her last option was calling up her Ronit, her boyfriend, who lived some 14OOkms away. Long distance relationships sucked, really. She dialed his number. It ringed, but was cut. That was weird. That meant he WAS awake. Maybe because they had a big fight over the fact that he couldn’t be with her on the V day and all that. But he should take the call. After desperately calling him for around 15 minutes, she lost hope.

    “Fuck it!”, she consoled herself. She dismissed the idea of disturbing anyone else.  Finally, getting up, she ran towards to her room and as per her plan, she dived on the bed and shut her eyes while covering every inch of her body with the blanket.

    With half the exhaustion of being scared and half the weariness caused by sleep overcoming her eyes she was all drowsy, like some drunkard. She had just fallen in the arms of tranquility, when she heard her doorbell ring.

    At first she thought she was hallucinating, but then the doorbell was replaced by violent bangs. A shiver went down her spine. Her voice seemed fell deep down somewhere in her throat. Her dropping eyes were now all wide awake.

     

    “Our daughter has really grown up. She is a fighter. Don’t underestimate our brave girl”, she recalled her dad’s words.

    These words gave her the strength to get up and face it. “I’m no coward”, she had gathered some courage.

    With droplets of sweat on her head, she looked around for something to keep with her for safety. She ran to the balcony and got a big iron rod. With all set to face her fears, she took small steps towards the door. The bangs were getting louder and louder, but she opened the door slowly and carefully.

    But what she saw outside was something she had never expected. There was he, standing outside with a bouquet of roses, having travelled a good 16 hour journey.

    “Ronit? I can’t believe it! Is that really you?”, she screamed out with joy and hugged him.

    “Happy Valentine’s Day, my love”, he said while giving her the bouquet.

    “But how did you come here? When did you make this plan?”, she was flooded with questions.

    “Calm down calm down. I wanted to give you a surprise. And since you are living on your own, I wanted to give you this surprise which I had been planning since so long. I’m sorry i cut your calls but you would have figured out that I was out. I had been searching for a florist”, he explained as they entered inside the house.

    “Yeah, all clear sir. But why were you banging the door? You freaked me out”, still left with a doubt.

    “Oh! I thought you must be fast asleep”, Ronit replied with a genuine face.

    And suddenly she burst out laughing while recounting all that happened. She was laughing on herself for getting so scared for nothing at all and then ending up with such a sweet surprise. She realized that all the fear is in our mind. Fear of anything: be it demons, ghosts or other fears like failing r anything. A little bit of courage and realization is all what it takes to move ahead.  Ronit, who was completely unaware of the whole thing, too joined her laughing at the confusion with amusement. Even after repeatedly asking her to share the joke with her, she kept on laughing and shaking her head for a Nothing in response. 

    After around half an hour, Ronit got up and sad, “I’ll see you tomorrow, beautiful. Real surprises await you.” These words brought a blush to her face and she couldn’t stop stealing her eyes from Ronit. They kissed each other goodbye.

    That night she slept the best sleep she ever had, because of him.

     In the morning she woke up, with a smile on her face. This valentine’s day came not with just the surprise, but also self realizations for her.  “What better gift could await me”, she wondered.

     

     

  • When Beauty Killed the Beast

    When Beauty Killed the Beast

    She sat in the Starbucks cafe, sipping her coffee and staring out of the window. The blood stained knife lay next to her handbag, covered with her blue silk scarf. Unsuspecting heads turned to the ravishing beauty sitting upright and alone. Her silky, black hair were tied roughly in an adorable ponytail. Her perfectly diaphanous eyes studied the passers-by on the busy street in the October heat. She wondered how many had the same slimy blood like the one that glistened on the blade beneath her blue Zara scarf. Her heart was beating fast, but, her expression was calm and languid. Her olive skin was cool in the conditioned air of the café. Her head would find a perch on the heels of her palms from time to time when she would keep the hot cup of coffee on the table for a while. There was nothing curious about her. There was something intriguing, though. She had been the ugly duckling at a time. But, today, she was the object of all admiration and envy. She was always aware of the way people looked at her. A fleeting thought passed her mind and she smiled. It would be funny when they would see her as a culprit later today or tonight. All these people will be shaken to their souls. They’d go about telling that they knew something was extraordinary about her, they just didn’t know that she was the Fallen Angel and not the Good one. True, looks can be pretty deceptive.

    Divorced, a lady of 33, she sat – a murderer- in her Motherland. Delhi had changed in the couple of years that she had not visited home. Her home back in Banaras had become cleaner, but, that was the only major change that she’d noticed. She was still the talk of the town. People often talked about her beauty and her divorce, always linking them in a mysterious but funny-to her- way. She thought it was hilarious how they tried to join dots about something they didn’t have the remotest idea about. But, that was typical of the society. You really can’t help much with that.  The only time, she’d lose it was when her parents or her sister were taunted at about her individuality. And what she did when she would be mad at the imbeciles was just leave them with a smart sarcastic remark to ponder and vex about. She had been saving to take her parents along with her to Dublin where she was the Professor of Ancient Roman History. And had she not been forced to make this visit, she could’ve taken them along with her when she came two months later in December.

    Her eyes fell on her blue scarf. It veiled the instrument of her freedom- of many freedoms. It veiled the brave end to her distraught, disgusting, dark childhood, adolescence, life, self. It captivated her vengeance that helped many innocent lives to come alive. She was not filled with a sense of grandeur at the mammoth task that she’d done. She’d known all along that it was bound to happen. She had just done her best to avoid it all along though that meant that she was a highly insecure person, always hiding something so dark, so gory, that it would have driven everyone out of her life. Hiding didn’t help. Everyone who loved her, other than her family, ultimately got frustrated of her mysticism and left her for their own good. They’d never turn back to look at how they’d broken her and how all her efforts at keeping them close had gone waste and she’d been left alone by her loved ones anyway.

    She could never muster the courage to tell her parents about it. The tune always stuck awkwardly and she knew, something never felt right. For, however rational it may seem and however strong she maybe, she could never run the risk of losing her parents forever- either by falling in their eyes, or to something more catastrophic by imparting the knowledge. However, there was just one person beside herself and her abuser who silently, helplessly watched it all – her elder sister. Her sister was bound the same way as she was.

    Tears threatened to overflow her moist eyes. She picked up a Starbucks tissue and dabbed at her eyes. There was no make-up to worry about ruining, but there was a façade that had to be maintained till the Police came and handcuffed her pretty, slim wrists. There was a faint, impossible hope that she’d escape the country, unconvict, but she knew the chances were slim. Also, she wanted the society to know what harm they’d done and had been doing. True, hers wasn’t the worst life possible. True, Utopia seems impossible, but, there are boundaries that can’t be crossed just because the society and this world don’t have entertainment or a life to keep themselves busy. Curiosity can’t be reprimanded just because the wise aren’t that wise after all. She hoped, her exposure- her “crime”-would end hypocrisy of a tiny section of the society. Wake them to a consciousness that is sensitive and real. But, if that is how the world worked then Galileo and Copernicus wouldn’t have been executed; People wouldn’t be afraid of denouncing the evil that they hailed in the pretext of the latter’s having done godly deeds. It isn’t hard to gain popularity; however, it is hard to be true.

    Sipping her coffee and staring at the passers-by with a distant look in her eyes, she began to reflect on her life. It had never been very tedious, now that she looked back. It had never been pleasant either. Or, maybe, all of it had just made her stronger. All of it had redefined her.

         She had barely started pre-schooling when, one day, her elder brother- her first cousin- took her to the backyard to play.

    She picked up the tissue again and dabbed at her eyes, fearing that it wouldn’t be long before she’d finally breakdown. But, she didn’t want to shed tears in front of a crowd that would never understand her. Actually, she wasn’t sure that anyone would see how her crime was not only justified but also a needed good.

    She grew into a lonely, depressed child whose presence repulsed every sweet thing alive. For, the game that had started that day in the backyard had, well… just started. And that innocent child, who would believe anyone, was being mercilessly pawned and beaten in this game.

    As years passed, sure she became physically stronger to be able to protect herself a little. But, molestation couldn’t be stopped. That Beast would molest her as and when he pleased and would go unsuspected and unpunished. She often cried to herself. There was no escape. But, relief came when she started college in a different city. It meant that she’d not have to face him again- at least not till she had to return for mid-semester breaks. These were the times that she hated and feared. The only time when she would be a child afraid of the dark yet forced to live in it all night. It was the ugliest punishment in all of this whole wide world. She desperately wished upon red mail vans and any superstition that someone would save her from it, and her family, too. She wanted no association with this. WHY? Oh! Why is HUF such a fuss? What age are we living in? Why can we not coexist peacefully before pointing fingers and accusing of following the Western cult? How is it wrong to live and breathe free if that is what you’re being barred from in a family where the rites are just carcasses of traditions that barely hold any relevance now? Was she even right thinking about and craving her freedom from the pompous shackles of this society? Or, were these corrupt thoughts that would end in her perdition? Would God punish her for raising her voice and even her most intimate thoughts against this society?

    A smile lit her lips again, making her eyes darker. She knew now that god was just a belief and she chose to believe that it was in line with all the other fantasies of this world. There came no god to save her and millions others for all their lives. She had her own arguments that were stupid and utterly bold to some and wise and boggling to others. Until much pressured to reveal them, she kept her arguments under veils of discernible disagreement and respect for the other person’s beliefs. Her smile broadened as she realised that she was a taboo of this society. She’d been forced into incestuous relations with her brother; she had been the outcast in school; despite her beauty, she was lonely and divorced. There was no reason for anyone to take pity on her or even slightly sympathise when they saw her face on the newspaper the following day. They knew nothing about her. But, just enough to gossip. Does it matter what people talk about you when you’re at the gallows?

     

    That day, back in Dublin, it had been 9:19 in the morning. She was leaving for her first lecture when her phone rang to her mom’s call. The conversation had been candid. Somehow, she’d sensed that her mother sounded worried. After talking to her dad for a while, she switched back to talking to her mom. As the story unfolded, she was left with a sense of loneliness and humiliation; guilt washed over her as she stood transfixed by her front door. It turned out that her family had rented a portion of the big house to someone with a little daughter. Apparently, this little girl had been playing with the Beastly brother and had returned to her room really late that evening, and ever since she returned, she had been morose and lying in her bed. The little girl didn’t even dine that night. Perhaps, her mother said, that girl had lost some game.

    “No one should lose this game, mom. No one should be playing this game!”

    But, our Beauty said not a word. She hung up, promising to be there, soon. The water had gone overhead. She had to do something, now.

     

    She cried that night. There was no one to talk to. These weren’t pleasant things. These were things that made anyone, with shame and reputation, avert his eyes. She had no shoulder to rest her head on. Much worse, was the guilt that was killing her. She was cornered-trapped.

    Two months after the conversation, she sat in her ancestral house after two years. There, in front of her, stood the uninterested and distracted little girl. She was clearly not interested in meeting this family member. Or, maybe, she had the same fear as her elder counterpart- to be in the presence of the Beast- that monster. If only she knew what bound this tall, picturesque lady to her was a grotesque truth- identity- that never should have been, maybe she would have dared to be more profound in expressing her helplessness that now she spoke shyly only through her eyes.

    The week that followed, brought the two victims closer. The elder one took all measures to keep the younger one away from those ugly, abusive clutches. Then, finally came the day when it had to end.

    She had always known that it would only end with either of their deaths. She had often thought of killing him, but, a sense of morality and duty towards her family stopped her and made the whole idea seem impossible and wrong.

    But, on the auspicious morning of Durgashtami, while all members of the house were at the big festival grounds, hailing a goddess that might have or might not have been, an atheist entered the room where a little girl was brought in by a Beast. There was a knife in her hand that was often used to chop meat in the house. Her eyes were filled with tears of rage, disgust and humiliation. The little girl ran to her for refuge. The Beast fell to his knees, groping about for anything to save him from the pent up lava of the dormant volcano that had finally been roused to life. There was no escape. There was no other end. Beauty killed the Beast in three crude stabs at the heart. The chariots of Gods had descended once again only to be penalised for-what to the world of ignorant was- a heinous crime.

    She didn’t expect the world to understand or hail her. She didn’t expect anyone to understand. She didn’t instruct the girl to save her from Justice. Freedom felt good. Freedom emboldened her. There is nothing greater than your dignity. She should’ve raised her voice long back. The real problem is, many of us are too scared to raise our voices; too scared to be the taboo; too scared to stand out in a quaint way; too scared to fight when we can win; too scared to take our chances to make life better; too goddamn scared of this society despite ages of instances and literature for the otherwise circumstances.

     

    Six hours later, she was sitting at the airport, waiting for it to happen, when she spotted the men and women in khaki uniform. She smiled, picked up her luggage and walked over to them. Her family stood there, too. That was when she broke down. She could see, she had been rewarded for her delayed but utmost act of valour by falling in the eyes of her parents that could never leave the ground for shame of their daughter’s deed.

    She was interrogated. She was charged for the crime. All the while, she was hurt that her parents be ashamed of her. All the while, she feared what the little girl will have to deal with as she grows up in this insensitive society. All the while, she hoped, she’d done the right thing. For, now, she wasn’t sure anymore.

    She was a blotch on the honour of her family. After all, at the end of the day, what matters is, what colour you wear in this society, and though the society ennobles black in a romantic light, it is a sin to be sprayed black by someone else.

    Your beauty lies not in what you do for others, but in what others do to you. Because it is hard to be true and harder to lose fear.

     

     

  • Her mother does not want any of the neighbors to recognize her!

    Her mother does not want any of the neighbors to recognize her!

    Hijras, a “third gender” has been subjected to highest form of prejudices and discrimination. They are supposed to bestow good fortune, but ironically they don’t have any fortune. It is story of one of such beautiful person who stood against all odds and realized her dreams.

    When Shreya was just 4, she started to mimic classical female dancers whenever she finds them on television. To nurture his talents, her mother managed to admit in a dance school but she has to dressed as a boy.

    When she reached 21, she felt that she could be a women and started to earn money for surgery. She became an escort. One day when she returned to her village, her mother does not want any of the neighbors to recognize her!

     

  • At Peace

    At Peace

    The rashes and bruises had still not gone. Her shoulder was wounded. The blouse torn. I could see the birthmark on her right shoulder clearly through the blouse. She wept. Wept, sobbed and wailed like a small child. Tears were rolling down her cheek.

    ” I am tired, Madhi. Let me sleep.”

    I remember the saree she had worn that night. A blood red one adorned with a golden border. My mother looked heavenly, just like the “Durga ma” clad in that saree. “Durga maa” is a Hindu goddess; a symbol of valour, power and strength.

    She was a goddess.

    I sat there in the floor beside her. Looked at her swollen eyes. She had cried a lot. The Kohl in her eyes had smudged. Her long tresses were beautiful. I noticed something like dust on her hair.

    “Amma, the aataa has gone into your hair. Let me dust it off for you.”

    She looked at me and seemed as if she was paralysed. She didn’t understand a word I had spoken. I got up and helped her with it.

    My favourite chicken gravy with chapatis. I can still sense the aroma. Amma had  made us a sumptuous dinner that night.

    As usual, my brother and me fought for the last leg piece. Amma got furious at us for our little fights.

    ” Why do you still behave like kids? Please  let me live in peace.”

    Peace. She wanted peace. That is what she longed for her whole life probably.

    That night was indeed a peaceful one. I couldn’t even listen to the sound of the crickets outside my room. The ticking of the hands of the clock deafened me. It was 9:00 pm. Appa was shouting. He loved quarrelling.

    ” I have gained nothing out of you! You swine!”

    Amma was sitting silently. Listening patiently. Tolerating. That is how an Indian woman had to be for her husband. Chaste. Nice. A great chef. Obedient.

     

    I have been observing for all these 25 years and  was still observing Amma. She was staring at her empty plate. I wondered,

    “God! Where does all that patience come from? She is blessed.”

    We were all sitting in the dining table. I felt bad. I was useless. Worthless. Never opened my mouth in front of Appa. He was like the Osama bin Laden of our home. He finished with his dinner and kept on complaining.

    ” The saambar is so spicy. Do you want to kill me? Why don’t you get a knife and slit my throat? Let me see how you live without me! ”

    Amma still was listening. Her face got red like a hot iron rod. I could sense that she was not patient after all.

    Suddenly, Appa went into the kitchen. He broke all the ceramic cups and plates. The kitchen floor was filled with pieces of crockery.

    He rushed into the “Puja room” and broke all the photos. The Ganesh  idol, the Murugan photo, the Shiva and the Durga idol. The Durga idol was shattered to pieces. It could not be reformed into anything again.

    Amma was still waiting there on the table. She grunted.

    ” I am leaving. I can’t live like this anymore. May you live happily alone.”

    That is when unexpected things happened. Appa started searching for something frantically. His hands went to his waist. The buckle was unfastened. Out came the belt in his hand.

    Amma was beaten by the belt that night. Appa roared.

    ” What do you think of yourself? You can esacpe so easily? ”

    I started crying. It was intolerable. The thrashing sound continued for five minutes. I sat there in the corner of the room like a rat. Amma’s blouse was torn. Appa was content. I felt shivers down my spine looking at his belt. He was advancing towards his room. He gave me a stern look.

    ” I will kill you if you ever speak back like that like that swine did!”

    I felt impatient. I was furious. I was so angry. It felt as if my brain would just explode at that moment.

    Amma was crying.

    She said something. Something I could never forget for my whole life.

    ” I am tired, Madhi. Let me sleep.”

    She walked to her bedroom. She looked so pretty in that red saaree. I asked her something stupid.

    ” Are you fine Amma?”

    ” I am at peace.”

    “Durga maa” had killed the demon “Mahishasura” and got rid of him. So impatient she was. The Goddess. It seemed Amma was never like “Durga maa”.

    Amma grabbed the pillow and lied down on the bed. I was looking at her. Sitting there on the floor.

    She never opened her eyes again. She was at peace.

     

     

  • The Story of my Life

    The Story of my Life

    A kiddie girl studying in 5th standard comes…She tells,

    “Sissy, I want to write a Story like the one given in my Book. It should have two ‘Honest’ Thieves and a King.”

    So, I start to think, scratch my head and finally after a 10 minute gap, brought in my ideas and started with my story.

    I wrote a line, scratched it off, wrote another line and scratched it off.

    This kiddie upon seeing this said, “Sissy, why do you keep scribbling?”… All I could do was only laugh. Then, I started off by writing, “There were ‘2’ Thieves…”.She stopped me again and said “Sissy, it’s not ‘2’ it’s ‘TWO’ “. I smiled again. But, bit embarrassed with my current situation.

    Few minutes passes by, she said, “Sissy, You can even give brand names.”. So I said, “Shall I give NAC GOLD?”…She was like, “No, No Sissy…How will NAC GOLD be in a village”. All I could do was to smile and divert her from making me more embarrassing.

    Finally after arguing so much, she agreed with ‘Malabar Gold’ and hence before concluding the Story I wrote…”So Raju and Shankar…”, She stopped me again and said, “Sissy, Why are you giving the names again?. Simply use a pronoun instead.”

    And that’s the end of ‘ME’, I couldn’t stop laughing, my friend’s upon seeing this kept smiling. And that’s where I realised, here comes the “Generation Gap”!

    The way she talked, the way she responded instantly, the way she acted…Seriously, I never did that when I was young. I was literally amazed to see her talk like that.

    This made me feel like…”Gosh, I’M GROWN now”.

     

    Moral:

    Never under estimate your Opponent, She/he may be Small, Large…But, they turn out to be the Boss.

  • Siblings

    Siblings

    It was a pretty nice day.

    My brother and I had the whole house to ourselves as our mother had gone out for some work in the insurance office and father had gone with her. Our parents had locked us inside the house to prevent us from wandering out, riding horses of our imagination. While mother was in the house she kept telling us to behave, not to make a noise, et al., to which we had managed to respond with a straight face.

    As soon as the door got locked and our scooter left the parking lot, we ran to the balcony, I carrying my kitchen set with me. My brother ran and brought some lady’s fingers from the kitchen and chopped it up. Then we lit small miniscule rolls of paper from our notebooks to make a fire- we were playing cavemen. On went the small steel saucepan from my kitchen set. We poured oil, put the small pieces of lady’s finger, and waited for it to get fried.

    What we conveniently forgot was that the rims of the tiny steel burner, and the utensil were made of plastic! By now, the plastic had melted and had mixed with oil and the vegetable.

    We looked at each other in dismay, blew out the fire, and carried the little utensils to the kitchen wash-basin using a paper holder as we had seen mother do.

    The utensil and the burner sizzled under cold water and we sighed in relief. After a while, we started laughing hysterically at the experiment gone wrong.

    As days passed by, these little experiments grew in frequency, always escalating on the mischief scale. As year passed, we grew close to each other bonding over mischief and staying bonded in saving each other’s skins in case anyone got caught.

    In fact, we could tell what the other was thinking by just throwing a look at the person. We knew when the other was lying and hence lied in union. Such was our relation.

    Now, as we have grown up and moved into our respective fields of study, I miss my brother. But we still find time for mischief, to irritate mother and to sneak out for a secret snack or golgappa at a nearby stall. These moments shared together, somehow give us strength to endure the outside world and to stay a child within.

  • A Strange Bourgeois Dream

    A Strange Bourgeois Dream

    HAS ANYONE OF YOU READ RUSKIN BOND’S THE NIGHT TRAIN AT DEOLI? I’m quite sure many of you have and many of you have not. For those, who have they can relate to what I am going to ‘pen’ down now. I have a dream to explore the whole world; but Paris, that place will be special. There, I want to sit outside a small street café, have a cup of coffee, sharing it with a total stranger; she or he, doesn’t matter.

    There, I want to sit outside a small street café, have a cup of coffee, sharing it with a total stranger; she or he, doesn’t matter.

    We will talk about the books to buy, when to shop at the local grocery store, to shop for tonight’s dinner and how my stranger like having their coffee! As for me, it will have to be pure, black and steaming hot, no sugar, no nothing; blank, yet rough. Then a light drizzle will start to fall and we will hurry inside the small street café, take our seats by the big glass window and hear the rain drops knocking on the glass, as if to join our conversation, but meekly, soothing. We will notice, at the same time a big brown cat crossing the road to the other side and an old man smoking a cigar, the smoke will whirl from the lit tip and ascend to the grey clouds; mixing, adapting, vanishing.

    We will notice, at the same time a big brown cat crossing the road to the other side and an old man smoking a cigar, the smoke will whirl from the lit tip and ascend to the grey clouds; mixing, adapting, vanishing.

    There will hardly be any pedestrians on the road outside and the night will slowly began to wrap up the city. The electric light bulbs in the street lamps will flicker and will become stagnant, one by one, in a row. The sun will set in the horizon without being conspicuous and the queue of cars with their head lights in the front and in the rear will merge into a blur, congested, yet peaceful. No sound will reach us, the big glass window will protect us, and the small street café will protect us. My stranger will look at the watch, smile at me, will say, “IT IS TIME FOR US TO DEPART”, but no words will form in his or hers lips. I will rise from my seat and my stranger from hers or his. We will shake hands, leaving indelible marks in our palms and hearts and its beats.

    We will shake hands, leaving indelible marks in our palms and hearts and its beats.

    I will come out of the small street café and stride down those cobbled paths of Paris never looking back. The sounds of the heels of my boots will reverberate the empty foot-paths, the empty street with now, no cars but with the still lighted lamp-posts. And back to now, empty and closed, the small street café. I will be walking with now a reduced pace. I will remember the woman with her dark nail-paint which did not seem even a bit acrylic and her pristine bluestone ring. Or else the man with deep wavy brown hair and a black muffler wrapped tightly around his neck. As for the rest of the attire and other facial and physical features, they have not formed yet, they lay in wait in the distant future. They are now grey, in a grey zone. A blood red umbrella will be raised above my head, its shiny wooden handle clasped tightly in my gloved left hand with its glossy smooth black leather. My mind will tell that, maybe you are no soothsayer but this is the first and the only time you will be setting eyes on your stranger’. My eyes will drop, I will hold my tears back. I will still be hearing the rain drops hitting my umbrella from above.

    My eyes will drop, I will hold my tears back. I will still be hearing the rain drops hitting my umbrella from above

    THE DRIZZLE HAS NOT STOPPED YET.