Punjabi Khoon and its men

Punjab is always in the news; what with latest visit by the heir apparent of the Congress dynasty, one who can do now wrong, that is a story for another day. But yesterdays horrific act where a young girl travelling along with her mother jumped off a moving bus as she was being molested by the helper of the bus. It makes good news, a lot of media sensationalism will happen, we will have a talk show and the nation will want to know.

A panel of eminent feminists along with the ruling party, opposition and a couple of lawyers will be there. We will all eagerly watch and make a lot of appropriate noises. Drawing room conversation, golf club tsks tsks will be there and yes a lot of statuses will be posted and yes if the young girls claim to fame is there she will trend with a hash tag.

It is indeed a sad day in our society that we have become so corrupt, that brazen acts like these go scot-free. The moral fiber of the society has gone we have lost our ethos our values that made us a great nation. Its not even a B- grade Hindi movie where the writer has lost the plot and a defenseless young  girl of 16 years jumps off a bus to save her izzat , honor and pride from the villain . It is a true, live incident that happened with witnesses! Its not even been three years to Nirbhaya that we have this being played again in our backyard. I always thought Punjab would be different, I never thought the villain would also be lurking in my state, my hometown, in the next village, down the street.

It pains me that we will politicize the issue by blaming the owners who are from the ruling party, the Congress might take up this, but the real culprit is not who owns or who doesn’t. It’s the mindset that we have allowed to become of the youth. When did we arise a generation of young men who trifle with another girl’s honor just because she is a woman? All of us collectively, should have taught them better. There is a lot of strength, courage and bravery involved in jumping of a moving bus, to be hurtled down a road  - just to avoid someone’s sexual molestation. The actual coward is not the helper but the remaining passengers who sat mute and allowed this to happen.

Wake up, citizens it could be you next, or your sister or mother. The molester does not choose by a lottery, he just picks his prey. Punjab has always had a long history where its Gurus also gave their lives to save the weak and women who needed protection  but sadly we have lost our name tag of being a race that would save others .Guru Gobind Singh in all his innocence had said ,” None could be worthier than you to make such a sacrifice’.

I wonder who takes up the mantle to take the youth and the broken law and order to task . We all need a Guru to dispel this darkness but till then wake up Punjabis before its too late .

The Power to dream

The Power to Dream

Books are an odd thing, they are my best friends, they make me cry smile, weep with joy and happiness and the fact they I can hold them in my hand, feel them and get transported to another age, time, or era. I mean why would I need a kindle or those new ipad minis and the download version. Agreed that, I can store as many as I can on the icloud. This all is so new fangled and before I forget the drop box also exists.

It’s enough to confuse a normal person and here I live in the boondock’s that does not even have courier service!

Yesterday, a young girl living close by generously donated her childhood library for my school kids. These kids have never owned anything; a book is a distant thing. They all have hand me down clothes, shoes, you name it, its all been shortened, tightened, or straightened out!  So, when these cartons came of a hundred odd books, ranging from Ladybird series, to the Princess wishes, to Aesop fables and Jataka tales and classics in abundance.

I decided to give each child a book for keeps. It was a joy to see their expression; at first none of them could believe that it was there’s to keep. And, then the fascination by the primary class kids with the pictures and the colorful images.

We all live very jaded lives, because we take all this for granted, as our birthright. It’s akin to breathing to buy a book (if you and your children read), read it and to put it aside with no thought of it again. For our children, and us every wish is fulfilled within our means but for these children who have never owned anything new it was exciting and a sense of disbelief at first.

The young children loved the pictures that were happy and colorful. The older ones got the classics and the fables, fairy tales and the girls got the princess ones. I was partial to some children who needed to believe and also get that nudge to dream.

I wish , more and more people would donate generously , there is  always  someone who need that power to dream.

Books are akin to life, a lot of people ( I meet this cynics everyday ) say it is a form of escapism to another realm , to another world. Yes and more. To be lost in the imagination that can transport me forever to the middle –earth and the march of the Ents is what I love.

Goblins, pixies, fairies, dwarves and more and princes and princesses and the romance of humans is what makes life  rosier. We all have our genres , some like mystery , some like detective, some like historical romance , some horror to name a few , but the bottom line is there is something written for everyone.

And, nothing comes close to the hard cover, true to life, flicking the page and reading the printed word. For me , yesterday , I saw it happen , the gleam and happiness in a young child who is underprivileged but when give the gateway to dream , to imagine , to soar high …

Books , age , become yellow , crinkle with age , fade away and they dim away but they remain one’s truest companion forever. She is never going be disloyal ,go against one’s word , or be a traitor and have any human fallacy but always be a companion  in troubled and good times.

May their tribe increase, the people who write and give us the power to dream

The Life line

I was II was so ready for school, oh! Silly it was not the Sarkaari School that I went to, but the evening school I went to, where Madam ji taught everything from English to basic math to keeping myself clean. In fact, following her and the regular lectures she gave me, and us all, I did not even smell during those days…

Rani kept on muttering non –stop to her cousin from Amritsar. She wanted to take her along with her, and she kept on saying come along, hurry up, we can’t be late. Comb your hair, plait it, we can’t leave it open, and wash your hands; she checks the nails otherwise worms go in your stomach.

Sunita, was scared, excited and hoping Madamji would not say anything to her. She had just come visiting for a few days, till her mother could borrow money or find some work to tide over their difficulties. Her chunni didn’t match, it had a hole, her salwar was also getting short her; her ankles showed, she would have to tie it a little lower but that meant her waist would show if she wasn’t careful. The kameez was also a bit tight, snug and frayed from one side. Why was she poor? Why could she not have new clothes and also have the shiny earrings the girls in Aabadpura wore? She did not know any English but she could say her name in English and she could write her name and also could even tell the name of fruits and colors. Rest, she had forgotten.

They both hurried to the school, it was in the open, and she entered the gates with the rest of the children. Everyone seemed cleaner, shinier, and sharper here. She felt so out of place, her chappals were dirty, feet were cracked and her nail paint was all chipped. What would she do? She put her hair back with a quick wet finger. Rani was walking in with a swagger and she sat down on the grass. She sat behind her, hoping no one would notice her.

Madam ji came walking in and saying Good evening. Sunita just fell in love with her, there and then. The pretty lady who smiled and asked about everyone and who was just taking attendance when she spotted her.

Who are you?

Madam ji, she is my sister from Ambarasar, said Rani.

Amritsar, not Ambarasar, said the teacher.

Sunita, stood up, knowing now she would be asked to leave, dying with shame, and blushing a red, pulling her shirt down, knowing everyone was looking at her. At that moment she felt so vulnerable and as about to cry when she heard Madam ji say, its ok, baith jao…

She quickly sat down, sinking into the ground.

The class was wonderful and she learnt things she never knew about. One hour just flew and she knew the entire math.

She just couldn’t wait till tomorrow.

Later in the evening, when Rani kept on showing off her English words and her sentences to everyone, Sunita kept ton dreaming about what the Madam had said. She too can learn English and go to college and get a job. She would not be like her mother, she would not need to work in the fields, she would not be stupid, illiterate, she would not be made a fool of…Sunita sat with her mother looking at her hands, knew that the life line which curved on her hand meant the change was happening now.

Rani and Sunita woke up early in the morning, ran to the fields before anyone could spot them. And then clutching their chunnis came back home. Sunita, reminded Rani to wash her hands. She came near her mother and hesitatingly asked her haltingly , Maaji has anything worked out? Her mothers brother was their last hope for some money or work  as her father had lost his job after one of his repeated drinking sprees . They owed money to everyone in the village and the sarpanch had warned her that if she did not have money to return her small home would be taken away . Sunita , wondered where her father was , he had disappeared after beating her mother and blaming her for everything , to being a kalmuhi , to being a woman who could not bear any sons , or the favorite one , she didn’t bring enough dowry with her . Her mother , banto looked as if her life had beaten from her, listless hair , vacant eyes, bruised cheeks and she wore clothes that had been washed so many times that the print and color had all faded to a muddy color …..

She never smiled or laughed anymore. Sunita , shook her agin , waiting for a response .Keep Quiet, we will know by the evening , your uncle has gone to the sardaar’s house.

She knew now not to say anything but while her time .

The day passed quickly , but then time stood still and the clock hands would not move to 4:30pm. She started getting ready , as she was wearing Rani’s shirt ( she had borrowed it ). She wanted to look nice for teacher ji and had also learnt her English again and again . She was going to study and study and she was going to make every one proud and get a job and they would never be poor or owe anyone any money .

Around 4 pm her uncle  came back and he shouted Banto , Banto ..Her mother came running and said haanji, what happened?

Suddenly her mother, called her . She went outside all dressed up , clean , hair in two pigtails and Rani had her books all ready with her. She, immediately said , I have no time, mother hurry up! And tell me what happened .

Beta, all our problems are solved, we have a job. Sunita was very happy. At last, everything was falling into place . All was fine. She smiled and said , ok , mother .

You have to go live in the sardaar’s house and be a companion to his daughter. They will give you food , clothes and look after you and have given me an advance of rs 5,000 . All our problems are solved.

Oh! You look very nice, meri Sunita . Bhaji , she can go in the morning . Go , go with Rani and you are so lucky , now you can go live in the house and you are truly my life line.

But , mother I wanted to study .

Manto !!

http://sikhchic.com/books/lost_and_found_saadat_hasan_manto

Manto's Musings

Manto’s Musings

I had heard of Manto in the passing as being the author of Toba Tek Singh, one of his most acclaimed plays /writings. But, had never bothered to read him, as one is always arrogant in youth, ignoring and reading the Western authors. However, a month back reading about him and the fact that he was not going to be taught anymore, made me conspicuous about my ignorance. Sadat Hasan manto is one of the most controversial, misunderstood authors. It is virtually impossible to get his work in the stores except for some weak translations that do not do justice to his passionate style of writing.

I tried to get his books, appealing in my social networking mainstay group, where I was met with, what ,whom, and was told to read fiction and to get a life. The other option was to reach out simultaneously to my Facebook friends, and well answers came.

I cannot thank one of them enough who found the books and sent a courier. Needless to say, I realized I was ignorant and lacking in any knowledge. His books take you to the times of the partition and the chilling encounters of the time of 1947 when humans were killed just because they followed a religion. Discrimination was only on the basis of Sikhs, Muslims. The carnage that followed is one of the worst in mankind second to the Jews.  You and I cannot even begin to pen down what happened or put a price. His style of writing, the empathy and the fact that he highlights goodness of human being in the eye of the worst human suffering makes us believe in the goodness of humanity. However, in the same compassionate way he shocks one to the core with his naked and chilling rendition of a father who is sexually molesting his own daughter who had escaped his clutches to be on the other side. Its like the savior was the enemy while the real enemy lived within. This story was so powerfully written and the imagery so effective that it made me cry and stop reading for a few days. And, that has never happened. Reading for me is akin to breathing. His impact was so huge that whenever I would try and discuss the story I would cry .

Manto, in his original style strips man to his basic primeval self where lies an evil, feral animal who lets his basic, baser instincts over take him. And, then he surprises one  with a classic love story.

Oh, Manto how misunderstood you are! And, that too in the state where you were born ,he who protested against laws, bans  has been banned because he is obscene . More is shown in the advertising industry and we go through enough horrors everyday that are not banned by the moral policing but he is .  I wish he was read openly so that todays generations would know his style and how much we can learn from the pain and horrors of the partition where a land was butchered and blood ran free just because one did not confirm to the religion of the other. Ironical, that the masters started the religions to end the differences.

Every story is like unraveling him and the more I read, the more I feel that one should learn Urdu.

Its rightly said life is a learning curve and a process that goes on every day.