Was that Poseidon?

The sea called out to me, roaring and vibrating with all the might of its blue energy. I took my time traversing the shore; enjoying every bit of it, before I finally looked at the vastness of nature before.

The waves lashed out against cliffs, almost in sync with the tunes of a guitarist, clad in white, an imposing figure pitched against the blue infinity that lay before him.

Broad –shouldered, and sporting a wide-brimmed hat, he sat a few steps away from one of the several medium-sized cliffs that dotted the shore. The cliffs protected him, but the waves reached out to him anyway.

Armed with a pen and a small notebook, he commandeered the unruly splashes, and synced his notes with them.

He then watched the waves for a full minute before jotting down something in his book.

The musical dance continued.

He wrote while the waves danced; and in turn he swayed to its sounds.  

Although I was close enough to see the duet, I was nowhere near to hearing the extraordinary exchange of thoughts.

I say extraordinary because I saw something that I've seen in very few people in the world.

After what seemed like a long time, he put his pen down.

 He lay down the guitar and its pick. Crinkling his eyes, puckering his lips, he watched the sea in amusement.

The sea roared, indignant and confused.

Exhaling deeply, he smiled for the briefest moments before putting his head down. After a split-second of hesitation, he jerked his head up and looked at the sea with uninhibited love--the kind of love whose existence is not tied to reciprocation or dependence.  It exists, simply, for itself. It’s selfless and selfish at the same time, and it’s beautiful.

Overcome by unbridled exhilaration he looked longingly at the sea. The sort of exhilaration that momentarily appears fills the ever-present void to the rim and goes on to heal a person.

The sea seemed to calm down for the briefest moments to acknowledge, before roaring away, letting the musician soak in the feeling and rejoice.

All the while, I had been edging silently toward the musician, afraid of intruding him in his most private moment.

I stopped a few feet away, at which time he picked up his instrument and played a joyous piece.

It was, needless to say, brilliant and I was hopelessly rooted to the spot, even after the piece was done. 

Sensing my presence, he turned, tipped his hat, and departed.  Just like that, leaving me to rewind and go over the entire exchange to this day, every single day, almost three years since it happened.

Now that I think of it, was that Poseidon?

When a City speaks

From the face of it, a city is not peaceful. It’s a health hazard. It’s maddening. It breeds and brings out a sub-species in us, a part of us that we never knew existed. Look deeply, and no, you don’t see anything different. Beyond a point, the madness only intensifies. 

But that doesn't mean a city’s bad. Far from it.

A city is a congregation- of souls, of buildings, of traditions, of weird sounds, of weirder habits, of tiny streets that snake through impossibly small areas, of a trillion industries- small and large. It’s a place divided into a million pieces, each watched by a million different souls, albeit for no more than a second.

A city, unlike any other place, does not speak to you. Not right away at least. A city demands patience. It says, respect me, only then shall you command respect from me.

It wasn't inherently this tough a taskmaster. It was something quaint and novel that people landed in; claimed for themselves and forever altered it beyond recognition.

It has its idiosyncrasies. It doesn't venture into conversations anymore. Through its endless transformation, it has evolved into a stubborn old creature. It grunts, snorts and wails every time it changes, which happens to be every other second. Sometimes it roars in pleasure, and the rest of the time, it simply bows to change, defeated yet again.

And this is why it doesn't indulge you, despite being unspeakably lonely, despite housing a million people. It doesn't initiate a bond with you. It doesn't allow you a second glance; it promptly sends a vehicle, a baby or your boss screaming your way, simply to distract you.

A city brings people in droves. And it drives them away in droves too.

It shoos you away, because one long look and you are etched in its memory, making farewell, all the more difficult.

It lives like an automaton most of its living time. Not looking, not feeling. But it does speak. Seldom does it speak. But when it does, it whispers, sometimes through those smoke-bearing winds, or through the bells in the temple, or through the sirens of industries. But speak it definitely does.

But it whispers only when it has deemed you fit, after watching you through those ever blinking traffic lights for at least a decade. Only when it is convinced that you have seen it long enough to believe that what you see is only part of the story. Only when you do not court it with disdain, but with patience and nostalgia does it let you in.

As a reward, it leads you to uncharted places that take your breath away; that remind you that life is more than you made out to be. It gives you newer perspectives, newer aspirations; it welcomes you in its home, lets you in on the secret cuisines, and tells you its story. 

That’s what a city is. Unless you connect to it, unless you find your own corner and appreciate it, the city will just let you be with your misconstrued notions of it, and will not bother to correct it.

It is a lonely and proud being. A lucky few get to see its nice side. You constantly speak ill of it, and it makes it harder for you to stay. It shows you a rougher, smellier and manic version of itself, masked in smoke and crushed dreams, and drives you away, so that it can exhale. A little more space, a little more place to stretch and make its existence bearable.

From deep within its automaton persona, the city watches you. It hears you. It judges you. Only then does it speak to you.

So the next time you exasperatedly quit a city, remember, neither have you lost a battle, nor has the city  won. It simply reflected the feelings you had for it, served you a custom-brewed dose your own perceptions.

PS--To all those cities that seem to be crumbling under its own weight, lend a little bit of courtesy, a little bit of gratefulness for giving you a livelihood. For otherwise you will simply strangling the poor city and with its, its precious story—its history.

Dammit, will you bloody FIGHT?

Featuring one of the most powerful posts I've read in quite sometime. The author is a friend and colleague.

Dammit, will you bloody FIGHT?

By Pallavi Ail

When I was 14-years-old, I was attending a school about 20 kms away from home. I used to travel to school by train with my elder sister.

One day, enroute home, I was waiting for my sister on the railway platform while she purchased some chocolates from a vendor. The platform was crowded, as usual, the way it is supposed to be at around 3 p.m. on a weekday.

Suddenly, I felt someone pinch my ass. I turned around immediately and saw a guy right behind me, reaching out again.

I saw red. I acted completely out of reflex. I stamped on his foot and swung my water-bottle in his face. I started clawing his face with my untrimmed  nails, all the while screaming abuses. I kicked him, throwing all my weight on him.

People stopped and stared. My sister came running back, but didn’t help. She stood calmly, while I kept a strong grip on the guy, screaming. By then, some bystanders came to their senses and tried separating us.

(Later, she told me — she wanted me to learn to fight. “That’s the only way to deal with this,” she tells me even now)

My sister then walked up and said we wanted to go to the station master’s cabin. Couple of people in the crowd caught hold of the guy’s collar and dragged him there. We registered a complaint and my mother was called.

From the second my attack began till the end, the guy was shaking. The smirk which he wore while trying to touch me was replaced by absolute fear. He was crying and saying, “I didn’t do anything.”

I was 14. And I didn’t possess the Amazonian physique I have today. Maybe I didn’t cause any physical damage to that creep. But I am pretty sure, I scarred him psychologically. That he would have thought twice before trying to pinch any other schoolgirl’s butt again.

Yes, I am hellishly proud of myself. Extremely, in fact.

I.DID.SOMETHING.

 ———-

I don’t know what’s the ratio of actual rape to other minor molestation cases, an example of which I outlined above. But, I can safely assume, rape must constitute a fraction of overall sexual harassment cases.

Every Indian girl was been pinched, caressed, touched, add all the verbs you want. Every girl. I dare you to find a single girl who has not been sexually harassed.  But how many of those sexually harassed girls retaliated?

I have realised from 26 years of being a female that majority of all harassment incidents occur in public. These perverts are cowards. They don’t want to be seen. They get their high on moving quickly through the crowd, handling as many females as they can.

I have also realised that majority females shudder when touched, feel dirty, feel like ripping their skin, etc etc. AND KEEP THEIR MOUTH SHUT. Do you have any idea how powerful you are? These guys get terrified even when you turn around look them in their eyes. They don’t expect that.

Remember, these people don’t get their kicks only from touching you. They get it because they feel powerful, they feel as they touch you, you cower: terrified, scared, hapless. They feel they own you, your body when they do that. That’s the source of their perverted pleasure.

So what do you do? You  bloody fight back.

The last couple of weeks I have read innumerable statuses and tweets and blogposts on the following topics:

1) The government needs to enforce a death penalty for rape

2) Rapists should be castrated; chemically or otherwise

3) Indians need to change their attitude

4) Indian mothers need to raise their sons properly

Here’s my opinion on each of them:

1) The government needs to enforce a death penalty for rape

Death penalty doesn’t solve anything. Do you know that even murderers are not awarded death penalty outright? Even if the legislature amends the law and introduces a death penalty for rape, it won’t be that simple. They will introduce exceptions like “intention to commit rape” and “premeditated rape,” and the worst of the lot “rape of passion” — wherein the defense counsel will examine whether the rape was “instigated.” Want to hazard a guess where that line of questioning will go?

Now you will get angry. Why should there be loopholes like this? Why can’t it be simple and straightforward? Rape is rape. Rape is committed, hang the guy. Take a deep breath. Every law has an exception, because every incident has one too. Like rapes, there have also been cases of consensual sex, where the sex is later fabricated as rape. Yes, you will curse me now; but like no rapist should go unpunished; no innocent guy and his family should also be subjected to a draconian law which has no safety lines.

2) Rapists should be castrated; chemically or otherwise

I confess. Castration is a punishment I have literally screamed from rooftops for rapists. But will it deter possible rapists? Maybe yes, maybe no. India banned amputation and punishments in same genre, post-independence.

I am trying to be realistic here. Will castration ever be a punishment for rape? NO!! Because, while it is an option of the passionate, it won’t even be considered by cold-hearted, practical legislators. Punishments like cutting hands, feet, etc have a dead-end. Tomorrow if the accused is actually found to be innocent, then what? There is no overturning of the sentence. He is handicapped — for life!

3) Indians need to change their attitude and;

4) Indian mothers need to raise their sons properly

Seriously? Ok, take a deep breath again. And read the following sentence very slowly, absorbing each word in, muse over it very very slowly and then answer.

Do__you__think__men__will__change__their__attitude??

Do you actually believe that taking into account the volume and scale of the protests, perverted jerks will introspect and think “Oh, I am a bad, bad person. I resolve I will never touch any girl again.”

Yeah, right!

Do you also believe that male-centric, narrow-minded, orthodox establishment will change their mindset? Do you think that people will stop asking “So what was she wearing?” “What was she doing there at that time?” “Why was she with a guy?” etc etc

No, they won’t. Maybe 20 years down the line, when we are the “elders,” it may wane (I highly doubt that too, because majority Indians live in villages), but what about now?

WHAT ABOUT NOW?

NOW, WE FIGHT.

And this is not vigilantism. This is pure self-defense.

Next time you are pinched — turn around, yell, punch. You don’t need to know self-defense. I didn’t know self-defense when I was 14, I don’t know it now. Use your nails, your fists, use that 5-kg handbag which you tote around.

Look the goddamn pervert in the eye. Show you are not scared. Show him touching you hasn’t degraded you, but it will damn well cost him.

Now if EVERY girl does this, every girl “names and shames” the guy, do you think that they will have the guts to touch every girl? No, they won’t. They will be unsure, they won’t know whether the girl they are reaching out to won’t get them thrashed by an angry mob the minute the girl starts screaming.

There is still the chance that you will be accosted at night, when no one is around. Maybe 4 or 5 guys will try to overpower you. Maybe it is your most powerful punch, but the guy is huge. I don’t have solutions to these. This will happen, it won’t disappear overnight.

I am talking long-term solutions here.

Yes you can put up a “this is a pathetic country” status, you can tweet how your heart bleeds for the victim, you can “hang your head in shame” about everything. All that amounts to NOTHING.

You actually think you will honor her memory by doing that? She fought, dammit. Time for you to fight.

Stop cowering under your stupid sense of “modesty” and “what will people say.”

Its easy to say and not to practice, you say?

If you believe like I do that your body belongs to you, that its yours to fiddle with, then please respect it first. On what grounds do you say that “people won’t respect my honor, if I scream out?”

It will be a tough start. Many times, you will cringe, other times you will just try to forget and move on. DON’T.

If you can hold a placard, if you can post a status, you can SCREAM.

Start yelling.

PS- Link to the original article: http://mobiusmusings.wordpress.com/2012/12/31/dammit-will-you-bloody-fight/