It has been more than a year since I published a post on my blog. Can you even imagine…more than 365 days? That sounds like eternity, isn’t? Since the last time I gushed out my feelings, this planet has become a warmer, hostile and brutal place. Senseless war against humanity continues to baffle everyone in Syria and Iraq, thousands of refugees with dreams of a new life knock on the doors of Europe and the United States has suddenly woken up to a harsh new despotic reality, hitherto unknown!
And, of course, more than 365 days since my beloved father bid us ‘goodbye’. I failed to overcome my grief and loss, I failed to express and I failed to write for so long! But, I have definitely penned my thoughts about the inexplicable sense of void in my heart: about my life after he is gone.
So, here it is…
After You!
It is days like these
When the soft warmth of the sun
Replenishes our sagged skin
After a long harsh winter.
It is days like these
When anecdotes from those wintry afternoons,
Of long conversations in the sun
About books, politics and biographies come alive in my mind.
It is days like these
When I feel flustered and floored,
And, I hear that loving voice of yours echo in my mind
‘Pick yourself up because you can never give up’.
It is days like these
When my heart is overjoyed
With a new feat that I have achieved
And, I yearn:
‘Oh, you would be so proud today only if you were around’.
It is evenings like these
When I venture into a book store,
And, as I marvel at the latest book on the stands,
I scurry my hands through my hand bag,
To dial your number on my phone. Alas! I wish I could share this sense of joy!
It is afternoons like these in European summers
When I visit a museum in your favourite city
And I so earnestly wish to have you by my side.
‘Snuff that idea at once’. I know, it is a wistful longing of mine!
It is wee hours of mornings like these
When the memories of your dream
Keeps me wide-eyed, sometimes in pain and sometimes in disbelief.
It is torturous times like these
When ‘THEY’ question and hammer the inner spirit of women.
Knocking down many, thwarting several to the lowest abyss
I hear your words of wisdom ring in my ears:
‘Spread your wings and be the person you want to be’.
It is mornings like these
And, afternoons and evenings like those
And, weeks and months like these…
It is now and often, and all the time, really
That memories of you knock the wind out of me and I am left to wonder,
Where have you gone? I wonder… to a world, elusive and unknown!
It has been close to two months since I had a conversation with my father. I call him Baba. And, he? He would call me ‘shunu munu’ (meaning sweetheart). That long since I heard his voice, or picked up the phone to ask, ‘How are you doing Baba? Did you eat well?’ It has been close to two months since I visualized him smile on the phone or asked my mother, ‘Is Baba sleeping well, is he taking his medicines on time?’ Neither did I hear him complain, ‘why can’t you speak to me as often as you do with your mother?’ for this long. Well, I don’t call him anymore. I don’t worry about his health or happiness anymore either. But, I spend sleepless nights thinking of him, though; tossing and turning all through long, cold nights.
He is gone, gone forever: somewhere elusive and impassable. Bereaved and glum, we remain…distraught by his fond memories. Wondering…
Life is cruel, isn’t it? It goes on, no matter what. Even when he is gone, life moved on. The Sun awakened the world on time and it did cast a pall of gloom when it set beyond the horizon. The trees shed their leaves, the rivers flowed, and rains poured ushering in the white blanket of snow. People went to work, the din of Monday mornings and the hustle and bustle before Christmas crept in too. People did put up lights on their balconies, welcoming Christmas, it peeped and swept by too. Time flew. And, I flew thousands of miles across continents, hugged friends, smiled, looked out of the window, pondered and wondered…Even when he is gone, life went on, like it has to, like it always did and like it will always do.
But, the unseen heart throbbed in pain, with a gaping hole of loss and longing. Can the monotony of everyday life ever fill this hole of emptiness within? Can time ever heal the throbbing pain inside? Can anything ever assuage the deep-seated grief? And, can I ever accept that he is gone…gone away for eternity?
Death is inevitable, we all know. But, again, how can we ever grapple with the void that death leaves behind? I grew up, looking up to him, learning about the nitty-gritties of this human existence, about life and love from him, and there comes a star-crossed day when he disappears from the face of this earth…never to return. How can the human mind fathom this? How can the heart battle the pangs of loss and how can we ever carry on with life?
If I were a child, I would look out of the balcony, wait for hours for the shrouded grey sky to open up to sparkling stars. I would believe, he is one of them and strike up a conversation. He is chatty, like I am too. But, as an adult, I have neither science nor mystical adventure to fall back on. I am clueless as to where he is, how he is…The mind never ceases to question and the heart vehemently refuses to comprehend. Both clamour in disbelief.
Death, the mighty and powerful eclipses life time and again. Like an indifferent lover, I try to shrug off, accept the stroke of destiny and stride ahead. But, can I? And, how?
May be, he would come by in my dreams, sometime. We shall then have a hearty conversation about books, about politics and the joy of giving. Till then, I shall hope that somewhere unknown and impassable, my Baba is doing very well, sipping a hot cup of tea and reading up every nook and corner of the newspaper, like he always did. Stay happy Baba, miss you so immensely every day. Can I ever accept the cruel fact of life that you are gone…gone to never return again?
Languages are like passports to a brand new world!
It has been a little more than two years since I moved to Norway. The lush green landscape, the pristine blue sky dotted with specks of clouds during summers and the white blanket of snow during the winters: they have all become an inseparable part of my life now. The clean roads, the hospitable people and a deep sense of safety: these are intrinsic to my life here. Oh, I love Norway, very dearly indeed! But, besides everything else, there’s something that I have failed to embrace suitably. Initially, it has been quite like an affliction when it came to learning the local language, Norwegian. Or, if I may put it subtly, the notion of perfection is entrenched so deeply within me that whatever little or more (based on perception and subjectivity) I learned the past two years, only looked ‘miserable’ to me. Arrgh! The incurable disease of perfection often proves to be a bane than a boon, especially when it comes to learning a foreign language.
So, the question that you are all itching to thwart at me: ‘Do you speak Norwegian?’ And, the instant answer, would be, ‘Yes, I do’. But, little or more is something worth a healthy debate after a hearty meal.
Over the last two years, I tried quite a few things: took up classes, joined discussion groups, mugged up words, read books, perfected grammar (almost), took exams and cleared them too! Sometimes, my commitment to the language was praiseworthy. And, many a times, the efforts were half-hearted. But, even after doing most of the things right, I still feel pretty much ‘Lost in Translation’. And, even though, amidst conversations and a casual tête–à–tête with my wonderful neighbour, I feel quite lost, I still crave earnestly to be NOT ‘Lost in Translation’. I know, I have so much to talk about, discuss and write. Yet, I have a tiny bag of words that fails to suffice my deep yearning for conversations.
Like most of the average Indians, I could master three languages very early in my life. How did I do that? Long before I went to preliminary school, I was fluent in Bengali (my mother tongue), Hindi and English. All thanks to my mother, the National Television of India and my love for languages. Then, why does it feel like a herculean task for me to embrace Norwegian now?
So, what can I do further?
Almost after two years of incessant attempts, I have realized three important truths about learning a foreign language:
a) It is more psychological than anything else: Learning a foreign language definitely has a psychological, social and emotional aspect to it. Because, for adults, there is an immense pressure to learn a language faster, there is an expectation to understand a conversation accurately and a necessity to speak fluently and write correctly. Because, as adults, seldom do we feel inclined to invest efforts to learn a foreign language unless it is necessitated by circumstances. And, that’s where the crux of the problem lies. Instead of enjoying the little idiosyncrasies of a new language, we feel bogged down by the pressure to learn faster and comprehend better. And, that expectation brings along an inescapable vicious circle of expectation, frustration and humiliation. So, while we learn a little, we crib, complain and feel frustrated more.
b) Love or attachment to a popular/global language: Ever since I remember, I have always been fond of English language. Born and raised in India that must have come naturally to me (our history is a testimony to that fact). Though I always wanted to learn Spanish and French, I was too caught up in the cosy embrace of the English language. And, after I landed in Norway, I realized that almost everybody speaks English. So, any situation where-in I would struggle to put my foot in Norwegian, I knew, English would always bail me out. And, that’s what I resorted to: the easier way out. Quite unknowingly, that made it even more challenging for me to learn Norwegian. Because, instead of feeling frustrated about rickety conversations in Norwegian, I gladly switched to English.
c) Longing for perfection: Amidst conversations or during programmes on TV or radio, I would always aim at understanding each word of the speaker. Even if I understood the message, I would frown at my incapability to comprehend the speech in entirety. So, I gave up on listening on the plea that I cannot comprehend Norwegian speech as much as I would have wanted to. This is another pitfall. We should understand and accept that understanding a little is alright. It takes time for ‘a little’ to graduate to ‘some’ and then to ‘much’ and finally to ‘all’. It’s a long path, anyway. And, it takes time, in fact, quite a lot of time. We need to hang in there, pat our own back sometimes and march on. As many polyglots would often say, ‘Comprehension is key. First, understand the message and then the language.’ I had listened in to a TED Talk where-in the speaker emphasized the fact that there are filters in our brain that filters in the sound it is familiar with and filters out that it is not familiar with. So, here you go! Don’t panic when the brain refuses to recognize the sounds/words. It needs to listen to more such words to get accustomed to it. So, listen in to conversations, programmes…more and more till the brain recognizes the sounds.
So, let’s begin to communicate with whatever little knowledge of the language we have gathered so far. Trust me, we won’t frustrate the locals. They would rather be joyous to help. And, don’t fret or fume or feel frustrated at failed attempts. Rather, take it easy. Relax. Accept that it will take time and enjoy the language. Let’s emulate children: how they weave one word with another and convey their message. Let’s be curious!
And, let’s NOT feel ‘Lost in Translation’ anymore!
“As far as the laws of mathematics refer to reality, they are not certain; and as far as they are certain, they do not refer to reality.” ― Albert Einstein
I am sure, most of you who would be reading this post would know the story of the movie or might have read the 2007 Lisa Genova’s book of the same name. So, I shall prefer to refrain from writing much about the plot of the movie/book. I shall rather, talk about the thoughts that passed my mind as the movie unfolded before me!
And, just within the first 10 minutes of the movie, I stood up and couldn’t help but wonder…wow! Life is so ruthlessly uncertain! Even if you have your whole life planned out before you, even if you have been a meticulous perfectionist all your life doing everything when it was expected to be done or someone like me, a procrastinator always fanning the long-list of dreams and hoping that one day a miracle would go zoom and whoa will change my life…LIFE, sometimes a friend and sometimes a foe, has its own mind! It does what pleases to it and decides when and how! After all, who knows what lies in our future!
I was moved! I was totally taken captive by the character of Alice Howland, a linguistics professor, played by one of my favourites, Julianne Moore. She is a superbly successful professor, profoundly respected for her years of research in linguistics, and having given lectures in some of the most prestigious universities across the whole world. And, even in her personal front, she is blessed with a perfect family: an understanding and supportive husband and three successful children. Everything looks perfect! It’s like having all the pieces of the puzzle (of life) firmly secured in its right place! Whoa! So enviously perfect, isn’t it? But, life as we all know, has its own fiendish plans! It strikes one day and catches everyone unawares!
During one of her lectures, she forgets the word, ‘lexicon’ and out on a walk, she gets lost in her own campus too…well, this is how things change in her life…and, it only gets worse from here on…She loses her job, forgets her daughter’s name, finds it difficult to locate the bathroom in her own house and wets herself etc. etc. As a viewer, I was moved to tears! As she feels ‘lost’ in the movie, I feel ‘lost’ too! As she says during one of her talks in an Alzheimer’s conference, ‘learning the art of losing’, I ponder too! Her whole life, she has put in so much of hard work to live a life that she hoped to live, but, she lived the unexpected, a life lost in the art of losing! Her identity as a successful professor, her brilliance as an ingenious academic and her role as a mother: everything was lost: her past and her future! What remained was the fretful worries of the present, the trivial worries like ‘will I remember my name’, ‘will I remember the spellings’, ‘Will I remember my daughter’s birthday’ or ‘will I remember who I was’ or ‘where I live’! A life lost in innumerable trivial but pertinent ‘what-ifs’…
So, what if tomorrow looks like an alien to me…what if things that I know and believe in turn out to be a blatant lie and what if everything that I have earned over the last so many years: the achievements, the dreams and hopes get ‘lost’ one day…will I ever learn ‘the art of losing’? What if…
It fizzles out of hand- time! It gallops across seasons, years, decades and affects everything: people, relationships, cities and countries! But, thank God, certain things remain constant…exactly the way you have left behind many years ago: the love, affection and concern of parents, siblings, cousins, aunts and uncles: they do not get affected, but they age to become even more ardent!
And, friends…well, while some remain the same good old pals, sharing your laughter, understanding your pain, reliving the good old memories every time we meet again! Even the ‘not-so-nice-to-remember’ memories, they get relegated to the past to create a bond that’s forever to last (at least, we do hope! Otherwise of course, life, has it’s own plan always! Haha!) But, again, there are some who get affected by the onslaught of change. It is subtle indeed! It isn’t conspicuous, but, when you look (read feel) deep inside, you know that time has sprayed various subtle colours of superficiality on it! I have remained the same, our memories have remained the same, our glorious days of laughter from the past remain the same, but, you have moved ahead in time!
Time, you never cease to amuse!
P.S. I have just come back from a month-long trip to my home country, India. I felt blessed to meet my family and friends back home!
India is a land of contradictions! It is indeed a miracle as to how 1 billion people from diverse backgrounds, practising different religious faiths, speaking multiple and varied languages with entirely different cultural backgrounds and food habits can survive in a democracy! That’s why perhaps, Thomas Friedman, the erudite journalist and columnist from New York Times once expressed, ‘India is a miracle’. Yes, it is indeed! Irrespective of their differences, they can all co-exist peacefully! In spite of everything, they have emerged as one of the fastest growing economies of the world!
However, there is another side to India: the hateful and the heartless, the malicious and the malignant, the gory and the grotesque! Last December, I had the opportunity to write about one of those dark and often much-talked-about haunting stories of gender-biased sex selection in India. Many times, during my research and interviews, my eyes were moist, my throat choked and my heart bled! I couldn’t believe this is the same India where I was born and raised. Because, the India that I was writing about, was alien to me!
‘The Missing Daughters of India’ was published in the ‘Women United’ magazine, popularly known as ‘Kvinner Sammen’ in Norwegian. It is published by FOKUS which is a Norwegian umbrella organization constituted by 66 women’s organizations. Additionally, FOKUS is Norway’s national committee to UN Women.
Her eyes are blank. She looks distraught and devastated. The last couple of weeks have been a nightmare for 17-year-old Ruhi*. Belonging to a poverty-stricken family from a remote village in Bangladesh, she is married off to a much older man in a village in Haryana in India. It cost him only a few thousand rupees to secure a young bride. Within a day or two of the betrothal, Ruhi is subjected to something even more heinous: she is asked to satisfy the sexual desires of two other men in her husband’s family— she is reduced to a piece of flesh shared by other men.
“The emergence of forced polyandry; i.e., one woman being shared by several men in parts of Punjab, Haryana and Western Uttar Pradesh is one of the most dreadful consequences of extensive sex selection in India,” says Dr. Sabu George who has done extensive research in this area for the last 30 years. He was also involved with the public interest litigation in the Indian Supreme Court to implement the Pre-Natal Diagnostic Techniques (PNDT) Act to restrain the misuse of foetal sex determination. The rampant sex selection in recent decades has created a genocide, he opines. According to Dr. Sabu, more than 6 million girls have been eliminated before birth in India over the last decade. “This is more than the number of Jews killed in the Holocaust by the Nazis. If the trend is to continue, it is estimated that it will be a million every year,” he says.
Various cultural, social and economic factors have led to the practice of prenatal sex selection in India. A deep-rooted prejudice against women especially because of the high cost of dowry that is required to be provided to daughters during their weddings coupled with a strong preference for sons for reasons related to inheritance, last rites, identity, status, economic security and means of support for aging parents and lineage has resulted in the elimination of millions of girls. It initially started as an urban phenomenon in high income groups in the areas of Delhi, Haryana and Punjab who had access to both technology and money. But, it soon trickled down to other areas like Rajasthan, Jammu and Kashmir, Maharashtra and many other areas like Tamil Nadu in the southern India. With a sex ratio of 914 in India and below 850 in the states of Haryana and Punjab, women in India are outnumbered by men. With pressures to conform and comply, they are becoming victims of sexual sviolence and crimes like sex trafficking and early marriage.
In his tell-tale narrative documentary, Undesired ‘Missing Women in India, multiple award-winning Argentinian photojournalist Walter Astrada points out that 30 years of sex selective births have created a shortage of girls in India, leaving many young men with no eligible brides. “Bride-selling has developed in recent years with women bought from poor Indian families or brought from other countries like Bangladesh,” he observes.
Sex-trafficking, sexual violence and polyandry
In remote villages in Haryana in India, many women serve as wife to two, three or more men in the household. Sunita Menon from Breakthrough, a global human rights organization that works extensively in the worst-affected districts of Haryana, talks about young men in their late 20s and 30s who find it difficult to find brides in their own caste and community. In such a scenario, brides are trafficked from Jharkhand, Orissa, Assam and Kerala. Very young girls from poverty-stricken and vulnerable families are trafficked in the name of jobs and better opportunities. They are married off to strange men who are much older. “Then, they are forced to have sexual relationships with the husband and other male members of the family. With no knowledge of the language (Haryanvi) and culture and absolutely no rights in the family, these women are sexually used and abused just to satisfy the male members of the family and produce a male child,” Ms. Menon says.
When Dr. Virendra Vidrohi, social worker from Alwar district in Rajasthan appeared on Satyamev Jayate, a talk show that highlights social issues prevalent in India, he said, “Every year 15,000 girls are bought to Rajasthan from Orissa, Bengal, Bihar, Jharkhand, Chattisharh, Andhra Pradesh, and Belgaum in Karnataka for marriage.” In the coming 10 years, almost 2 billion men will not find women to get married to, it was reported in the show.
Emmy Award winning journalist and activist Ruchira Gupta has worked for over 25 years to end sex trafficking in India. In 2002, she started Apne Aap Women Worldwide, an anti-trafficking organization to support women across India. “Among root causes of sex-trafficking are son preference and daughter deficit,” she says. “On the one hand, this has led to sex-trafficking where communities with too many men are buying girls from faraway states to reproduce, cook, clean and provide sex. On the other, a lack of female companionship, combined with a desire to dominate, drives men to the red light area to buy girls,” Gupta says. She adds that this creates the demand for purchase of sex, which fuels the sex industry as trafficker see a profit in buying and selling girls due to the demand.
Ravinder Singh is quite a favourite among youngsters in India. His simple stories of love and longing strike a chord with millions of young readers in the subcontinent. So, for all the young readers who love to read his stories and immerse in his thoughts, this one goes out to all of you. The following post was published as a cover story for Storizen magazine last October. And, let me just share a personal insight with you all: Ravinder Singh took out time to personally appreciate my story on his FB page. So, that’s a little ‘something’ about him.
Happy reading!
Ravinder Singh: His Enchanting World of Romance and Nostalgia
His delicate fingers did pretty well for a 12-year-old. They clasped his Hindi literature book firmly to his chest like they were the biggest assets of his life, like they would never let it go! Life, for this 12-year-old boy, in this nondescript little town of Burla in Orissa was nothing extraordinary indeed. Coming from a humble background, his dreams were neither fancy nor fantastic. They were, to borrow a phrase, ‘run-of-the-mill’. Riding on his father’s bicycle, on his way to school, very often, he would wishfully steal a few glances of one of his classmate’s father’s motorcycle, a LML Vespa. He would often engage himself in nonchalant conversations with that classmate of his; and during one of those casual conversations, he figured that his father was an employee at a nearby bank. “Wow! When I grow up, I want to own a LML Vespa, I could be a bank employee too and ride on my motorcycle.” Riding on the tide of innocence, the 12-year-old boy did not much fret about life, he did not expect astonishing things to happen to him then and in future too. It was all about a LML Vespa after all, and a-not-so-glorious-job at a bank. That’s so much about his dreams.
Cut to 2013
Meticulously dressed, he sat at one of the farthest corners of a large auditorium, teeming with people. Faces from every nook and corner of the hall popped, craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the man of the moment, animatedly engaged in an autograph-signing spree. Riding on the tide of popularity and success, he has, with a lot of ease, earned the title of ‘the largest selling author of romance’ in India. At 31, he is often regarded as ‘India’s highest-selling author’ of best-selling blockbusters like I Too Had a Love Story and Can Love Happen Twice. He has recently released his highly anticipated third book, Like It Happened Yesterday which is a memoir of his childhood days in a small town in Burla in Orissa. And, not surprisingly, it has already earned the title of a bestselling novel. An engineer who has worked with highly reputed IT companies, an MBA from a distinguished B-school and now a best-selling author with a large fan following among youngsters; life, for this 31-year-old is nothing short of extraordinary indeed! From a small-town boy with very commonplace dreams, he has graduated to become an exceptionally successful man, somebody who inspires young minds of an entire nation. That is, of course, Ravinder Singh, the best-selling author, and, like he is popularly known as, Ravin for us.
Life has been kind to him, Ravin knows it, and, hence, accepts the title of a ‘best-selling author’ with humility. And, when labelled as a small-town boy, he shows no signs of chagrin either. “Demography cannot define anybody’s success, I would like to endorse this fact. In whatever way I can, I would like to motivate people to get rid of this idea,” Ravin points out. He goes on to add, “There are hundreds of challenges in small towns. People who learn to live with those challenges can adapt themselves to deal and battle real challenges of life well and become real good contenders to achieve success. They probably might lack in confidence. But, given the right support and guidance, they have it in them to do wonders in life.” It is not too difficult to understand that Ravin sets an example to thousands of young boys and girls from small towns in India who create their bubble of dreams and hopes for a better and successful life. He makes them believe that their bubble won’t burst if they nourish it well with all the right ingredients. Ravin rightly adds, “We never knew about Malgudi until R K Narayan gave us Malgudi Days. No one knew about Burla too, a small town in Western Orissa. But, now, they do.” Ravinder Singh’s latest book Like It happened Yesterday beautifully chronicles the delightful days of his childhood in this small town of Burla. He calls it ‘a celebration of nostalgia’. And, if we may add figures to facts, Like It Happened Yesterday recorded the first impression of more than two lakh copies.
For a successful author like Ravinder Singh, it may come as a bit of a surprise when he calls himself an ‘author by chance’. “I call myself an author-by-chance because I have had nothing to do with the world of books so far. Forget writing, I wasn’t much into reading books, I hadn’t read a single book before I started writing mine,” Ravin says. It was Bal Bharati, his Hindi literature books in school that he read as a child. Quite disarmingly he puts it, “Burla is such a small town and I was brought up in such a lower middle class family that my parents could hardly inculcate the habit of reading in me. Neither were there books available in that town nor were my friends into reading. That’s how limited my scope of reading was during my childhood. It was only during college I learnt that reading books could also be a hobby.”
A terrible personal loss, the tragic death of his beloved jabbed a deep wound in his heart and left a void in his life. But, he didn’t despair, he took to writing instead. Through writing, he wished to pay a tribute to his deceased beloved. He realized that writing was almost like a therapy for him. And, that’s how I Too Had a Love Story was born, an autobiographical account of his own love story. Through writing, he felt, his deepest wounds could heal. “I Too Had a Love Story connected the last dots and completed my incomplete love story. It brought in a lot of healing and a much-needed closure; if I hadn’t poured down my feelings on ink and paper, I couldn’t have been where I am today,” Ravin explains.
I Too Had a Love Story struck a chord with tens of thousands of readers across India; youngsters from towns and cities, big and small, lapped up the book with unheard-of adulation. It went on to become one of the largest selling books in the year 2008. His second book, Can Love Happen Twice has sold much more than a lakh of copies. The success of both the books has conveniently earned him the title of ‘Maharaja of Romance’. From an ‘author-by-chance’, Ravinder Singh became ‘an author-by-choice’. “While penning down my own story in the form of my first book, I discovered that writing came naturally to me. That’s why, I continue to do so by choice because I realized that I fell in love with writing in a span of last four to five years,” Ravin elucidates.
Kailash Satyarthi and Malala Yousafzai: so different yet so alike!
Kailash Satyarthi is 60. Malala Yousafzai is 17! Satyarthi has hitherto been almost a ‘nameless’ cause in the media, Malala has often been called ‘Media’s darling’. Satyarthi has 35 long and arduous years of movement for children’s rights behind him, Malala has promise to serve and effect change ahead of her. Satyarthi has taken the suffering of tens of thousands of children upon himself and healed his wounds caused by the fire to bring about change in the society. And, Malala: she has been a sufferer herself, a victim of dogmatic ideologies who has survived from the jaws of death and displayed steely determination coupled with courage to make a difference, and, she did, of course! Satyarthi is from India and Malala is from Pakistan. So far, their paths have been different. Their tales of excruciating pain and struggle have been unlike too! But, their paths met, because, their varied roads led to the same goal. Because, they challenged the ‘usual’ norms, because they cherished the same hope, because they nurtured the same vision for every child under the sun: right to a happy and a fulfilling childhood.
Kailash Satyarthi and Malala Yousafzai with their Nobel Peace Prize Diplomas.
Addressing thousands of distinguished guests including the Norwegian Royal Family, the Prime Minister of Norway, artists from all over the world, prominent guests from various walks of life and a congregation of media from every corner of the world, Chairman of the Norwegian Nobel Committee, Thorbjørn Jagland announced, Satyarthi and Yousafzai are precisely the people whom Alfred Nobel in his will calls “champions of peace”.
And, when Satyarthi and Malala in their characteristic composure took to the lofty podium to receive the honour, the entire Oslo City Hall reverberated with thunderous applause. The distinguished guests stood up to nod and marvel at the greatness of two ‘champions of peace’: one, a school girl and the other, a grey-haired middle-aged man! And, the packs of cameras with their frighteningly long zoom lenses flapped on, incessantly.
And, the frenzied and insolent media
Quite ironically, while thousands of people celebrated the prestigious Peace Prize ceremony in the gigantic Oslo City Hall, there was ‘chaos’ written all across the entire gallery on the second floor! Photographers with their fiendishly long zoom lenses swarmed the entire gallery. They jostled for space, they nudged their lenses onto each other and spat venomous comments on their fraternity at the slightest of provocation! The reporters looked a harried lot too, they elbowed others and took very little care of the others beside them. Young women empowered by the assumed power of their microphones were hardly interested in anything, but an ‘exclusive’ report or an interview with any of the winners. I stood there, amused and appalled. An elderly photojournalist requested a young reporter who had come on the way of his lenses, and she retorted, “I can’t, I am sorry, I can’t I am sorry!” Even after repeated requests from the photojournalist, her response was curt and her facial expressions were repugnant! I stood there, speechless at her insolence.
There was more in store for me…more of contemptuously rude behaviour from journalists around. Another photojournalist wrapped with three cameras around him walked towards me; he gestured, snapping his fingers at me, insinuating me to step aside and make space for him. I was startled at his behaviour initially, but decided to move aside and give space to him. I thought, being a photojournalist, he deserves to be there right in the middle of action, to capture moments of history for posterity. Alternating between two snazzy cameras, he went on capturing every bit of the event, his lenses flapped on incessantly. I waited…and, waited…for him to move aside. But, he didn’t. After almost half an hour, I requested him to make a little bit of space for me as well. Though not as sophisticated as his, my camera was waiting far too long to capture historic moments in the city hall below. He curtly refused to move an inch aside. I was polite and yet firm, “I guess, each one of us should get equal opportunities to take pictures here,” I said. Behind me, around three photojournalists were waiting too, “You shouldn’t have given in your place to him”, they said. At that very moment, the insolent photojournalist turned back and hurled, “I am a photographer. I need to be right here. I can’t move”. “We are all here to do the same,” another reporter countered from behind.
There were two more similar incidents of altercations. I noticed another photojournalist who seemed to be quite an ‘Angry Young Man’…impulsive and insolent. Obsessed and occupied, they hardly smiled (even the young female reporters from India), except for any quick favour. And, they never cared to say ‘hi’ or even a polite ‘thank you’. (Yeah, yeah, I know…they are the busy bees!) I was bewildered, disappointed too! Many years ago, I had extensive arguments with my father to convince him to let me become a Journalist. He was convinced and I did become a Journalist too. But, after many years, when I ponder upon the current situation of journalism, instances of their insensitive, selfish and shallow take on humanity and human stories, I feel relieved that I am not a journalist OF THIS KIND (No offence to hundreds of many sincere, dedicated and committed journalists all over the world, my highest regards to them). I am content being just an ordinary writer who is passionately interested about issues pertaining to humanity!
What Satyarthi and Malala said:
“We need collective actions with a sense of urgency. Every single minute matters, every single child matters, every single childhood matters,” said Kailash Satyarthi, the man who achieved the release of some 80,000 children, rising above violence and constant threats to his life. His son and wife looked on, as he addressed the whole world in his distinctive white ‘kurta’ (an Indian traditional attire for men) with a familiar smile on his face. He called upon all the governments, intergovernmental agencies, businesses, faith leaders, the civil society and everybody to ‘put an end to all forms of violence against children’. “Slavery, trafficking, child marriages, child labour, sexual abuse and illiteracy have no place in any civilized society,” he affirmed. He also announced that the single aim of his life is that every child is ‘free to be a child, to grow and develop, to laugh and cry, to play, to learn, to go to school and above all, to dream’.
In her distinctively soft yet firm voice, Malala announced before the world that she is not a lone voice, she is the voice of 66 million girls who are out of school today. Emphasizing the importance of education, Malala recalled her speech at the United Nations last year, “One child, one teacher, one pen and one book can change the world.” Along with her parents and two little brothers, she had brought along girls from Syria, Pakistan and Nigeria: little girls with similar stories of anguish, violence and pain. The occasion of Nobel Peace Prize was befitting for her to reach out to the world leaders who will meet at the United Nations to decide on the next set of goals, the Sustainable Development Goals in the year 2015. “Leaders must seize this opportunity to guarantee a free, quality primary and secondary education for every child. Some will say this is impractical, or, too expensive, or too hard. Or even impossible. But, it is time, the world thinks bigger,” she stated. “My great hope is that this will be the last time we must fight for the education of the children”, Malala, ‘the girl who wanted to go to school’, as she was known to the world a few years ago, opined.
This cover story was published in the first year anniversary edition of Storizen magazine. I hope you enjoy reading this.
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The Author who writes for his soul!
Ashwin Sanghiwho churns out adventurous and pacey potion of history and religion wrapped in a paperback
Ashwin Sanghi on the cover of Storizen magazine
It is past dinner time, it is long since the last cup of coffee was poured from the dark brown pot. The overbearing impressions of coffee on the saucer narrate the story: it has been a long night! The lights have gone off in most of the houses in the neighbourhood. There is inert silence all around. And, as the night becomes darker and quieter, the clanking of the keyboard becomes louder and intense! There is a story waiting to be told, there is agony for holding it for long, and, thus, the words tumble onto the key board like they never did before! Writing is divine and serene to him, it is like offering a prayer. “Why do I write? Because it is my ticket to sanity!” he says, “It’s almost the equivalent of meditation or prayer”. Regarded as one of India’s highest selling English fiction authors, Ashwin Sanghi is ‘an entrepreneur by day and novelist by night’. (He is a director of the M. K. Sanghi Group of Companies). He explains to us, “I work in a boring business Monday to Friday. When I return home, I’m excited to lose myself in my fictional world of priests, assassins, politicians, femme fatales, soothsayers and mafia dons!” His books have the chills and thrills of a fast paced suspense-drama indeed. But, the things that fascinate Ashwin are usually rooted in history, mythology, crime, politics and religion. “That is my DNA”, he says, “…it’s the stuff that gets my adrenaline pumping.”The Rozabal Line, Chanakya’s Chant and The Krishna Key: they all have the perfect concoction of suspense, politics, history, religion and mythology. Each of his novels shot into almost every bestseller list in India within a few weeks of their launch. Chanakya’s Chant and The Krishna Key remained on the national bestseller list for all 52 weeks of 2013! Sometimes, we know, it is quite perilous to be successful. History is inundated with tales of success that led to nothingness at the end. So, we ask Ashwin, ‘You have been on the bestseller list all year through. How does it feel to be so successful?’ The man wears humility with an enviable ease. He certainly doesn’t look a tad bit overwhelmed by the enormous amount of success life has bestowed upon him. He responds, “Being on a bestseller list is rewarding but also inhibiting. Unfortunately, the sad truth is that you are only as good as your last project.” For crafting fresh, innovative and intense thrillers, Ashwin swears by a few simple rules that make a good thriller. “Amplify character traits—make them larger than life; eliminate fluff; build twists and suspense ever so often; never compromise pace; build conflict until the very end.” So, we heard it from the man himself. All we need to do is achieve these few objectives and we should have ‘a delicious, freshly-baked thriller’. It is often said that Ashwin is famous for ‘exhaustively researched whopper of a plot’. Incredible research and huge volumes of information are two of the key elements that make his books bestsellers. In fact, Ashwin believes that the key differentiator that separates his books from others is ‘research’. He reads up on arcane subjects for several months. And, then, spends months together to weave his research into the plot. You can read the full story here
I wanted to write a blog post on feminism for long! That it doesn’t essentially mean I would need to hate men to be a feminist. That all it means is equal treatment for men and women at home, at work place, on the road, in the bus, in the metro, on the flight, at school, at college, at parties, at gyms, at music classes, at sports academies: everywhere that you and I can think of. That it means breaking off from the archaic, insensitive definitions in the name of gender stereotyping! I can smile even when I am hurt and my male friend can break into tears when he has been rejected admission to his dream college! Trust me, it’s perfectly normal! Just because, I am a girl, it doesn’t mean I should break down when I am pained and my male friend should assume a false façade of resilience even when his heart is bleeding with pain! Stop! This world! Stop it right here! But, all that I ever wanted to say and write about has been spoken by Emma Watson at an event for the HeForShe campaign, United Nations Headquarters in September this year. So, I thought, I better post the whole speech here for all of you to read and understand. Men, please do come forward! Understand and believe!
Here is her full speech: Emma Watson: Gender equality is your issue too Speech by UN Women Goodwill Ambassador Emma Watson at a special event for the HeForShe campaign, United Nations Headquarters, New York, 20 September 2014
“Today we are launching a campaign called “HeForShe.” I am reaching out to you because I need your help. We want to end gender inequality—and to do that we need everyone to be involved. This is the first campaign of its kind at the UN: we want to try and galvanize as many men and boys as possible to be advocates for gender equality. And we don’t just want to talk about it, but make sure it is tangible. I was appointed six months ago and the more I have spoken about feminism the more I have realized that fighting for women’s rights has too often become synonymous with man-hating. If there is one thing I know for certain, it is that this has to stop.For the record, feminism by definition is: “The belief that men and women should have equal rights and opportunities. It is the theory of the political, economic and social equality of the sexes.” I started questioning gender-based assumptions when at eight I was confused at being called “bossy,” because I wanted to direct the plays we would put on for our parents—but the boys were not. When at 14 I started being sexualized by certain elements of the press. When at 15 my girlfriends started dropping out of their sports teams because they didn’t want to appear “muscly.” When at 18 my male friends were unable to express their feelings. I decided I was a feminist and this seemed uncomplicated to me. But my recent research has shown me that feminism has become an unpopular word. Apparently I am among the ranks of women whose expressions are seen as too strong, too aggressive, isolating, anti-men and, unattractive.
Why is the word such an uncomfortable one? I am from Britain and think it is right that as a woman I am paid the same as my male counterparts. I think it is right that I should be able to make decisions about my own body. I think it is right that women be involved on my behalf in the policies and decision-making of my country. I think it is right that socially I am afforded the same respect as men. But sadly I can say that there is no one country in the world where all women can expect to receive these rights. No country in the world can yet say they have achieved gender equality. These rights I consider to be human rights but I am one of the lucky ones. My life is a sheer privilege because my parents didn’t love me less because I was born a daughter. My school did not limit me because I was a girl. My mentors didn’t assume I would go less far because I might give birth to a child one day. These influencers were the gender equality ambassadors that made me who I am today. They may not know it, but they are the inadvertent feminists who are changing the world today. And we need more of those. And if you still hate the word—it is not the word that is important but the idea and the ambition behind it. Because not all women have been afforded the same rights that I have. In fact, statistically, very few have been.
In 1995, Hilary Clinton made a famous speech in Beijing about women’s rights. Sadly many of the things she wanted to change are still a reality today. But what stood out for me the most was that only 30 per cent of her audience were male. How can we affect change in the world when only half of it is invited or feel welcome to participate in the conversation? Men—I would like to take this opportunity to extend your formal invitation. Gender equality is your issue too. Because to date, I’ve seen my father’s role as a parent being valued less by society despite my needing his presence as a child as much as my mother’s. I’ve seen young men suffering from mental illness unable to ask for help for fear it would make them look less “macho”—in fact in the UK suicide is the biggest killer of men between 20-49 years of age; eclipsing road accidents, cancer and coronary heart disease. I’ve seen men made fragile and insecure by a distorted sense of what constitutes male success. Men don’t have the benefits of equality either. We don’t often talk about men being imprisoned by gender stereotypes but I can see that that they are and that when they are free, things will change for women as a natural consequence. If men don’t have to be aggressive in order to be accepted women won’t feel compelled to be submissive. If men don’t have to control, women won’t have to be controlled. Both men and women should feel free to be sensitive. Both men and women should feel free to be strong… It is time that we all perceive gender on a spectrum not as two opposing sets of ideals. If we stop defining each other by what we are not and start defining ourselves by what we are—we can all be freer and this is what HeForShe is about. It’s about freedom. I want men to take up this mantle. So their daughters, sisters and mothers can be free from prejudice but also so that their sons have permission to be vulnerable and human too—reclaim those parts of themselves they abandoned and in doing so be a more true and complete version of themselves.
You might be thinking who is this Harry Potter girl? And what is she doing up on stage at the UN. It’s a good question and trust me, I have been asking myself the same thing. I don’t know if I am qualified to be here. All I know is that I care about this problem. And I want to make it better. And having seen what I’ve seen—and given the chance—I feel it is my duty to say something. English Statesman Edmund Burke said: “All that is needed for the forces of evil to triumph is for enough good men and women to do nothing.” In my nervousness for this speech and in my moments of doubt I’ve told myself firmly—if not me, who, if not now, when. If you have similar doubts when opportunities are presented to you I hope those words might be helpful. Because the reality is that if we do nothing it will take 75 years, or for me to be nearly a hundred before women can expect to be paid the same as men for the same work. 15.5 million girls will be married in the next 16 years as children. And at current rates it won’t be until 2086 before all rural African girls will be able to receive a secondary education. If you believe in equality, you might be one of those inadvertent feminists I spoke of earlier. And for this I applaud you. We are struggling for a uniting word but the good news is we have a uniting movement. It is called #HeForShe. I am inviting you to step forward, to be seen to speak up, to be the “he” for “she”. And to ask yourself if not me, who? If not now, when? Thank you.
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Sudipa's Musings and Memoirs 