"Bus" Ek Pal? Ab Bas!

If you wish to be groped and fondled, get on a bus. It does not matter whether it is a DTC or a Blueline or a BEST - a bus on Indian roads is the surest and easiest way to be leched at, pawed on, felt up or even flashed. Think it can or will never happen to you? Think again. It can and does happen to any and every woman, transcending all boundaries of age or ethnicity or lifestyle or even the much-talked-of 'dress sense'. So you may as well be in jeans-and-tee or a denim micro-mini or black spandex with fishnet stockings as in a sari or a salwar kameez or a hijab and burqa - there's no escaping prying eyes or wandering hands.

I will never till my dying day forget two trips in Delhi's acclaimed Blueline buses. Two different days, two different occasions. A similar experience each time but two strikingly dissimilar reactions.

The first incident happened at nearly 5 pm one sweltering summer evening. I got on to a bus, crowded but the first to come. It was unbelievably hot and I wanted to get home quickly. It was a long journey home. Now I was clad in what is unanimously considered to be 'decent' clothing - a simple churidar-kurta with that 'modest' dupatta draped around my shoulders. What's more, the dress had sleeves. Think I would have been safe from prying eyes, a dowdy demure girl? Like hell I was.

I stood right in the front of the bus at the start of the aisle, with some other girls my age. A few minutes before the second stop since I got on, a guy come up and stood behind me. The bus was packed fit to burst, and I suddenly felt him pressing into me from behind. I felt uncomfortable, and not just because of how stuffy it was inside the bus. However, I told myself the poor fellow probably had no choice, considering we were all stuffed like sardines in a tin. You'll have to believe me when I say that I actually felt he must be fidgeting like I was, and that given a choice he would have maintained a respectable distance. I was about to discover how ridiculously naive I was.

Two stops later, there was more space in the bus. But this guy was either blind to this obvious fact, or his legs had been nailed to the bus floor. He stood exactly as he did three stops and fifteen minutes earlier. What did I do? Nothing. What did I say? Nothing. I simply stood there, without a single expression of discomfort but screaming and howling inside. Each jerk and turn of the bus would literally throw the man on to me. I still stood as if carved out of stone. An eternity of agony later, I got down at my stop.

I wish to this day I’d done or at least said something, to someone if not to him. I did not. Instead, I endured in silence. I wish to this day I'd felt enraged. I did not. Instead, I felt dirty, even ashamed. I went home and threw up. When Mom asked, I said it was the samosa I'd eaten earlier in the day.

If there was one thing I learnt that day, it was this. The next time I encountered anyone who doubted his being a man and tried to reassure himself thus, I had to stand up for myself, because no one else would or even should. And stand up I did.

Three weeks later, I again stood in the bus, at the front of the aisle. Same place, same bus. And suddenly, same situation. This time the creep tried to run his hand up my back. That day I did what I had learnt. I gave it right back to him. I asked him to get away just once, and he leched in a totally sick manner with the oft-heard and dependable, "Arre madam ji, itni bheed hai, kahan khade honge hum?" Then, that touch again - even as he spoke. I turned to face him fully and slapped the living daylights out of him.

Before he could even recover, the three conductors who'd been listening to songs on a mobile phone came and surrounded him. Using the best cuss words I knew (and I know quite a few, mind you), I demanded the creep be deboarded that very instant. Not only did the conductors instantly do exactly as I said, they even got down to give him company and thrashed him nicely. Then they brought him back up into the bus from the back gate this time, and took him to the police station at Pragati Maidan, the next stop.

That day I learnt another lesson. It never is our fault. We have nothing to be ashamed of. We did not ask for it. We do not invite it. Never ever. Yet we take it. Silently.

As far as I believe, people you'd go to expecting support or even empathy would unanimously think (or be kind enough to say it on your face), "Well, you know you are dressed in such a way. What's more, you have breasts and other typically female apparatus. So believe it or not, you asked for it!" So today, such creeps have obviously decided that any woman is an easy picking, so they can easily cop a feel or worse any time of day or night. They see no rhyme or reason to stop, seeing as the makers and implementors of law have seemingly better things to do. The creeps have been doing it for years and nothing earth-shattering has happened to any of them yet. What is there for them to fear?

If we have reached a time when we need to think before stepping out of our homes, or indulging in the simplest of pleasures and innocent pursuits, then we seriously need to stop and take stock. Hell, we need to actually give everyone (including ourselves) a vigorous shake from this deep slumber. The government needs to actually do the job they were meant to in the first place - 'govern' the goddamn place. The law and order machinery needs to do what they are supposed to - make sure there prevails at least some bloody sort of law and order. What kind of a country are they running where women cannot even welcome the New Year without getting groped and stripped by a deranged mob in the process? Remember Gateway of India?

What is it with creeps and this behaviour? Is it their long-repressed sexuality? Is it their suppressed curiosity about the other kind of human? Is it their utter depravity? Is it their unfulfilled experience of sex? Do they not get any or enough? Is that why they decide to let themselves loose on any and every woman out there? Is that really it? What do they wish for? Touch her? Fondle her? Is that it? And now that they’ve done that and got a nice buzz going, what? Pounce on her? Rape her? What?

I seriously doubt such creeps themselves know what they actually set out to achieve. More often than not, these men are cowards. They feel that the crowd gives them a perfect opportunity, and anyway the woman won't protest, her honour and all. They feel their being a man will help them get away with it. They expect no or at the most feeble reaction from the woman they creep up on. And that is exactly why most of the time a shrill yell or a tight slap sets them right.

To my fellow women, I say this. Stand up and fight right back. Scream your lungs out. Make a scene. Slap as hard as you can. Stomp down on to his foot. Push him away hard. Most importantly, look him straight in the eye. Help yourself. No one else will.

Who was it that once said, "Until the day a woman can go for a walk at midnight and return safe, we haven’t got true freedom"? Looks like after 62 years of freedom, we aren’t free yet.

Happy Birthday, Mummy!

Biology is the least of what makes someone a mother. My Mother is the sweetest person to ever set foot on the face of the earth. She is my 24-hour support system, my bestest friend, my guardian angel. She is the vault which I deposit all my hurts and worries in, and withdraw happiness and love from. She did not sacrifice her individuality when she became a mother. She also did not sacrifice motherhood to be an individual. In fact, motherhood, she says, helped expand her capabilities.

Mummy is a homemaker, and her adeptness at this very essential job is visible in every corner of my home. And of course, my house is called a home because my mother has made it so. She has been a stay-at-home Mom ever since I came into the world, but if there's anyone who loves her for that, it would be me. She was always there when I came home from school and just had to tell someone about the A+ and golden star I received from my teacher. She was always there when I came home from a competition and just had to show someone the trophy/medal I had been awarded. She was always there when I came home from college gushing about that cute guy who smiled at me and just had to confide in someone how much I loved him. She is not someone I can lean on, but someone who makes leaning unnecessary.

Most of all the other beautiful things in life come by twos and threes or by dozens and hundreds. There will always be plenty of flowers, stars, sunsets, dewdrops, rainbows, brothers, sisters, friends. But there is only one mother in the whole world. My mother's love is something I never have to acquire; in fact, I do not even have to deserve it. She is the only person on earth who can divide her love equally between my brother and me, yet both her children still have all her love. No gift to her can ever equal her gift to me - life!

Happy birthday, Mummy.

I find myself wondering...
Did I give you your due?
For all that you've done for me,
Did I ever thank you?
For all of my childhood memories,
For helping me with life's stresses,
For helping me accept my defeats,
And celebrating my successes?
For teaching me the value of hard work,
Good judgement, courage, and being true,
The laughter, the smiles, the silence we shared,
Did I ever thank you?
If I have forgotten, I'm thanking you now,
You taught me right from wrong;
I hope you know how much you're loved,
And I know you knew that all along.

You filled my days with rainbow lights,

Fairytales and sweet dream nights,

A kiss to wipe away my tears,

Comforting words to ease my fears.

You gave the gift of life to me,

And then in love, you set me free.

I thank you for your tender care,

For deep warm hugs, for just being there.

I hope that when you think of me,

A part of you you'll always see.

You were there when I first walked

And went unsteadily across the floor.

My childhood you fashioned ever so tender,

Till my steps took me out the door.

Wherever I go, you can be sure -

In spirit, you're never alone,

For where you are, is what matters,

'Coz that's what I call home.

There's no place like home...

Disclaimer:

This post is a piece of fiction. It is meant as a tribute to Elisabeth Fritzl, her children, and all the other children who lose out on their childhood and innocence due to the horror called incest.


Father,

Why wasn’t I ever your little girl or your baby? Who was I all those years that you never called me 'yours'? You never held my hands and taught me to walk, one tiny step at a time. You never bought me toys and chocolates and little trinkets when you came home from work. You never listened to me gushing about my first day in school or my first prize or my first crush. You never took me for walks in the park or shopping sprees at the market. You never hugged me when I was sick. You never wiped my tears when I was hurt.

Where were you all these years, Father? Oh, I forget. You were between my legs all this while. You never came up to look at me - your daughter, your flesh and blood, your child.

Surely I must have been, like all daughters in the world, the apple of your eye. What could have possibly turned me into a receptacle of your carnal desires? Did you hate me? Did I annoy or upset you? But I was always a good girl, the right mix of innocence and naughtiness. Wouldn't it have been good if the characteristics of this 'good' girl weren't also the characteristics of a daughter living with a terrible secret, trying to cover up the shame that should never have been hers? I grew up in a home where I was taught valuable lessons about not wasting money or time or an education. Why then am I left with a wasted childhood?

I will never forget that night. It was exactly a week after my seventh birthday, which you had failed to attend yet again. That evening, Mom had to go to a relative's place for a function and would only return the next morning. I was overjoyed thinking that I could finally have some time alone with you, Father. Evidently, you had the same thoughts. For very different reasons. You asked me if I'd like to lie down with you on the bed you shared with Mom and watch some TV. I was on cloud nine. My father was actually willing to spend quality time with me. I jumped up and reclined beside you, unaware of how that innocent decision would change my life forever. I found the TV program boring and soon drifted off to sleep. Suddenly, I woke up completely and found myself to be drenched in cold sweat. By the time I could even comprehend what had woken me so abruptly, I became aware of your fingers groping under my frock and beneath my panty. I saw you wearing nothing but a crazed expression on your face, your eyes glazed over with something so unfamiliar yet so familiar. Lust, I later learnt. I froze, and in that very instant, time froze for me. Forever.

Had it been a one-off incident, as I fervently hoped it would be, I could have tried to forget and move on with my life. I could even have forgiven you for what you did to me that day. But it happened again, and again, and again. I tried to explain to Mom the very next day after that first time, but I just couldn't believe what had happened could possibly be true, and I forbade myself from ever again mentioning it to her till I lived. I had no one to go to except you, to satiate your perversion and make you feel 'like a man'. That was what you said it was for, didn't you? I was fortunate to have been chosen by you, you had said. Only I didn't know it was to remind you of your masculinity whenever you had the tiniest of doubts about it. Over the years, my body became numb to the disgust I felt each time you ravaged me. Now I felt nothing but my soul getting crushed every time. I found my self blown up into a zillion shreds, never ever to be brought together again. Worse, I was alive the morning after each night of abuse.

I taught myself to believe I was not being raped. I told myself it was not happening to me. Bit by bit, agonisingly slow, I could feel life draining out of me. I had travelled beyond the boundaries of pain, beyond the worst of nightmares, beyond the greatest of fears. I saw you every morning, smiling at me like a doting father would and a ravager would never. Every fraction of every moment I realised that I was going to die. But I didn't. Maybe I wasn't meant to die. Maybe I had to live through and out of this. Exactly ten years and a thousand deaths after you had first defiled everything that was supposed to be sacred to me, I told Mom.

I saw the horror in the eyes and on the face of my mother. How she had loved me and cuddled me whenever I had wanted her to. She had such radiant dreams for me, dreams that she could now see shattering before her very eyes. I was terrified, possibly even more than that night I had felt your hand inside my panties. Had I failed her? Would she hate me and be repulsed? Would she blame me for letting you do this to me? Would she berate me for not having told her the very next day it first happened? Would she side with you and leave me to deal with my broken self alone, yet again? She knelt in front of me, looking straight into my stricken eyes. In that instant, I saw sense in all this madness. The eyes that were locked on to mine were, for a welcome change, glazed over with love and kindness. She understood.

I was going on a journey which I couldn't avoid. I had no idea where it would take me. But I knew this - I would not let you steer my life anymore. I had to pick up the pieces of my shattered being and put them back together. I promised myself I would do all I can to see that you get what's coming to you. That day I had told Mom. Now I told the world.

Today, exactly twelve years after that day I cried with joy when you asked me to share your bed, I cry with joy again. Not because I have won the lawsuit I filed against you sexual abuse. Not because I have managed to get you sentenced to a lifetime behind bars. Not because I know you will pay for some fraction of your crime now. Because I can breathe again. Because I am free, finally free of the horror I witnessed even before I was old enough to understand what horror was. Because I have finally shed the load of guilt and shame that I was forced to carry - your load, but my burden. Because I am going home for the first time today, a place where Mom and I will begin to build our lives anew. Because I know that, like yesterday and like today, Mom will always be with me and stand by me tomorrow, no matter what. Because I can smile again. Because I am free - free of being your daughter.

I sometimes suffer the guilt of sending you, my own father, to a harsh and merciless life. But one look into the mirror, something I had despised for twelve years, convinces me that I did what was right. Nothing would have been able to rest my conscience if I had faltered in taking this one difficult but morally correct step. The silence is gone, there is no more silence now. Today is the beginning of my new life. I am starting over today. I am surrounded by my Mother and my friends who all love me. I look out my window and see beauty all around me. I have begun to talk and laugh and sing. I am awake. I am alive. I am happy.

I believed in these words that first night twelve years ago, though in a strikingly different context I look at Mom and repeat them one more time. "There is no place like home."

A daughter

Why should boys have all the fun?

A recent World Economic Forum (WEF) study has placed India at a proud 113 amongst 130 countries in terms of gender equality. In fact, India ranks behind countries like Bangladesh and several Middle East countries which are notorious for the harassment of women. A shocking revelation, no doubt. But is it really that astounding?

Today, I shall not talk of rural districts or femicide or even domestic violence or rape. I will rather discuss the role of popular media in unwittingly or otherwise inflicting a sense of disparity amongst us boys and girls.

By the time a girl reaches the age of 16, she is forced to look decently good to be accepted by the common standards of society. If boys wear spectacles, they look handsome and studious and clever and mature. Says who? The fashion police, of course! But what if a girl sports glasses? Oh no, who in the wide world would marry her? Yeah, right! Remember what Aamir Khan told Salman on 'Dus ka Dum'? When Kiran Rao offered to do away with her glasses, Aamir said he married her with glasses and curly hair et al, and therefore saw no reason for any change now.

It is perfectly fine for a man to be fat, and not at all obnoxious. In fact, it signifies 'happy' things as a loving family or a wealthy life and so on. But if a girl does not possess that coveted Miss-India-esque curvature, she is frowned upon. She is gawked and stared at and snide remarks reach her, all while overly-anxious aunties and didis fear for her future! Driven to the gym to break sweat, whether she likes it or not, she is taught to look desirable for the society at large. She starts to fear coming out into the stern public eye.

Open a newspaper or a magazine, or even switch on a random TV channel. Predictably, a starving model in a size-zero figure taunts at us. We resign to the fact that life is for living, and that we care a damn for our weight. But it doesn’t help that half the pages in half the magazines rave and rant on 'weight'y matters. So much that the Obamas and Osamas and Chandrayaans of the world are content with a second place to this most critical of human issues.

Men are tall, dark and handsome. But girls must be fair and lovely to even live a life of dignity and respect. Reason - they appear gorgeous that way only. Once they reach the blessed twenties, they must be listed as 'fair' and 'slim' and 'v. beautiful' on shaadi.com, bharatmatrimonial.com, jeevamsathi.com and even Times of India or Hindustan Times by concerned parents. Every television show broadcasts a fairness product advertisement at least thrice. Oh, sure we have a 'Fair and Handsome' product too, but in the world of TV as well as the actual social scenario it is twice as less in demand than its feminine counterpart. Never mind that Bipasha Basu is dark yet so stunningly sexy!

I haven’t even reached the part about acne and skin blemishes. How well do we know those mornings when we wake up wishing death for every pimple out there. Societal pressures, you say? Bingo, girl! You're right on it. So when I watched in utter horror Dr. Kiran Bedi of all women endorsing 'NoMarks' anti-blemish products, I felt we'd achieved what our fashion-crazed nation has always wanted - that beauty obsession runs deeper than nation-wide unrest! That advertisement actually prompted me to write this post.

Our men have donned 'western' apparel ever since we remember. I mean, we hardly see a young uppity boy dressed in a lungi or a dhoti or a langot, do we? But our 'desi girls' are expected, and even allowed, to sport only sari and salwar-kameez for the society to see them as existing. Maybe we have girls on city streets dressed in denims and skirts, whose styles change every so often. Nothing wrong with that, you say? How many of us would be dying to wear our 'decent' and 'homely' salwar-kameez but cannot do so due to pre-determined societal rules? None, since only 'western' attire is restricted and frowned upon, therefore making it that much more desirable.

Let us move on to more serious issues. If a man has a fling or a one-night-stand or an extra-marital affair, it is accepted by the large-hearted society as being a man's 'needs'. But when a woman engages herself in any relationship not mentioned in the society's rulebook, she is termed as 'loose', 'unchaste', 'characterless', 'available' and what not. She brings shame upon her family and society, so she pays for it with her life (which was dispensable anyway). So what happened to women's needs? And if unacceptable by society, why are female bar dancers and prostitutes more common than their male counterparts?

Nature decided to make male birds more attractive than female birds and female humans more striking than male humans. But for once, just once, accept us for what we are. We are beautiful inside even if it does not reflect on the outside. Physical attractiveness in a woman is good, even desirable, but can never be essential. We have achieved our right to work, to exercise financial control, to speak our mind. None of this happened because we wore a sari or had a flawless fair complexion or a 36-24-36 figure. It happened because we had a brain and a tongue that we used effectively. Now we wait to be liberated from unreasonable and derogatory societal demands. Like Priyanka Chopra’s popular ad goes, "Why should boys have all the fun?"

Because I am a woman

Because I am a woman, I must make unusual efforts to succeed. If I fail, no one will say, 'She doesn’t have what it takes.' They will say, 'Women don’t have what it takes.'

Gender apartheid exists. Yes, it does. So? So nothing. Let's go deal with it. Women are and women will. The challenge lies in the 'how's and 'when's.

In over 60 years of our democratic history, each ruling government has deliberately and insidiously ensured that women remain invisible and silent. How mahaan does that make our Bharat? Why have we not all hung our heads in shame? Why does nobody speak up? Is it because we actually believe a woman's worth is actually nothing? Do we see women as dispensable, of which kind many are available? The answer was 'yes' 60 years ago. Today, it remains just that. Not that it still affects us. We continue to pretend all is well.

Our President is a woman. Our chief of the ruling party is a woman. We have formidable women chief ministers. Women are increasingly joining their male counterparts as the nation's workforce. Isn't that enough cause for celebration? In this day and age, celebrating the achievement of less than 2% of the female population in India is ridiculous to the point of being laughable.

It is no longer astonishing how depressingly low we estimate the worth of our women, even as we reveres the Goddess in her various forms! So how does that happen? It happens because we are too busy deluding ourselves that all is hunky-dory. That beyond the beatings and burnings lies a good heart that 'loves' women and wants them to 'improve'.

Well, guess what? The beatings and burnings worked. The new and improved woman has arrived. But, alas, there still is no celebration, really. She isn't what we exactly wished for, now, is she? To 'man'kind's eternal horror, the new and improved versions came equipped with a mind - to think! Too bad. What do we do about this? Can we again control her? Should we create a remote for this mind? Why, of course. It ain't too tough to teach her a lesson. We've been doing that for ever since we care to remember!

So we go right ahead. We strip her clothes. We kick and punch her. We fondle her and feel her up. And when all that does not satiate us, we rape and plunder her. That, if nothing else, teaches her a lesson.

Yes. It teaches her the lesson that she must stand for herself, because no one else can. It teaches her the lesson that if they unite, along with real men (who respect women and therefore earn respect for themselves), their numbers will multiply. It teaches her the lesson that she must do things with freedom, no matter how hard it is. It teaches her the lesson that she must always stand on the side of truth and justice, no matter what it costs. It teaches her the lesson that she alone owns her honour; no one has a claim to it and it cannot be ever taken away from her. Most importantly, it teaches her the lesson that she does actually possess a mind to learn these lessons with.

With elections just round the corner, we do not hear a single political party address women's issues, not even their pet topic - women's reservation. It is as if women don't exist - not even as a vote bank. They may talk pretty about some obscure temples or mosques that no one really cares for. They may invoke the dependable ideology of Hindutva or minority-appeasement to fill their vote-hungry coffers. They may play the divisive card and arouse the dormant pride in their voters for their region (read party). But they fail to see that the society they so earnestly solicit votes from is one that marginalises half its population. Such a a society can see nothing but decline.

Domestic violence is our best kept dirty secret. Not a single politician has recognised this skeleton in their closet, or the devastating effects it has on their voters. As long as our women continue to be either battered or ignored, we cannot call ourselves a civilisation, let alone a developing one. Pratibha Patil may come and go, but her own kind only goes, never comes. So, all in all, a thoroughly depressing scenario for the erstwhile 'sone ki chidiya'. Oh come on, of course not.

SRK once said, "Hamari filmon ki tarah hamari zindagi mein bhi, end tak sab kuch theek-thaak ho jata hai. Aur agar aisa na ho, to ye samjho ki kahaani abhi khatam nahin hui. Picture abhi baaki hai." Yes, there are more reels to go. This year, this year, we subvert the usual gender agenda - a literal gender bender. The eternally enslaved and exploited woman will always find her crusader. But the new age truly and completely belongs to the dangerously liberated and obnoxiously loud-mouthed woman. You don't like her? Then its time you learnt to live with her.

The new and improved 'desi girl' has decided she isn't going to wait for help - she will help herself. She is not the martyr - she is the marauder out to reclaim her life. The knight in shining armour has finally been laid to rest, bless his soul. The change is here, and the change is her. Maa di laadli bigad gayi, so, enna rascala, mind it!

Happy Women's Day!

Playing Tag...

The tagging frenzy has finally caught up with me, courtesy Goofy Mumma, forcing me to halt all activities on this blog. All right, GM, that was an exaggeration. And yes, I know I should have done this sooner. But really, what a way to start this chase!

GM asked me (and I thank her for it) to enlist 25 random facts about myself, including weird quirks and lofty dreams. Here I am, rediscovering myself, introspecting and talking aloud. Much as I tried, I couldn't come up with anything cynical/hypercritical (like me on "The XX Factor") or preachy/patronising (like me on "Hate, Actually")! Nevertheless, here's me described best by who else but ME!

1. I believe it takes one person to show the world how change can happen. One person, really. And nothing better than that one person being me.

2. I believe in the power of love, which I think can do miracles when nothing seems to work. I believe a child's love is the best and the purest - it is unconditional. I love babies and children for that very reason. I also believe in the power of positive touch - a pat, a hug, a kiss, a caress, a handshake. I believe a touch can communicate much more than words, and equal if not more than eyes can.

3. I am a sentimental fool. I have preserved letters and greeting cards and non-perishable gifts from friends and family, even those I no longer talk to. I just can't throw them away. Ditto for my old/torn/damaged possessions - I feel such pain throwing or giving stuff I've used/owned away.

4. I am a gab, but I am a great listener as well. I love it when my friends share their problems with me. If I can't offer them help or support or advice, I simply listen to them; it does as much.

5. I sign off all my mails (except official or those to unknown people) with the word 'Cheers!'. And I have 350+ people in my 'Friends' list on Orkut - not all of them are friends now, though; they are classmates or coaching-class-mates or people I met through people. No strangers, though.

6. I have huge crushes on Hrithik Roshan, Arjun Rampal, John Abraham, Farhan Akhtar and Dhoni. And I call Dhoni as Mahi, not as MSD or whatever else he is called. If I were a man, I'd have the hots for Preity Zinta, Juhi Chawla, Priyanka Chopra and Bipasha Basu. My favourite directors are Satyajit Ray and Ingmar Bergman. My favourite musician is A R Rahman. My favourite lyricists are Gulzar, Javed Akhtar and Prasoon Joshi. My favorite films/ actors/ actresses/ books/ authors/ singers are too many to list here.

7. If I love someone truly, I love them with all I have. If I hate someone truly, I hate them with all I have. For all the others, I'm a pretty nice person to be with. I love making friends, and if I can, keeping them.

8. I believe friendship overrides all relationships - even those we call love. Friends bare their souls to each other, and know each other inside out.

9. The foundation of any relationship on this planet, trust is, without a doubt, the single most important element in any of my relationships. There are many relationships that are equally important to me, and I expect each of them to trust me with the others.

10. I believe no person can survive without respect for the self. That is the first step. If you don't respect yourself, you'll never respect anything or anyone.

11. I am fiercely protective of my personal space, and no one - I repeat, no one - can encroach over it.

12. I expect a lot of my friends, and sometimes get hurt in the process. I have taken to limiting myself to a very few chosen friends who are mirrors to my soul, and I to theirs. One of them I spent two memorable years of hostel life with, and he is like the elder bro I never had.

13. There are only two other people, apart from my Mom and Dad, who I can talk about anything and everything with. They are my best friends from school.

14. I am a reasonably good singer, though I think myself to be better than I actually am. I love to sing; it makes me happy and content. I sing both inside the bathroom and outside it. I can write and tell good stories, and have a reasonably good command over both the languages I know - Hindi and English. I love to act, and am a big drama queen when I want to be. I also nurture a secret ambition of being a teacher some day.

15. Music to me is my religion, my chicken-soup for the soul, my escape, my haven. Music is to me what God may be to you. I especially love classical and Sufi. My favorite bands include Indian Ocean and Mekaal Hasan Band (the most talented band ever from Pakistan). I revere classical music (Hindustani and Carnatic, vocal and instrumental), Sufi music and ghazals.

16. I am an atheist. I believe in no religion, though I respect others' right to believe in their respective faiths. I love listening to religious songs (bhajans, sufi music, carols) but they fail to arouse any reliious instincts in me; they are simply another beautiful form of music.

17. I abhor superstitions and the gender-bias inherent in each religion of the world. It simply makes me so mad. I hate religious fundamentalists and bigots to the core - they are the worst thing to ever happen to the world. All the world needs is rational thought and common sense. Is that too much to ask?

18. I cannot stand or accept discrimination or injustice of any kind. I hate it with my core. I see all people as humans, regardless of their gender or name or appearance or lifestyle or religion or nationality. We are the same race - homo sapiens.

19. It is essential for me to have fun in life, to laugh and smile without inhibition, to do what I love doing.

20. I have only cried in only three movies so far - Titanic, Taare Zameen Par and Matrubhoomi. One of my favorite films in recent times has been "Chak De India", especially for the dialogue "... agar ladkiyan kisi ko paida kar sakti hain, to wo kuch bhi kar sakti hain ..." Also, the only two books I ever wept (and even threw up) reading are both penned by Khaled Hosseini - The Kite Runner and A Thousand Splendid Suns. I threw up when Laila has her Caesarean without anaesthetics.

21. I am a big fan of the Harry Potter books and Robin Cook. I own the entire respective series and have read them multiple times. I also love to read Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl, Charles Dickens and P G Wodehouse. I would want nothing more than Wonka's chocolate factory to be real, and me to be let loose in it. Ah, heaven!

22. I nurture a secret desire to travel to Pakistan and meet the people I share common roots and a common history with. I would wish to understand and end the hostility between us and them, seeing as we are essentially the same people.

23. I love to eat most things, especially salads and desserts of all kinds. Chocolate is a necessity. I hate to shop, especially for routine stuff. I even hate to shop for clothes or shoes or accesories, though I love having as many of them as I can. I love buying gifts for my closest friends and immediate family. I absolutely detest jewellery (esp. if gold) and make-up (except moisturiser and lip balm/gloss).

24. I value humility greatly, and abhor arrogance especially if it comes from someone not worthy of it. I hate hypocrisy and double standards with all my heart - there are very very few things I hate more than that.

25. Delhi and Noida are home to me, and I love them despite all the associated evils and issues.

Errr... 26. I can never love anyone more than my Mom-Dad and Bro, my kid(s) in future, and my bestest friends. No one. Can't say about my partner coz I haven't met him yet.

Whoa! I could have said so much more about myself, but my 25 points are over. I did try to fit in as much as I could, though, and one extra point too.

I now bequeath the said responsibility on to the following worthy souls (if someone else didn't already beat me to them):

Goofy Mumma (returning the favour), IHM, Solilo, Chandni, Roopie, RK, Mad Momma, Chikki, 1conoclast, Yaamyn, Rakesh, Usha, Monika, Indyeah, Tarun, Madhu, freespirit. Okay, maybe Prashant too, but I know all about him.

Happy tagging!

She is Sunshine (Chapter 3)

August 12, 2008. A day of contradictions and controversy. A day when history was rewritten. A day when a woman challenged the tradition of centuries and rescripted the scriptures. A day when Lucknow smiled with Naish Hasan and her to-be husband, as Islamic laws breathed in a gust of fresh air.

August 12, 2008 was a day when the wedding of a Sunni couple was attended by Shia guests of honour. If that was not scandalous enough to make an entire nation sit up and take notice, this nikaah was to have only women as witnesses. But what actually made jaws drop and eyes pop out was the fact that a woman acted as the qazi to solemnise the marriage. In fact, the only male presence at the venue was that of the groom!

Twenty-nine would hardly be the age when history is made, but Naish achieved this feat in 30 minutes flat. An economics post-graduate working as a vocal women's rights activist with the Bharatiya Muslim Mahila Aandolan that she founded, Naish and her fiancé Imran, a PhD from AMU, taught the world the true meaning and nature of the Quran. By opting for an all-woman nikaah, even as venom-spewing hard-line fundamentalists receded to the background, the young couple volunteered to make a beginning and break the shackles of deep-rooted patriarchy that haunts every religion. They are fortunate, especially Naish and her qazi Dr. Syeda Hameed (a member of the State Planning Commission), for few can actually practice what they preach.

The courageous couple and their gutsy qazi have raised a firm voice against the subjugation of women which had for centuries plagued a religion whose name means peace. The spunky bride had other unheard-of pre-conditions. She refused to dress in the traditional bridal finery, refused rituals as baraat and vidaai, and scoffed at the idea of mehr (the bridal dower). She also refused to allow herself and Imran to be seated in separate veiled enclosures; the two sat together on a table, separated only by Dr. Syeda. The nikaahnama or marriage certificate was drafted by Naish's organisation and proudly displayed the equal rights it bestowed to both Naish and Imran in matters of decision-making, finances, marital responsibilities and divorce.

The extremists and religious bigots boiled their blood and simmered their tempers over the flames of revolt, the least of their worries being the bride's age which they perceived to be way beyond marriageable. Nevertheless, several eminent Muslim scholars endorsed the nikaah and hailed the courage of the newly-weds and Dr. Syeda. Tahir Mahmood, a celebrated Islamic scholar and member of the Law Commission, lauded the nikaah as a symbolic resentment against an unbridled male chauvinism typical of Indian society. Also supportive of the event were Kalbe Jawwad and Khalid Rashid Firangimahali, both highly respected Islamic scholars and members of the All India Muslim Personal Law Board. Very surprisingly, Shaista Amber, the President of the All India Muslim Women Personal Law Board, chooses to remain sceptical of the incident that took the world media by storm. She exhibits her patriarchal mindset in advising that religious work is best left to men and women should only fill in as stopgaps for men's absence.

For Naish and Imran, however, advices never mattered. They have come to be seen as crusaders in their own right, disregarding archaic customs and leaving the world over-awed with their brazenness. Cameras covered this historical event held in a hotel of all places, and fawned over the facts that stirred a hornets' nest amongst the Islamic clergy. The day belonged to these iconoclasts, because even while the bride wore no veil and the groom had no customary cap on his head, an important part of a traditional Muslim nikaah went missing - the recitation of the Quranic verses and the mandatory khutba (sermon). The nuptial vows were taken in English.

As Naish and Imran tied the knot on August 12, 2008, they and Dr. Syeda also untangled conventional binds and misogynist nooses. Whether it remains an isolated epoch-making event or encourages other Muslim women to fight for gender equality is too early to predict, but the credibility of the audacious bride, along with her spirited husband and their brave qazi, surely represents a serious challenge to the established order.

She is Sunshine (Chapter 2)

At first sight, she may seem frail and even a little sickly, but this gutsy lady is truly a woman of substance. For when a 59-year-old illiterate Dalit woman from a non-descript village transcends the shackles of traditions and addresses the United Nations, history is written.

Girija Devi belongs to the Mushar community from a dingy village called Bhirkhia-Chipulia in Bihar's Motihari district. Her community has been the subject of talk recently, when it was discovered that they are so named because they eat rats. But Girija's unusual taste for rodents is not what caught New York's fancy. It was her courage to tame the abusive men in her village who turned up drunk every evening and mercilessly battered their wives. What is even more notable about Girija's crusade is that it began with her own home, against her own husband.

Life has changed for the once demure housewife who suffered humiliation at the hands of the male members of her family, including her husband Singheshwar Manjhi. The day she received the invitation from UN to address the 15th session of the Department of Economic and Social Affairs, Girija's husband saw red and told her in clear terms that in no way was she to break tradition and leave the confines of her hut. To drive home the point, he pounced on her and began beating her mercilessly. That day, Girija picked up a heavy lathi and hit him right back.

The very next day, journalists thronged the village in hordes, all for a glimpse of the woman whose courage changed the lives of her community, and to inspire others with her success story. Girija, a mother of four and a trained midwife, was informed of the UN invite by Action Aid, an NGO with which her 'Mushar Vikas Manch', which she formed six years ago, works in close cooperation to fight against alcoholism. For a woman who could barely sign and who spoke only in Bhojpuri, this news was literally a bolt from the blue. She was understandably nervous, but saw it as an opportunity to raise her voice on a global scale. Her grit finds a testimony in Jaimangal Manjhi, an ex-drunkard and ex-wife-beater, who extols Girija as the beacon of his life that had been blinded by toddy and other distilled liquor.

Men in this village, until some time back, used to return home from work drunk, having spent the day's entire earnings on alcohol, forcing the children to sleep on empty stomachs. Then Girija gathered the members of her Mushar Vikas Manch, men and women alike, and handed them lathis, one of which had once put an end to her own abused life. Together, this motley gang would crack down on homes where they heard a woman scream. The cause of the scream - a violent husband or cruel in-laws, sometimes even sons - would be tonsured, adorned with a garland of the shabbiest and stinkiest chappals, and paraded round the village on a donkey. The fish would catch the bait - hook, line and sinker.

It would be an insult to Girija's efforts if we were to think this massive upheaval of Bhirkhia-Chipulia happened overnight or even in a matter of days. Her method of checking the bacchanalian conduct of the menfolk did not go down well with many, but the aggressive style of her Manch gang was the proverbial zipper on their loud mouths. Many stopped drinking out of sheer fear of humiliation, and once they did, their eyes opened to the dark shadows under their wives' and children's eyes. In fact, such was the revolution Girija introduced to her Manch loyalists that two of her associates registered FIRs against their husbands for misbehaving with them under the influence of liquor.

The story was never intended to end the day Girija stood proudly at the dias in New York and addressed a multi-cultural and multi-national gathering in February 2006. She was elected representative of Ward No. 3 of the local Gram Panchayat for the next five years. She diversified the activities of her Manch with the help of local NGOs and now fights for minimum wages for landless farmers. Her life may resemble a fairy-tale, but the challenges of her responsibilities are real and many. She may have reined in the wayward men of her community, but her international recognition has not helped in her persuasion of the local administration to get homes in her village repaired for ill weather. Girija was never one to give up hope; she proved that the day she picked a lathi to hit her abusive husband back.

Despite her meaty and diverse portfolio, her pet project remains deterrence on marital violence and irresponsible drinking. "I will never allow men to drink beyond their capacities. But I will also never allow women to ruin their lives and those of their children for men who beat them." The voice that galvanised a sleepy hamlet in Bihar and could be heard as far as New York is no less than the sunshine that burns up an arrogant sun to provide warmth and hope to life on earth.

She is Sunshine (Chapter 1)

She is a petite 13-year old with eyes as dark as the night that twinkle with mirth and the cheer of childhood. She is naughty et innocent, and loves to laugh; her laughter, fresh as the dew at dawn, tinkles like a hundred tiny bells in a meadow. She is also a victim of a ridiculous ritual that propagates child marriage. She is Minati Gagaria - winner of the 2005 National Bravery Award for her exemplary grit and spunk.

The morning of 15 January 2005 heralded the annual village festival of Magha Parab. For Minati and other members of Orissa's Munda tribe, the occasion is a chance to be gifted new clothes and knick-knacks, coupled with lots of dancing and merriment. Minati, adorned in a new dress and flower ornaments, went to the festival ground with her friends. At midnight, she along with other girls started dancing to the beats of dhol. Steadily, as the beats turned faster, the skies turned red with the sindoor that men threw at the dancing girls. Minati's life took a dramatic turn when 50-year old Suna Hembram threw sindoor at her and it settled on her forehead. The next moment, senior members of the community declared it a 'marriage' in accordance with a bizarre tradition of forced child marriages. That was when Minati stood up and said 'No'.

Amidst a crowd of dumbstruck onlookers, with her head held high, Minati walked up to where the village elders sat and refused point-blank to give in to the ridiculous custom. She accused them of trying to control her life, and warned that they had no business imposing their decisions on her. She firmly asserted that she would not accept a man fit to be her grandfather as a husband. Having said so, Minati went back home and locked herself in her room.

The next morning, and many such mornings after, her entire family accompanied by Hembram tried to convince her but failed. The bruised ego of Hembram was further riled by Minati's 'attitude', and he cornered her when she was alone at home one day. When Minati later complained to her mother that she had been raped, the entire family took it upon themselves to shame Minati for what was in no way her fault. The gritty girl gave her family one smoldering look and walked out of the hut she used to call home. Her family searched far and wide for her, while she slept peacefully in the forest for seven nights of hard-earned freedom.

Support came in the guise of a friend, whose husband helped Minati lodge complaints against her family and Hembram with the local police. Fortunately for her, they were all arrested. Later, while her mother and sister-in-law were released on bail, her father and brother awarded their sentences. As for the groom, he was booked for rape, and as Minati says with her impish smile, was good riddance.

My heart swelled with pride as I wished there were more girls like Minati who can make a difference. She has not changed the world, or the country, or even her village. She stood up for herself. By standing up to and against injustice. By not accepting anything just because it is religion/ tradition/ culture/ etc. By showing her friends the courage to do the same. By showing what is right and what isn't in our society. By having a mind of her own and using it.

I firmly believe that any individual who can't stand up for himself/herself will fall for anything on earth. Minati showed the world how standing up for yourself is bravery, not impudence or disrespect. She also showed us that all individuals, and women too, have a right to decide what is best for them. In India, this right is constitutional and irrevocable. How many women know that? How many women would use that right? Sadly, a woman in India may have her constitutional rights, but not her humanitarian rights - to happiness and to a mind of her own.

As my tears flowed... (Chapter 3)

This was just another one of those depressing stories we read in the newspapers almost every day. Savita Kasture lives with her three children in Ulhasnagar, a depressing industrial township on the outskirts of Mumbai. Some months back, her husband left home without explanation. Savita was forced to find work and also to borrow money from her neighbours for her survival. Then, one day, without offering any explanation about his disappearance, her husband returned. On learning that Savita had taken up a job - something that he had forbidden her to do - he flew into a rage. While she slept next to him that night, he cut off her nose and then threatened to kill their two children.

This may sound like a scene straight out of those tacky Bollywood films which are churned out by the dozen. Unfortunately, it is the actual experience of a very real and very ordinary woman. It comes as a rude reminder of the extent to which women encounter violence within the ostensibly 'safe' walls of their homes every single day. Women are good at compromise. Victims of domestic violence say that compromise brings peace to the household. But peace at what cost? Victims of domestic violence also say they suffer in silence 'for the sake of the children'. But the children will grow up following the same pattern. Women often say, "We only fought after the children went to sleep, so they don’t know anything." Children always know - sometimes more than adults.

No one speaks of it. Women suffer it in silence. They are schooled to believe that ultimately it is their fault, and their fate. Behind the closed doors of a home, women are abused - physically, emotionally, verbally. But these stories rarely make it to the public domain because the victims themselves will refuse to speak. They will think there is no option but to keep quiet and accept. Marriages are made in heaven, they say. But for millions of married women, it is living hell on earth.

When the police caught Savita's husband and questioned him, he admitted to the crime and said, "My wife disobeyed my instructions and I decided to teach her a lesson." That is the key - 'teach her a lesson'. Men continue to teach women 'lessons' by raping them, beating them, torturing them or simply murdering them - the same women that they are supposed to love and cherish. The awful reality of the growing violence against women worldwide is that half of the women who die from homicides are killed by their current or former husbands or partners. Moreover, nearly one out of every four women in the world experience sexual violence by an intimate partner at least once in their lifetimes.

Every year, November 25 is regarded as the International Day against Violence Against Women. Worldwide, women's groups use the fortnight from that date onwards to put forward evidence about the reality of violence in women's lives and advocate strategies to confront and end this violence. But despite years of such campaigns, the statistics do not present a very encouraging picture. According to UNIFEM and other surveys, in countries ranging from rich to poor, women's experience of violence is almost identical.

In India, the National Crime Records Bureau (2000) reports that there are 480 cases of crimes against women reported every day. Also, there are 45 reported cases of rape and 19 reported cases of dowry deaths every day. The word 'reported' is of much significance here, because these numbers are but the tip of the actual iceberg formed by such violent acts. Statistics reveal that every hour five women face cruelty at home and there are four cases of molestation reported every hour.

Not any more. For, even if Indian society has failed its women on many counts, we can now celebrate the fact that India is one of the few countries around the world that recognises that domestic violence is a violation of the human rights of women. The Protection of Women from Domestic Violence Act, 2005, which was notified on 25 October 2006, is path breaking in more ways than one. Most significant perhaps is its definition of 'domestic violence' as spelt out in Chapter II of the Act. All forms of abuse - physical, sexual, verbal, emotional, economic - are defined as 'domestic violence' by this law. It offers women victims of such violence civil remedies of a kind not available to them earlier.

Till now, women could use Section 498A of the Indian Penal Code to file a complaint against an abusive spouse. But this did not give the woman the right to, among other things, stay on in her marital home or demand a maintenance if thrown out or seek protection orders from the abusive partner. The law now provides her these civil remedies that are as important as the punishment provided under the law for committing the offence.

Violence-free homes make violence-free communities. They would make a difference to boys as much as to girls. Surely boys who grow up seeing the kind of violence as carried out by Savita's husband could decide the norm in how to treat 'your' woman. Reason being, behind the violence is a mentality of possession, of ownership, of a belief that men know best what is good for women, and that women must silently obey - or face the consequences. Whether it is honour killings, dowry deaths, wife beating or disfiguration, the motivation is identical - a desire to assert power and full control over another person.

As my tears flowed, I realised that the statistical graph of violence against women will continue to climb steadily until we can find a way to crack this belief in male superiority - in the undiluted conviction in millions of men that they were born to rule, to control, to be obeyed.