The Revenge Potion

Eyeshadow - check

Lipstick - check

Foundation - check

Blush - check

Hairdo - check.

Attire - check.

She looks at herself in the mirror. Now, another checklist. This time it’s within.

Courage - check

Bravery - check

Confidence - check

Hope - check

Smile - check

I imagine that would have been the thought process of the women who walked the ramp in New Delhi’s haute couture fashion show this year - the survivors of acid attacks.

Acid has known to be the revenge potion of egotistical men - lovers as they call themselves - who wouldn’t accept rejection from the woman they ‘love’. A woman’s rejection rips away their masculinity - an ordeal for our chauvinists. So they rip off her life - a splash on her face.

I don’t want to imagine the pain a woman goes through when this potion hits her face. But we should because this is real. So, imagine a spoon of hot water or tea spills on your hand - just a spoonful. What happens? You scream, shake up your hand to cool the burning sensation, run it in cold water, rub some ointment, and are staggered at the deep red burn on your skin for the next few days till it disappears.

Now imagine her face doused with acid. It will never heal, never disappear. It is a horror some live through; some die fighting. The pain is excruciating, unimaginable.

Acid attacks are probably the most barbaric violence against a human being. It impairs the body in a gruesome way - melts the face, damages eyesight, burns the skin, and causes breathing problems. Victims have undergone multitude of reconstruction surgeries - as many as 50. The extensive medical treatment is both painful and expensive, often unaffordable. What the surgeries cannot reconstruct are the lives of the victims and families who have to fight an endless battle that demands infinite strength.

Shamefully, though not surprisingly, society adds to their battles with its ostracization, judgement, and discrimination. Beauty-obsessed families distance themselves and employers find a way around to deny jobs. The morale and self-esteem of a survivor of such a vicious infliction is further trampled over, pushing them into psychological distress.    

Little has been done to control the rise in acid attacks - similar to all crimes against women. New laws have been enforced to prosecute perpetrators with harsh punishments, control acid sales, and recognize acid attack victims as physically disabled allowing them access to rehabilitation, compensation, and jobs.

Considering that there have rarely been any tangible actions against perpetrators and acid sales, these laws barely have any weight. In almost all cases, perpetrators are known people - ex-boyfriend, fiance, husbands, relatives, in-laws. Yet, our law-enforcers fail to arrest, investigate, and prosecute them. The apathetic attitude of the legal system in India towards crimes against women is well-known. As a result, these crimes have become nothing more than statistics that rise every year in shocking numbers, barely affecting the conscience of our society.

But the voices refuse to die. Walking head held high with disfigured faces and building disintegrated lives piece by piece, women who are living proof of merciless patriarchy and chauvinism, are up on the podium narrating their stories of a horror right in the face of the society. They will shout and fight till they are heard, till we wake up, till the potion of revenge stops.   

Roof

He stared at the door for a minute before ringing the doorbell.

“Joe! What a surprise!”

“Hey Ma! How are you?” He kissed her on the cheeks as he stepped into the house.

“I’m fine. How are Natalia and the kids?”

“They’re fine. What smells good?”

“Roast. The ladies are at my home this month,” she said as she prepared the table.

“Great. Mom, I wanted to talk to you about the, uh, house.”

“The house? What about it?”

“Well, you staying by yourself worries me. No one’s here for you. What if there’s an emergency. I thought we can sell the house and…”

“Sell the house? Oh, are you suggesting I stay with you and Natalia?”

“No! I mean you won’t be comfortable there. You can move to a better place where you will be taken care of and have friends your age.”

She was fixated for a second.

“I’ve friends here. The community hospital nearby has nurses reachable anytime. I’m glad you are so concerned.”

“Yeah. But I’ll be able to visit you often if you move closer to the city.”

“You visit me enough. I’m sure coming here is a break for you too. It’s peaceful.”

He walked up to her. “I’ve spoken to an agent. The estimate is attractive.”

“I see.”
She adjusted her wedding photo that rested on the mantelpiece. You were right about this day.

She turned to look at him. “Well, I’m happy and safe in my house. I’ve been ever since I came here with your father,” she proclaimed with the finesse of a regal rule.

The doorbell rang.

“That must be the girls! Joe, you have to try the roast before you leave. It's your favorite.”

White

Things would be fine, she always thought. 'Once dad comes back...'

She got ready for the day. Another day to survive, struggle. But its a part of life isn't it? She prepared breakfast for everyone, and helped her mom with the lunch preparations. Her mom had to leave at 11 to board the 11.30 bus.

"Tell him, I love him", she said, and left for work.

Days have been the same. Routine. There was a restless silence in the house at all times, which ironically led to a lot of noise - laughs, giggles, screeches, tears, abuses.

She went about her way through day, not unaware what was chasing her. It chased her, and frequently caught up with her. But, she would cough it out, refusing to be absorbed by it. She was determined to smile, and brave her way through rough seas of time.

There was a dream. A day, with her mom and dad, brother and sister. The sky was blue, yet it seemed as though it was painted afresh. The flowers showcased all the colours of the rainbow. How had she missed out the colours of life, all this while? The clouds floated with no borders, there were people - good, humble people - all around. She was determined to live long enough to see it come true. She knew these days would turn colourful.

Afer all, white is made of many colours.

In Mourning…

Shahnawaaz Qureshi was in a business meeting when he felt an agonizing pain making incisions through his chest, shooting down his left arm. He clasped his arm tight, but within a matter of seconds, the pain increased in severity. He wanted to scream and attract Adel’s attention, who was talking to a client. But suddenly, everything became blurred. Darkness engulfed his vision and he collapsed.

The phone rang. Jameela answered it. “Salaams Adel, how…”
“Khalajaan, please take a chair and sit down,” Adel requested, interrupting her, “I’ve something important to tell you”. Jameela was puzzled with the strange urgency in Adel’s tone. He was her husband’s close associate in the newly established business and had come home yesterday for lunch with his wife. Everything was fine then. Jameela hoped everything was fine now.

“Khalajaan, Shahnawaaz chacha has had a heart attack,” Adel broke the news in a faltering voice. “Please, Khalajaan,” Adel pleaded when he heard Jameela cry out, “stay calm and don’t worry. I am here with him in City Hospital”. Jameela hung up, slowly drowning in a pool of dreadful thoughts and disturbing questions.

Sameera, who had heard the scream, rushed from the kitchen to her mother’s aid. “Ammi, what happened? Who had called?” Sameera asked, praying in a corner of her heart to let everything be okay. Everything around was finally beginning to settle down. Let it just be this way, please God. Let it just be.

“Abba has had a heart attack,” Jameela murmured under her breath. Jameela felt there was a block somewhere in her windpipe as she uttered these words. Sameera was aghast, her eyes moistening as she gaped at her mother for a moment. Both mother and daughter were caught in an unspoken language that clearly expressed innate fears. “We’ll have to leave now”, Sameera spoke suddenly, composing herself and taking charge of the situation. “Ammi, please, nothing will happen”, she tried consoling her mother, praying that what she said was true – that nothing wrong would happen. She ran to the window to see if she could stop Ali. Sameera could see him walking towards the gate of the compound. She called out to him but in vain. It was quite unlikely to be heard from the 5th floor of a building amidst the bustling noise of the city dwellers.

---------------------------

Jameela held her sobs when she saw the doctor step out of the operation theatre. She looked at him inquisitively, wanting to inquire about her husband. But her voice seemed to have lost the valor and her mind did not want to miss a moment of whispering the prayers. As the doctor walked towards them, everyone around her seemed to have taken refuge in the comfort of silence.

“Mrs. Qureshi, your husband suffered a severe cardiac arrest”.
Rehem Allah, Have Your Mercy on us. Jameela’s heart skipped a beat.
“I am sorry, Mrs. Qureshi”
My children, Allah, please, let him be okay. Just let him get through this.
“Your husband is no more. I am sorry.”

Sameera let out a shriek with gush of tears. Adel tried controlling his emotions, rubbed his eyes to hold back the tears and ushered a prayer. Jameela stood still. The next minute, she fell on the ground – unconscious.

-----------------------------
A light shone at the end of the dark passage. He could hear a cry. “Abba”, the voice cried in between sobs. Sameera – he could see her crying uncontrollably. From the corner of the living room, he looked around. A lot seemed changed – the sitting area was spaced out and the dining table constricted in the farthest possible corner of the room. Jameela! What had happened to her! She sat inertly against the wall – her eyes were red and puffy, her hair was untidy and her face was expressionless as though she lay dead. He had never seen her so distressed and anguished through the 27 years of their marriage. Jameela has always been, and still is, the most important to him since the first day of their marriage, since his mother’s miserable death – and life.

He saw Jameela’s sister and cousins had gathered around her, crying yet trying to comfort her. Most of the people, dressed in the shades of white, seemed to be in mourning. Some were talking in whispers, perhaps gossiping, with a somber look on their faces. He could hear murmurs across the living room. Someone behind him was talking in a hushed voice about money and the ziarat– the family gathering for lunch and prayers to bless the deceased which is held a day after the burial rites are completed. The manner in which ziarat was performed these days, always made him wonder if families gathered to pray and bless or just for a free round of meal at a family get-together to catch up on the latest gossips.

He turned around and walked past the pillar from where he thought he heard the voices.

He saw his cousin wailing and saying to a relative who was comforting her, “May Allah forgive him for whatever sins he did in his lifetime”. He didn’t quiet know how to react to that hence moved on. His cousins and younger brother were sitting against the pillar, their heads either hanging from their shoulder towards the earth or resting on their palm covering their mouths, seemingly engaged in remorse. He stared at them for a moment, attempting to comprehend their doing, which looked nothing more than a futile activity. But he soon lost interest in them and moved to the other side of the pillar.

“Jameela Khanum is not in the state. What a shock. Allah! It was quite unexpected.”
He recognized the hoarse voice. It was Omar Bhaijan, the eldest brother and a prominent businessman. Standing with him was Huzair, the second brother. Shahnawaaz was the third sibling and Taha and Ameena were the youngest.

“Such is life. He remained stressful, worrying about Sameera’s marriage and his new business. He had a mild attack earlier also,” Huzair testified.
“He was bold. At 50, quite strong-willed to start life afresh - setting up a house and business along with the responsibility of finding a groom for Sameera – all alone,” Omar Bhaijan approved, nodding his head sideways sympathetically. “What will happen of his family, I worry. Bechaare.”
“Bas,” Huzair sighed, “I pray his soul rests in peace and Allah grants saber to his family.”
“Yes. May Allah grant them patience.”

He could see his brothers’ dismay as they had this conversation. He hated that kind of sympathy, more so being felt sorry for. His brothers seemed wedged in their own grief and shock. Who was talking about ziarat? His eyes suddenly caught glimpse of a sudden movement at the other end of the room. Ali rushed to wrap his arms around Sameera and both wept. He watched them, tears in his eyes and a longing in his heart – a longing to hold them in his arms and protect them. He began moving towards them when suddenly he heard a hoarse voice from behind speak in a sigh.

“I will discuss about the ziarat’s costs with Taha. Let’s see what he has to say.”

He turned around and saw his brothers depart.

He moved towards Sameera and Ali. Who would take care of them now? Sameera had come of marriageable age. Ali was in his XIIth standard. He looked at them. He remembered the moment when Sameera was born – she had brought joy in his and Jameela’s married life. With Ali’s birth, their world was complete.

Jameela? Where was she? He realized Jameela was nowhere in the room. His eyes searched for her. He peeked into what was his bedroom during his lifetime. Jameela lay on the bed staring at the ceiling. He moved towards the bedroom to see her, when he heard someone saying something about Akhlaak Caterers ‘ were good and affordable to order the ziarat lunch’. He stopped and turned to see Omar Bhai’s wife, Zainab Bhabijaan talking to Huzair and his wife as she wiped off her tears.

He moved on but he could hear voices… maybe mutton…the maid’s presence…Aamir has come…he got divorced…girl was too demanding…children are not responsible these days…Bless Sameera with proper mind… good groom… no father also now…Jameela cant handle… not in state… poor thing… Shahnawaaz Bhai…a noble man… brave… Bechaare…Akhlaak served dal gosh in Suleiman Bhai’s wife’s ziarat…mutton pieces were good and soft… we can arrange…

He knelt down near the bed and drew his face close to Jameela’s. “Jameela,” he whispered. Images crossed his mind in that single moment of seconds – images of her in her bridal dress, of seeing her for the first time, of their first touch, of making love to her, of her holding little Sameera and Ali, of… He closed his eyes and cried in silence.

It was as though life breathed in her once again. She looked in his direction. Perhaps she sensed him there. Why was she fading out? He could just about see a silhouette. Maybe… yes. Shahnawaaz knew it was time… He was ready. And sure, Jameela would now not be lifeless.

Time to walk to the other end of the passage. He murmured a short prayer and begged Allah to let everything be okay this time.

The light at the end of the passage dimmed.

CATCHING UP WITH HOPE!

A renaissance has begun in the Americas as a black wins the White House.

Unfortunately, India seems decades away from a renaissance as such, what with the age old battles still being fought. Battles to establish superiority – by one religion over the other, by one sex over the other, by the north over the south, by the vegetarians over the non-vegetarians, by one language over the other, by…

Alas! Renaissance is far… far… away… I see rays… perhaps of a faintly lit Hope.

I look around in search of anything that can help me console my fears of Hope being completely wiped off. Yet, all I see are borders amongst people of a country; borders cut through their hearts and minds like deep incisions. I see violence. I see the compulsion of one people to rule the other. I see the other people – sitting in the concrete jungles, enjoying coffee and worried about the markets. I see them rich, fun-loving and ambitious. I see them doing nothing but sleep peacefully. I see them helpless when a people knock on their doors and kill them for crossing the borders – in their own country.

I stop looking around. I stop searching. I close my eyes. I hold back my tears.

“We are a nuclear power!” – I tell myself – “one of the fastest growing economies. Surely it can offer a growing child something worth living. Surely it can offer something that can console me. Surely it has something that will tell me I can still hope; WE can still hope; that the rays will be brighter; that Hope will live.”

I take a deep breath. I open my eyes. I see a child begging for alms – in tattered clothes, bruises all over her body. I stare at her. Perhaps Hope is just as alive as is this child. Beaten, Dishonored, Vulnerable – yet living; or maybe, just surviving.

Suddenly, I am reminded of the industries that India can boast of – more than 1.3 million children in the sex trade, more than 10 million prostitutes, and a boisterous industry of drug trafficking. We sell our women and children – innocence and dignity – to draw an unmatched billion dollar industry, what with the devdasi practices and child marriages still taking place; with the governments determined to express their prejudices by force, destruction and hatred; with lakhs of citizens taking to guns and bombs – the ‘terrorists’ - determined to bring the downfall of their own country.

I give the girl few coins. But, is that all that a billion people and a fastest growing economy offer their children?

Perhaps Hope just walked away, disgusted.

Is Hope still walking as far as it can from us?

What can I do to stop it? Nothing. I cannot change the minds and lives of millions. I cannot do anything for this little child. I cry at my helplessness.

Why am I just a human?! A helpless human.

I look up to the sky where I have believed God lives. Mother always said He has the ultimate power – to grant life, to end it. He gave birth to Adam and Eve and a world began. God had the powers to end the world and if He is angry He definitely will. I wonder if He is angry enough. What convinces Him to keep the world going?

What will this child do till God’s outrage ends this world? What will I do till then? I run after Hope, in an attempt to catch up with it. I run miles and miles. I stop. I look back. I am miles away from that dark sordid place. I see a lot of people behind me – running towards Hope. I smile. All these people running give me a relief that I made the right decision.

But there is something I see beyond these people running. I see people fighting, dishonoring women and hurting children. I stand aghast. I see someone on the street of my house – starving. I see houses burning. I see people revolting through gun battles. I see borders – astonishingly in a religion.

I look down dumbstruck. Now, they have people who cannot worship God, who they say are not accepted by Him!!

I look in the direction of Hope. I remember Lot’s wife. Looking towards Hope, I wonder if I should look back - my home, my people, college, all are burning. I close my eyes, tears rolling down my cheeks. I cry uncontrollably. I control my desire, an urge to run and stop this viciousness. I stop my feet from running to where my home is and screaming “STOP! You have no right to do this. This is my land. If you cannot be here at peace, I will still do you the favour of burying your body in it. But this is my land. I have the right to live here and I will live here in peace.”

But I cry. I don’t want to look back at men exercising power through killings, rapes and aggression.

I cry. I don’t wish for Hope any longer. Yet, not knowing where to go, I walk…

A Dead Mind... or is is the mind of the dead?

Sometimes I wonder about people who kill – kill other beings, kill innocence, kill childhood, kill hope, kill peace, kill humanity.

What makes these people the way they are? Their faces bear eternal abhorrence, their gory eyes – I thought I had seen the same gory eyes somewhere in a pictorial display of the Ravana. The ferocious power they seem to contain – power to do what is rebuked by every religion, every faith, every culture and country. Their inexorable power to kill is traumatizing in itself. I look at the pictures. Maybe I am searching in the dark – searching for a trace of empathy, of compassion. Searching for whatever it takes to be a ‘human’.

Searching for a child.

It was in 1990 when I first witnessed the mayhem caused at the onset of a war. My family lived in Bahrain. I thought the word ‘war’ seemed a little strange and over exaggerated. Dad explained to me what war was when he was watching a BBC documentary of Hiroshima. I thought that’s where it belonged – to documentaries, to Hindi movies Dad liked to watch, to history. It was puzzling to me how Afghanistan and Palestine were still at war. I found it somehow interesting to see the pictures on TV and in papers. Now, it was going to be in real. I was wrong about my silly ‘war belonging to history’ theory. And that fact came to me as a rude shock. The Gulf War had already begun.

I was only five then. Yet some reminiscences refuse to just leave my mind at the pretext of child development. Reminiscences of worried faces, of scurrying packing, of my anxiety and confusion to a sudden ‘vacation’ back to India. Why were only Mom, my brother and I on a vacation? A distinct memory, of the Bahrain International Airport, of my face pressed to the glass shield that borders checked-in passengers, looking with tears in my eyes at Dad waving with a faint smile. I knew we were not on a vacation. For, from then on topics like ‘missiles’, ‘American troops’ and ‘Saddam Hussein attacking Kuwait’ seemed like hot favourites – even years after the war ended.

I was now amongst my ‘happy’ cousins and within the comfort of my extended family in Bombay. I missed Dad and secretly and quietly sobbed. Everyone was quietly watching news one day, something about ‘missiles hitting Bahrain’. It caught my attention. I didn’t quite know whatever that meant, but the mere mention of my birthplace and the place where my father now was, just captivated all my senses. The news was followed by coverage on Kuwait war victims. I asked Mom then why are they fighting, not even sure who the ‘they’ actually were. I quiet remember Mom bursting into tears.

At 23, I still don’t have the answer. Only, I have seen more wars and more killings.

“Why are they so angry?” my niece asks me effortlessly as I tune to a news coverage of a riot somewhere in the country. There were people running around screaming and creating chaos. I wondered if my niece knows who the ‘they’ are. It amazes me – how children stumble upon asking the ‘right’ questions so artlessly. Or are they wrong? I read Peter Drucker somewhere as saying “the most serious mistakes are not being made as a result of wrong answers. The truly dangerous thing is asking the wrong questions”.

I now know what may have crossed my mind while asking a similar vivid question when I was almost her age – a vivid innocent ‘wrong’ question from a five-year old was perhaps an outburst to everything that had crossed my patience while I waited to be back with Dad, school, my friends and with Bahrain. Although knowing something was wrong somewhere, the reason was incredulous to me – like playing hide and seek. My wait seemed to be unending and aching.

Maybe it was an expression of angst to the fact that perhaps, it’s all not worth making a child wait to be back to her ‘normal’ life. To be back with her family.

But these people who kill – what do they think? How do they cope with such distress? Do they even ask these questions to themselves? Has the thought ever crossed them? If they suffered, maybe they wouldn’t have hurt others. So, maybe they don’t suffer. Because they have created the problem. The war ended. Life returned to normal. While all the grown-ups around me were busy talking about the aftermath of the war, my mind was caught in a web of questions.

That’s what it takes, perhaps, to be a human – to be a child. I have always held on to a personal belief – that we all have a child somewhere in the world of our subconscious mind. A child who wants his family and parents around him so that he sleeps happily and feels secure; who simply cannot figure out that if its not a game and there is nothing to win, then why are people conflicting; who thinks that his best friend is more important to him than the cast. Alas! It is the ‘matured’, the grown-up who has learnt to differentiate – learnt to bury the child under ‘socially acceptable norms’. The child is, after all, just a child – who continues to question. Waits. Lost. Dead.

Is it then that these people are born? People who are angry – who fight – who kill.

Perhaps… Yes.

The first killed… is the child.

a smile does wonders...

I had met a happy spirit when I stopped to give my sandals to be repaired to the roadside shoemaker on the busy street of Victoria Terminus in Mumbai. The tiring day and the terrible heat had taken the smile off my face and left me in an irritable mood. But the young shoemaker did not seem to want to stop smiling. He accepted the work I gave him enthusiastically and started his work. “How much are you going to charge me? “ I asked in an irritated tone. “Only 30 rupees,” he replied. I asked him to give my pair of sandals back to me saying that I can get it done in much cheaper rate near my house. “OK OK, how much are you willing to pay?” he asked with a smile and in a tone that sounded as though he was having mercy on me by giving me the relief of paying how much ever I wanted. We agreed on Rs.15.

I observed him carefully as he set about his work. He was a young lad of not more than 16 – 17 years with bright happy light-brown eyes. He was humming a tune of a song I thought was from a Bhojpuri film. He was trying to figure out how to fix the heel, neatly without damaging the sandals and analysed all possibilities by curiously checking out the interesting tools he had. He was taking his own time while I was standing on a busy pavement without my sandals!! I was in a hurry to catch the train. The pace at which he was working was beginning to annoy me. However, it was interesting to see him doing his work with such energy and enthusiasm - a work most of us would find so boring and lifeless, that we would choose to just go for a new pair instead of ‘wasting’ our time on the old one.

While I was standing – barefoot (the pavements were very clean fortunately) on the busy noisy street – I wondered what might be the reason for this boy smiling bright. He was sitting by the pavement and repairing shoes and sandals for a meager amount. Perhaps the demanding life and cruelties of Mumbai city had not caught him yet. But then I thought that perhaps it’s not strange of him to smile without a reason – a reason necessarily being money, security, the company of your family and friends. Its foolish of us to believe that there has to be a reason to be happy. If you’ve the security, money, friends and family, there’s no reason for you to frown and be sad. So then, why was this boy happy about whatever he was doing?

“Dekha, ho gaya na ek dum mast,” the shoemaker exclaims with a sense of achievement. I suddenly came out of my thoughts only to be amazed at the excitement he felt at completing the work satisfactorily. He set about to work on the other sandal. And I walked down my mind’s path again. Perhaps we, in secured environments, expected too much from life and ourselves. That’s why we need a reason to be happy and smile. Perhaps, what is important to us is acknowledgment from others than from ourselves. It’s like saying ‘ if you want to be happy, study hard or earn good money, listen to your parents etc. ’. I guess, the cause and effect theorem runs in the Indian race.

Perhaps the shoemaker, has come face to face with the fact that no matter how high we aim, how hard we work, happiness is somewhere within you. There seems to be no meaning in cribbing complaining and cursing all the beings around you for the situation you are in. At the end of the day, you have to live it. Might as well live it with hopes, realistic and a positive attitude and expectations according to your capabilities. Happiness after all isn’t in any ‘How to be Happy’ book or ‘25waystobeHappy.com’. It comes when you realize it is time to stop expecting and start doing what really gives your mind content. It comes when you realize that dream is one thing, ambition is another.

Don’t worry. I didn’t realize so many things standing barefoot on the pavement under the scorching sun. But, I definitely set about thinking while I was traveling in the ladies compartment of the train. Here, I saw faces, tired, sleepy and refusing to smile back at you when you smile at them. They complain about the monotonous routine and how they’d have to go home and cook food and how the neighbour hasn’t yet returned the utensils! These were the working women of Mumbai.

As for the shoemaker, I had paid him Rs. 20 and left happy. I see him by the pavement everyday – the same bright eyes, a wide smile and singing a song from the bottom of his heart.