कलम और कूटनीति

पत्रकारिता की डिग्री ले ज्योंही हमने पद पर मोर्चा संभाला,

संपादक ने एक नेताजी की वर्षगाँठ पर लिखने का भार डाला.

भोजस्थल पर पहुंच हमने चारों ओर दृष्टि दौड़ाई,

तो लगा मानो पूरी की पूरी इन्द्रसभा हो धरती पर उतर आई.

बाहर कतारबद्ध खड़ी थीं नाना प्रकार की देशी-विदेशी गाड़ियाँ,

व मखमली दूब के उद्यान में कहकहे लगातीं, लाल-चम्पई चंदेरी-कोटा में महिमामयी नारियाँ.

और एक दृश्य का अवलोकन कर तो मैं हुआ विशेष रुप से क्षुब्ध,

जब एक सज्जन ने मदिरा-पात्र ऐसे रिक्त किया, जैसे तप्त धरणी पर जलबिंदु हो गयी हो लुप्त.

इतने में साक्षात् नेताजी पधारे, “आपकी प्रतीक्षा में तो हम बूढ़े हो गए,”

यूँ कहकर अपने कर-कमल जोड़ वे दुहरे हो गए.

“कभी हम आपको, कभी अपने घर को देखते हैं,” इस पंक्ति को स्वरचित सा दुहरा कुछ खिंच सा गया उनके अधरों का बाँया कोना,

और सचमुच, जो साहस बटोर उनके शीश महल की ओर दृष्टि फेरी, तो हमें भी आ गया अपने स्टूडियो अपार्टमेंट की स्थिति पर रोना.

तभी नेताजी के अनुभवी चक्षुओं को अपने मुख के भावों की समीक्षा करते देख मैं झेंपा,

व अपनी अपदस्थ्ता को छिपाने हेतु उनकी और प्रश्न का एक तीर फेंका.

“सुना है आपने असामाजिक तत्वों को शरण दी है?”

वे बोले, “अजी, हमने तो आजीवन गांधीजी कि स्तुति की है.

‘पाप से घृणा करो, पापी से नहीं’, बापू ने तो यही संदेश दिया है।

तभी तो इन पापियों के शुद्धिकरण का जिम्मा हमने अपने सर लिया है.”

“लोग यह भी कहते हैं कि . . .”, पिछली बार का प्रत्युत्तर सुन मेरी आवाज़ थी अब तक लड़खड़ाई.

“अब छोड़िए भी लोगों की," एक निश्छल स्मित बिखेर उन्होंने हाथ में सुनहरी कलम थमाई.

अपनी ग्रीवा के भीतर सोमरस डालते हुए, एक प्रसिद्ध  चलचित्र की स्मृति उन्हें विभोर कर गई,

“‘क’ से कलम होती है, ‘क’ से ही कूटनीति, ‘क’ से कभी तो हमें सेवा का अवसर दीजिए, भई.”

अपनी इस व्यंग्योक्ति पर लगाया उन्होंने ऐसा ठहाका,

मानो सीधे चंद्रमा पर फहरा आऐं हो अपनी विजय पताका.

बोले, “आइए, भीतर चलें, आप कलमकारों की हम ही कर सकते हैं सच्ची कद्र,

और इस बार मुझे भी उनका आमंत्रण ठुकराना प्रतीत हुआ कुछ अभद्र.

अतः बढ़ चला उनके घर की और कुछ सहमते, ठिठकते हुए,

कभी उनको, कभी उनके घर को, कभी स्वयं को देखते हुए.

(शिवानी [गौरा पंत] जी की स्मृति में)

First published in Jankipul, 2 Nov 2015.

अब मेरी बारी

जब तुमने हमेशा मुझे टुकड़ों में ही देखा है,

जब तुम्हारे लिए मैं कभी संपूर्ण रही ही नहीं,

तो ये लो,

संभालो मेरा ये टुकड़ा,

मेरा स्तन, 

जिसे मैं हवा में उछाल रही हूँ.

फिर देखते हैं 

अगर आसमान से गिरती लपटों में झुलसे तुम्हारे हाथ 

कुछ और टटोलते हुए 

वापस आते हैं.

First published in Jankipul, 2 Nov 2015.

प्रतिकार

जब अपने डर से पनपी नफरत में तुम मुझे कुछ भी कहोगे, मेरे साथ कुछ भी करोगे, 

जब मुझे मलिन करने की अन्धाधुन्ध कोशिश में

तुम्हारे भीतर स्थित काजल कोठरी के लिचलिचेपन की कलई खुलेगी, 

तब तुम्हारी कुत्सित मजाल देख मेरे क्रोध की पाश्विक चीखें आसमान को चीर के रख देंगी 

और मेरी भिंची मुट्ठियों में होगी तुम्हारे पैरों के नीचे की ज़मी. 

तुम हमेशा मुझे याद दिलाते थे कि मुझमें और तुममें कितना फ़र्क है.  

मैं हमेशा खुद को याद दिलाती थी कि ख़ुद में और तुममें फ़र्क बनाए रखूँ  . . . 

कम से कम इतना फ़र्क,

कि ख़ुद को बिगाड़ न बैठूँ.  

याद रहे,

इस बार मैं वो फ़र्क भूल जाऊँगी.

क्योंकि अगर अब तक तुमने मुझे बनने नहीं दिया 

तो अब शायद इस बिगड़ने में ही मेरा बनना हो.

First published in Jankipul, 2 Nov 2015.

India's Daughter is proof: Not every film on rape fulfills feminist ideals

In late 2012, the deadly gang rape of 23-year-old Jyoti Singh Pandey on a moving Delhi bus set off a firestorm of widespread protests in India. Her brutal assault and subsequent death exposed a culture of victim-blaming and lack of state and law enforcement protections for violence against women. Director Leslee Udwin's documentary “India's Daughter” explores the case and its aftermath, and was quickly banned by the Indian government after its release this year. While the debates around this measure are important in the context of freedom of expression and legal concerns, it’s also worth exploring whether the film actually brought any of the change it aimed for.

In “India’s Daughter,” Jyoti’s parents share their memories of her with fondness and pride. In a culture where girls are undervalued, they celebrated her birth and spent what little they had to educate her. She was on her way to fulfilling her dream of becoming a doctor, something virtually unheard of in the village her parents left to raise their family in Delhi. These accounts humanize Jyoti, rather than seeing her merely as a rape 'victim.’ But as her parents and her tutor recount her virtues, I can’t help but wonder if the narrative would have evoked less support if it would have been any other 'kind' of girl.

Jyoti had reportedly told her parents she wanted to go and watch a movie because she wouldn't get the chance once her internship began. But what if she had been more like rape survivor Suzette Jordan, who passed away this year – a woman who enjoyed going to night clubs without feeling the need to justify her right to pleasure?

Like Suzette, Jyoti had reported her rape, defying the culture of shame that 'good girls' are supposed to be a part of. One of the rapists, Mukesh Singh, said in his interview that they expected she would be too ashamed to tell anyone about the attack.

It may not have been Udwin’s intention, but “India’s Daughter” fails to look beyond how society and her family perceived Jyoti, painting a sadly one-dimensional picture of her.

The director said she regretted that Jyoti's friends did not agree to talk and share more about her on camera. Still, she could have brought in the voices of other rape survivors in India who have been publicly asserting their individuality beyond being someone’s daughter, sister, mother.

Udwin claims the title “India’s Daughter” was simply a term used by the Indian press, not a patriarchal statement. But just before the end credits roll, the film once again uses the term 'the rape of India's daughter.' If Udwin intended for that to be sarcastic in any way, I didn’t detect it.

Her attempts at humanizing Jyoti instead give way to victimization by the cinematography of an eerie night, blood on the roads and a funeral pyre. These images – reminiscent of news reports of sexual violence, illustrated with stricken, crying women hiding their faces – only add to the notion of women as weak creatures to be either exploited or pitied. In one scene, the tutor seems to commend that Jyoti chose to watch “Life of Pi” instead of an average action movie. But even that is followed by the visual of a snarling tiger from the film, a warning saying, perhaps, that Jyoti's choices were immaterial in the face of circumstances.

 Together with the background score, all this emphasizes the predator-prey relationship, which, once again places men and women in the doer and done-upon hierarchy. The dramatic reconstruction “India’s Daughter” provides of an already devastating incident takes away from the seriousness of the issue and encourages vicarious interest in the film.

The film is replete with misogynist statements from the rapists and their defence lawyers. Socio-political figures like Delhi chief minister Sheila Dixit and NGO founder Amod Kanth discuss, respectively, how girls are undervalued and the circumstances in which juvenile delinquents often grow up. But in light of past instances (of which Udwin probably knew about and was critical of) when they resorted to victim blaming (Dixit) and opposed decriminalising homosexuality (Kanth), their credibility as people with an understanding of gender-based violence seems compromised. The intention of 'holding a mirror to society’ to show that the criminals’ thoughts are commonplace may backfire here. India’s progressive community is already well aware of the prevalence of such misogyny. But it’s those misogynists who consider themselves members of 'civilized' society that won’t see the coincidence of their own views and the rapist’s. And since “India’s Daughter” does not provide a strong and timely counterpoint, so many are likely to miss the condemnation inherent in the film.

 The rapist sounds dangerously 'logical' when saying he had the right to ask Jyoti why she was out with a boy, that they won't have assaulted her like they did if she had not resisted. The audience isn’t stupid, but it has its biases. And if anyone intends to challenge those, they’ll need a hard shaking.

“India’s Daughter” takes its viewer to the time before the rape, when the rapist says he and his friends wanted to party, to enjoy. When he says that they may not have money like the rich folk, but they have 'courage,' I can see the frustration of being born in an underprivileged class. I can see how their sense of superiority is restored by committing violence against women. I can see the ‘logic’, however twisted, of shifting the inferiority they feel to a group they consider to be even lower in status: women. These men feel it’s only by curtailing women's rights to enjoyment that they can exercise their own. But this need to establish masculine power over women and the anger against women – who dare to express their desires and are ready to face the 'risks' presented by the existence of such men –  isn't restricted to men of a certain class, as shown in the film.

When the camera goes into the slums and meets the rapists' families, there is no clear line drawn to say that what might be one explanation of their crime is not the same as being justification, as not all people in the same situation would behave similarly. Zooming in on their poverty, too, makes it appear like just the poor commit such crimes.

One activist speaks for a short duration and there is no voice at all belonging to other young women in the city. Both the Oxford historian's analysis and the Indian activist's statements are recorded in English, which renders them even more ineffective as staunch opposition to the chauvinism expressed in Hindi. There is no introspection on how these views came to be in the lawyers' case; and in the case of the rapists, it stops at linking their crime to growing up in poverty and witnessing everyday violence.

To be sure, films have their inherent limitations - of time, resources and the need to stick to focus areas - but then “India’s Daughter” cannot become the premise for a global campaign that wants to end gender inequality. Its 'exclusive' feature may be the rapist's interview, but the film gives no new information, insight or inspiration. It’s just another reminder to keep the fight against sexual violence going on.

But by not looking deeper into how a traditionally patriarchal culture perpetuates misogyny, the film leaves viewers feeling like this is less of a global crisis and more about one family’s daughter or one country's problem.

First published in The Tempest, 9 Oct 2015.

The Underbelly of Delhi University

Soon after I joined the Miranda House (Delhi University) hostel in 2003, I got too busy with extra-curricular activities within the college and the hostel to bother much with the curfew time. In Anukriti, our Hindi dramatics society, sometimes we were working on our full-length production till 2 in the morning. But as this happened every year, permission was granted by the hostel for this in a routine format and in any case we used to rehearse in the college auditorium itself. Gradually I started feeling that many other issues in the college also demanded attention and in my third year, 2005, I joined the students' union.

Office-bearers of the union and the administration had to work together on many fronts. It was in these close and direct interactions with authorities that I started mulling more regularly over claims made by the rule-makers that they always have the best interests of the students at heart. When a student living in a PG accommodation reported being harassed by her landlord, many students and teachers decided to take out a march that also addressed the larger issue of harassment of women in the university. I was surprised when our principal asked us to consider what such street action would do to the college's reputation. We went ahead anyway and protested till action was taken against the accused.

While marches demanding students' safety make for bad press, news of students' excellence in academics and extra-curricular activities are welcomed. So when MTV said they wanted to shoot a debate in the hostel premises with the participation of our students, it was allowed by the advisory body to the students' union. On the day of the debate, the staff advisor was reading again the permission letter I had submitted and she had signed. It was only then that she noticed the topic of the debate: Do the Mumbai film industry and the underworld share a connection? Around that time there had been some news reports suggesting links between actor Govinda and gangster Dawood Ibrahim. The staff advisor asked me to immediately ask the TV crew to leave because this was not a 'safe' topic. I refused to comply because, apart from other obvious reasons concerning the nature of her fear, I was not ready to face the embarrassment of going back on a commitment. I stated that it was something like this which would definitely create a dent in the institution's repute. I was told that if I was not willing to cancel the event I must write and sign a statement saying I would be responsible for the safety of all the participating students (in the event that Dawood Ibrahim tried to cause them any harm). With time running out and the crew and students waiting outside, I signed, later requesting all the students to safeguard themselves against the underworld if they did not want me to get into trouble.

Time and again, we came across these unfounded biases and unexamined opinions expressed by our 'elders'. They were supposed to be in our favour but, when they took the shape of rules and regulations on paper, had the power to adversely affect us. There was no room to have a conversation around it, to question and see if there was any logic or rationale behind it. It is not that we found all views of the older generation orthodox and hailed all positions of the young as radical. In fact we were supported by many teachers who also belonged to the same older generation. But when it came to those in power, who could make and execute rules, most were those who just toed the line.

When some of us in class worked to revive the almost defunct placement cell, we were supported by the concerned office staff member but unaided by the teacher-in-charge. She believed that students should go for higher studies, not lust after jobs and money-making. When organisations looking to recruit started pouring in, we couldn't help regretting all the opportunities that students in previous years must have missed at a time when they needed jobs.

During college festivals, it had become a trend that students would compete with each other in flaunting that their college had brought in the most famous/expensive band that year. I felt that art should be encouraged and good bands brought in that students would enjoy, but that it was a pity to spend so much money on inviting the 'brand names' when the college could use the money for so many amenities required more urgently by the students. This stand was applauded by the authorities because it did not advocate extravagance in spending college funds. On the other hand, when the union sold college sweatshirts to students at the cost price, it was criticised because it did not add to the treasury. And just a few days before this, the authorities had rejected many fund raising ideas (which did not require the students to pay) because they were not willing to shoulder the responsibility. How fair was it to expect the students to go on contributing to the college resources when there was little transparency about how the money paid in fees under heads like maintenance, etc., was being used?

It is inspiring today to see the Pinjra Tod campaign raise once again and with such a large support base the question of whether blind compliance and unquestioning obedience to authority figures is the best thing for us. It is all the more pertinent that they are doing it in the context of women's safety and freedom, which should be mutually inclusive but are ironically made to seem opposed to each other. In my earlier days in college, I had once wondered if we should express disagreement with hostel rules if we had known about them at the time of joining. I have since come to realise that some locks turn from the inside.

First published in She the People, 10 Oct 2015.

A daughter remembers

People in our grandparents' generation didn't share our obsession with recording the time of events. Probably they were more concerned with using it well, apart from the logistical difficulties of documentation or challenges like illiteracy. Approximations were good enough for them, as it was for Bela Rani Haldar who had told her daughter, Kavita, now forty, that she had got married to Abhiram Haldar around the age of seven. Kavita works in the city as house help but her mother's 'job' was in the village. Bela's spouse had a government job but the childhood playmates enjoyed working on the fields together, after he would come back from work in the evening, or around 3 or 4 in the morning, before he left for office.

Bela's job wasn't restricted to working in the house and the fields. Today women in villages manage the house, the fields and the cattle but the decision-making power usually remains with the man. Bela was the business manager who assigned duties to all the other members of the household and they, in turn, had to report to her. For as long as Abhiram lived, they took the decisions together and after his death it was Bela alone. Her daughter-in-law had the primary responsibility of cooking but as there was a lot of work to do Bela did help with milking the cows, giving them fodder and sweeping the courtyard. After the work in the fields was done, she would weigh and give vegetables to her son to sell. In the village, word got around if someone wanted to sell or buy something and you just went to the person's house and completed the transaction. Or they would come to you if they got to know you were looking to sell something.

Apart from the produce of the fields, she would sell milk, cows and also bamboo, selling this last item every year around Dussehra, so new clothes could be bought for the family. People would buy them to do collective fishing, by putting all the poles in water and then cast nets to catch the fish. There was also a big boat in the Haldar house which was let out all the year round. Bela would keep the money earned from it for the Mansa Devi pooja. It would be a big occasion and a feast would be thrown by the Haldars for the entire village. Bela Rani was in charge of all the money earned by the household.

When she got time from work, she would invite neighbours home and have tea with them. If she got to know of someone doing a pooja in their house, she would go and attend. If there was news of a death in the neighbourhood, she would spend a few hours there. She would also spend part of her time at home doing pooja.

After her daughter got married, her sons continued to live with her. But when her spouse died and as Bela entered old age, things changed. She could no longer work in the fields for too long. Still she was the one managing them. For what she could not do alone she would hire labourers and supervise them. Then she came back late at night and cooked for everyone. No amount of scolding from her would induce the sons to take charge. At times she would get so frustrated that she would leave without informing them and reach her daughter Kavita's house in Delhi. Kavita was allowed to tell her sister about this but not her brothers. In about ten days, the brothers would come looking for her. With much reluctance, Bela would return because she did not want her sons to create a scene or abuse the son-in-law who had always treated her well.

Kavita's daughter and Bela's nineteen-year-old granddaughter Deepika, adds, "Not because they had been missing her but because they were afraid that if Dida [maternal grandmother] stayed here we would get all her property." Deepika spent her childhood with her grandmother and was her pet. "My grandparents had toiled hard and left so much behind. If my uncles had any sense, they could have made much of it."

Two years ago, on the twelfth death anniversary of her spouse, Bela said that she was not feeling well. She had fasted for two days before that to perform some rites for her decesaed partner. In a while she passed away quietly, when she was a little over seventy.

As it happened, her sons' concerns over the property going to their sister had been in vain because Bela did not leave it to anyone. Kavita remembers that Bela, who never discriminated against her daughters, used to say it would have been better if instead of five sons and two daughters, she had had seven daughters, for with them you can have peace.

 

In Obitopedia, 12 Sep 2015.

My friend Vasu

Vasu with his grandson, Rahul

In February 2010, sitting next to me during tea time in Tilonia village, Rajasthan, where he lived and worked as a member of the Social Work Research Centre, Vasu smirked, "Most people here are scared of me, you know." As a hobbyist who challenges smugness, I was quick in dismissing his claim,"Oh, please. That's not going to work on me." With his towering frame, longish, grey hair and gruff exterior, 'Vasu Baba' did seem capable of swallowing some pestering woodpecker alive when he knitted his brows. But we also resort to issuing disclaimers about ourselves as part of our vulnerability. His warning probably meant that he couldn't be bothered with, as Wodehouse put it, 'ordering his behaviour according to the accepted rules of civilised intercourse'. But that didn't change the fact that he was a captivating conversationalist. I could listen to him at length and not get bored. After this first tea-table talk we had, I was flattered that he decided I was a 'match' and could be allowed entry into the friend zone.

It is only when writing this now that I realise our mail exchanges were curiously in polite, correct Hindi, though when we met we mostly talked in English. Maybe it was the language of Tilonia that had percolated in our correspondence, since that was where our friendship began and that is where we would meet. We had met during the Lok Utsav, a festival of traditional Rajasthani music, organised by the SWRC. And music remained a constant motif between us. A guitarist in his youth, he was into a variety of music. I would send him the latest Hindi film songs that showed some innovation in music and lyrics; he introduced me to Alexi Murdoch's 'Orange Sky'.

Whenever Rajasthan went through dry spells, concerned for his Tilonia family in particular and for the state in general, he used to ask me to send clouds. I would go through a speedy, willing suspension of disbelief and convenient resurrection of belief to fervently add my prayers to his wish. A remarkable number of times, it worked. We would share solidarity when we would be sick and working, when I would be editing and he would be writing funding proposals for the organisation, and make plans about when we would meet next. Though he wasn't usually supposed to travel and exert himself, during one of his better days he came to Delhi and stayed at my place. Another friend had come over, but Vasu, naturally, was the life of the party, revelling in the conversations and jubilant that he had finally been able to visit the city after so long. Though he was the one living in a village, he was aware of national and international developments better than many of us were. He would draw for us significant connections between these happenings. I was once editing a dull, academic book on the Sri Lankan political history. When he heard about it, he said he doesn't know much about the issue but what he did think was . . . And thus he managed to make me take a more active interest in the book. His pro-poor stand was clear as he challenged Adam Smith:

The Market…

is it that bad?

well, Adam Smith thought that all nations were wealthy 

but poor guy, he forgot to fly to Bangladesh 

‘Cos if he did 

would have got the Nobel Prize 

for self-help groups 

making self-help nations 

I turned to his consistent friendship during ups and downs in personal relationships. I wouldn't share details and he wouldn't poke and prod. But without saying anything he would reassure through his mere presence. He had that kind of immaculate grace. Indignities disturbed and saddened him. For a free spirit like him it was difficult to be restricted to one place because of being unwell and he would often grow irritable, and later guilty. Worried about something he felt he shouldn't have said to a couple of people, on World Forgiveness Day (until then I didn't know one existed), he wrote to many of us asking for forgiveness for anything hurtful he might have done or said. On days when I was struggling not to get sucked into a quagmire of editorial work, he would patiently enquire after me without feeling offended that I couldn't reply to his last two mails. As we grow older, we all know how valuable someone like that is, who would regularly check to see if all's fine with your world. Yet he always talked of being grateful for the people in his life: his Tilonia family; his daughter, son-in-law and grandson; the friends he made while working with SWRC and his JDs (judwaan dost, or twin friends, who, he said, were like his own extended self), of which I was proud to be one. He would say that as JDs even when we weren't talking we were connected by ESP (extra-sensory perception).

In his friendship he was characterised by absolute generosity of heart. Soon after our first meeting, I had joined a new workplace and was still getting to know my colleagues. Vasu made the job smooth for me by sending a packet of balushahis to my office, distributing which I said my hello to all the staff members and found my driving trainer, who was also to become a great friend later. Since the person from Rajasthan who had come with the sweets was wearing a turban, many in office assumed I was from that state, and in a way I was too. Vasu had also remembered to send some chai masala, because I was a fan of the tea I had at his place. He was a special common bond between me and my partner, who shared with Vasu his interest in music and cricket, and memories of an angsty youth.

One of my teachers had rightly talked about how it is easier to give solace to someone in sorrow but tougher to share their happiness, to feel it for yourself. Vasu had the knack and I sorely miss sharing my happy days with him. When someone goes, there are always thoughts of how you could have spent more time with them. But like Vasu I guess I should always count my blessings and remember how fortunate I was in having known him, as my Bollywood-ish mind imagines him strumming under the orange sky. When I recently spoke to his daughter Shruthi, she shared this feeling of being exceptionally lucky to have been a part of his life, "He taught me how to be accepting of all people and circumstances and this has been the most valuable lesson I have ever been taught."

On one of his birthdays, I made him a blog and he wrote over a hundred existential, dark, lyrical, witty posts on barefootrambles.blogspot.in. These are some lines from his poem 'Snapscapes':

Sepia prints memories mutations . . .

Trillions of bubbles in the air

Was it your breath that you blew?

No commotion, softly she comes

The harbinger of all that you dreamt

Daylight beckons, starshine travels . . .

Picture perfect reams of scenarios

Captured snapscapes.

When I type Vasu's name, auto-correct tells me to change it to 'vast'. For a change, auto-correct is not entirely off the mark.

In Obitopedia, 28 Aug 2015.