New Beginnings

 

This is one of my first blogs after being a mom. Hell, it is my first blog after being married! And hey I have been married for a while now. So, while revisiting my blog was kind of nostalgia, euphoria all mixed in one, it is also a motivation to start writing again. I am struggling now, to put pen to paper, to translate the half- baked thoughts in my head, to comprehendible lines.

It is like a thousand volcanoes, dormant for years, have decided to erupt all at once. The gratification of words, places, actions, stories, lives led, people met, all wanting to spill on paper, convoluted, jumbled up tales, half- remembered, half forgotten,  knocking memory, aching heart, adventures other-worldly, all fighting for a spot in my mind.

Of the dalit family in Rajasthan that lost a daughter to upper caste violence and the trepidation of interviewing them for “She” was my namesake, lost to the world. Of the young woman who after losing it all to Cyclone Aila, has hope and is determined to make her life. Of the countless adivasi families in the forests of Orissa, displaced by incessant mining, losing their land and lives to fruitless legal battles. Of wild elephants that destroy habitations and evening mohua parties not in the glitterati lights of the cities, but the densely dark forests of Orissa, where silence is felt, not seen. 

I remember the sight of countless children submerged in water for hours, waiting to catch fish. Of poverty that pushes young boys, merely 12 or 13 years to hunt for crabs, hunched in anticipation in the murky lands of Sunderbans, easy prey for the tigers. I remember the sight of beautiful young girls, prostituting on the Indo-Bangla border. Of families in faraway Barmer, out-casted and forgotten, by government and others. I remember the elderly woman in Bihar clutching my hand, begging for her old age pension. She hadn’t eaten in days.  I remember the lines on the face of the man, waiting for his papers for legal ownership of his land in Udaipur. He had been waiting for over 15 years. They resembled the crevices of the man who I met in Bangladesh, patiently waiting for his land to emerge from the sea, Char land.

 Countless faces, numerous hands, stories/ anecdotes for some but living for me.

Life

 I watched them yesterday; a crackle of Cuckatoos in the Oval, close to what I call home now,

 I paused to take in their magnificence, their loud cackle,

 So familiar now, that it seems it was always a part of our lives!

  The expanse of the clear blue sky and the lush green grass,

 The tiny dew drops that nestled delicately on the expansive leaves,

 The green eucalyptus rocked gently with the cacophony of  birds and bats,

  The glistening web that the spider so painstakingly spun all night,

   Is there for me to marvel,

   A single ray of sunlight carving the intricate weave

  Dandelions and hibiscus lining my path,

  The nostalgia evoking jasmine, in full bloom, 

  I watched myself watch them again yesterday,

  As a little girl, watching life as it happens. 

 

Abandoning Reason

Bewildered is a resonant feeling for me nowadays; bewildered for the abandon of reason by some, bewildered also by the stone walls of hatred, anger, the confusion that plagues our lives, bewildered but in more measure distressed by the loss of language. Increasingly today I find myself drawn to dialectics around caste, religion, nationalism except what follows are often shrill pitched arguments that defy civility.

The loss of dialectics, of reasoned argument, is not a new phenomenon. History is rife with examples of such loss. In fact, the loss of dialectics was and continues to be an important tool for political gains. Look at the massive follower of Donald Trump or closer home Amit Shah with his war cry for Hindu Rastra. Although there is reason to blame authoritarian regimes for the rise of stifling voices, there is also but a reason to rejoice for breaking the status quo. For balancing the scales of authoritarianism is free speech, the conflicts drawn sharply on antithetical philosophies.

On philosophies then rest on this paradigm of conflict, hate and anger. Philosophies that may be influenced by our socialization, professions, education and the companions we keep! “Soft Hindutava” referred to practices of fasting, feasting, idol worship all our socialized learning. Reprimanding a child for touching a book with his foot, practised fasting on important days, mythological tales and an entire industry of mythological heroes selling bow and arrow, baton and spear, that pits the good and the bad, necessitating the need for war and more importantly violence against the other.

But who is this other? Are they the men, women and children across the border, constantly planning/scheming to destroy our “Bharat Mata”? Are they so-called “untouchables” polluting the flagrant, beautifully organized Hindu caste system? Perhaps it is the conflagration of women, the commies, the students, the third gender; minorities out there to damage the reputation of this country?  

This country is under siege. The reputation of a sovereign, socialist, republic is under siege. Where the only benchmark of nationalism is the chanting of Bharat Mata ki Jai in cricket matches, parliament and news channels, where the death of a man’s investigation is postponed for a forensic examination of the meat he consumed, where wells are poisoned as a matter of propriety, where students and teachers are part of witch-hunts more sinister than any investigation for tax defaulters and money launderers, where rape and assault of women go unnoticed, where men and women are killed at point blank range as collaterals of war, where young children are denied education, food, water , dignity every day of their lives, where godmen and politicians connive to kill a river; mock justice and gather more devotees, where the building of Ram Mandir is the mandate for every village, over the shocking state of drought, suicides and parched lands, where the Prime Minister tours the world, having time to congratulate a colleague for the spectacular theatrics on the floor of the house, uploads selfies by the minute and stay mum on all other issues; bizarre is the only word that escapes my lips!

My mind is filled with the bizarreness of events. Every waking hour is an effort to dispel the thoughts and function in the present. Mechanized, sanitized in the space that I call own, function without reason, despair for the loss of humanity, but not more than the despair of one’s own discomfort. Pragmatism is action, in touch for I remain untouched, a mere spectator, an armchair activist at best. Yet the gnawing in the heart; the melancholy of aloneness, of language lost, unheard, crushed.

Our professions define our worldviews. In the deeply caste embedded society of India, the ignominy of this line reiterate all that exists and all that we are. Undeniably sophisticated, up-market individuals not practising discrimination overtly, yet deeply afflicted to our business caste identities. Corporate entities concerned with business models of growth, building coffers of wealth, dispossessed of knowledge or interest in non-capitalist ventures; or the solider at the border or in a concrete building, epitomizing the war cry for protecting created boundaries, not concerned about the human rights violations of their own people; or students picking up the “all salaam” banner, oblivious of the violence that begets their euphoric ideal of change; sloganeering but clueless about a democratic process; or activists, thinkers and others who have long forged ahead in mental faculties, evolved for the lack of a better word, ( hierarchy acknowledged) yet forgotten the dialectics of linguistics; of speaking a language understandable to all.

And herein is our loss. Our loss as a nation; the loss of dialectics! The loss of language... Clones in a market-driven economy that we are, who choose the pragmatist approach over a humanitarian approach, remain mum, while chest-thumping patriarchal “nationalist” with batons define, defile and abuse the others. Business interests often align with political interest to make a hedonist cocktail that begets violence, albeit on the weak, the dispossessed, the unarmed. Soldiers dead or alive are merely used as pawns to ante up the jingoist idea of a nation-state.

The terrible concoction of Brahmanism, patriarchy, neoliberalism produces a many-headed monster one that demonizes tribals as anti-development and anti-conservation; annihilates caste aspirants to aspire for equality, violates and abuses women as collaterals of war and mob-violence and belittles students and academicians for their contribution to society. While a neo-liberal outlook, prevents any germination of ideas, knowledge; where materialistic pursuits take precedence over thoughts and values, an increasing market society ensures no lack of “needs”, created, manufactured and accessible (if not affordable). The leash in the neo-liberal market exists, subtly so in the form of culture, one that regulates marriage, association and even function. The conformist ideal woman that never crosses the line of “Maryada”, allowed to pursue education, forced to give it up for a family that regulates every aspect of one’s sexuality. Women as collaterals of mob violence ( Jats protests anyone), raped, abused, murdered in Chattisgarh and Kashmir alike, but also regularly in Dalit villages, across India where caste and patriarchy are a double whammy.

Yet these remain a distant reality for thousands of Newshour gushing individuals, discussing market fluctuations and actors’ suicide in plush homes.

Short trip travelogue

Bangalore to Mysore is an easy journey with a toddler. Well, easy may be relative for some but for me, an avid traveler not hesitant in stringing along the baby, this was an easy ride. I mean in recent years I have learnt to appreciate baby years; yank the bottle, make the milk, soothe the child and press on the accelerator. Hell, you don’t even need to stop for a diaper change. The backseat of the car works just fine. With a toddler with tantrums ranging from poop stops in stinky bathrooms to pit stops for play areas with a bit of food, gurgled down, to travelling with a million cars, crayons and toys and yet holding on them for dear life in a speeding car, it takes mammoth patience to not tear every single graying hair.

So yes, Bangalore to Mysore, a mere 150 kms is a breeze of a ride. Not just for the beautifully stretched roads, but also for the scores of food joints, that spoils one for choices. But I will get to that in just a while.

So with two elderly people and a half sleepy toddler, we started early. We had 2 days of the weekend and we wanted to make the most of it. Every travelogue told us that we were to reach our destination in 4 hours. They also mentioned scores of places on the way to see.

Ramanagaram had some stunning boulder hills, but in a distance. 

But we had our sights clear and our only stop for breakfast and coffee was at A2B just before Kamath. It is a new place, very efficient and with great food choices. We loved it because it had a play area!!! A break of close to an hour and we were on our way again.

Everyone told us that we would cross Chenapatna and I for one was super excited. As someone extremely found of artifacts, I was intrigued and excited at the prospect of finding a town that makes wooden toys. But I was left hugely disappointed! So would you, if you thought you could stop and shop. The town passes by in a drift, with no visible signs of any shops. So desperate I was that I made a pit stop at a small almost obscure shop, with trinkets and made my peace buying a second grade, wooden kitchen set for my boy.

Our next stop was Sringapatnam. It is a must see heritage town. Tipu Sultan’s magnificent capital is a river island, surrounded by the river Kaveri from all sides. The Indo-Islamic culture architecture of this place is evidence to an empire that flourished under Haider Ali and Tipu Sultan’s efficient regime. Sringapatam was a powerful seat of culture during Tipu’s regime. Many decisive battles were fought here including the last that martyred Tipu Sultan, who is buried here, betrayed by one of his own. Sringapatnam is a pilgrimage of the South. The Ranganathan temple is thronged by tourists, night and day.

We didn’t go to the temple. Although I managed to read enough about Mysore, none of the travelogue mentioned Ranganathan temple. It is only after I returned with my curiosity piqued of the Wodeyar Dynasty and Tipu Sultan’s rule that I started reading and discovered this piece of information. So that goes in my bucket list of reasons for yet another Mysore visit.

We drove past the decapitating walled city of Sringapatnam that was hustling and bustling with people. For a town with so much history, the quick recee of palace, tombstone was dissatisfying to say the least, but with a hungry toddler and cramped leg room and the hot sun blazing, we had little option, but to trudge along ahead. With a promise to the guide to return soon, we made our way out of Sringapatna and towards Mysore.

 Needless to say, you don’t reach Mysore in 4 hours. Those who do, either don’t get traffic, or travel alone or cruise. And, here is another caveat. The Sringapatna town is on the right hand side of the main highway. We missed it three times. With no visible signage on the main road, relying on GPS was the only option that misled us thrice. My advice… Ask the locals.

The other place we were told that we would cross was the Shivasamudra Falls. We did ask for directions at a petrol pump. We were told that it was 75 kms off course, so we decided to abandon it, atleast for this leg of the journey.

A quick shower followed by a lunch and we were off at 3:00 pm for a Mysore Palace visit. A short buggy ride, some quick photographs and we were left standing outside the Mysore Palace. Truly magnificent and spectacular are two words that come to mind, in describing this architectural marvel, of Indo- Saracenic style, a blend of Hindu, Muslim, Rajput and Gothic styles. Surrounded by large gardens, this new structure was designed by Henry Irwin, an Englishmen, after the old structure was burnt down. The palace faces the Chamundi Hills as the rulers were devotees of the Goddess.

Beautiful landscaping, stunning architecture, but like all places in India, crowds, so overwhelming that the need to see the architectural marvel is circumvented by thoughts for ones near and dears safety. Once inside on a museum trip there is no going back, the crowd jostles you into room after room, down corridors and in narrow alleys. Travelling with two elderly and a toddler, with no elbow room can be intimidating, even frightening when encountering narrows steep steps, but we survived.

The Palace is long and once inside, one cannot step out. There seems to be only one way in and out and if there are toddlers surely there is a lot of carrying that one has to do in the place. It is not disabled friendly, for that matter it isn't elderly friendly too, with its many steps. Plan a trip wisely, perhaps early morning is a better deal or a weekday.

After an exhausting trip and an over enthusiastic rickshaw driver, we made it back to our hotel, not far from the Palace. Not one to miss out on time, we quickly scurried the net, for things to do. A sound and light was our thing for the evening. Offcourse we remember our person in Sringapatna, who has mentioned a sound and light show.

A careful debate followed. Should we see the sound and light show at the Mysore Palace or forsake that to travel 20 kms back to Sringapatnam. Tipu’s feat pushed us for the latter. So again we all piled in, my ever patient toddler, not knowing what lay in store. I remember preparing my little one for the show, that he was to see, babbling like excited school children, reminiscing the tv serial- Sword of Tipu Sultan. Back in those days, we didn’t have debates on Hindu and Muslim rulers; we just knew of valiant rulers and their contribution to fight the British rule in India.

The 7.15 show time beckoned and we sped our way to Sringapatnam. We arrived to a lone guard and an empty space. Sitting tight in our car, a window rolled down, I gently asked the guard of the show timings.  He said, if I was interested, he would start the show? But the show was in Kannada.

Dumbfounded and spaced out, we made our way out. With no person in sight, a show in Kannada, we didn’t want to risk anything. Disappointed is a relative term, I was heart-broken. My journey was planned to accompany my in-laws visiting Bangalore, almost cancelled cause I was carrying the fever germ, popping pills at intervals of 5 hours, exhausted and dead, yet enthusiastic enough to travel 20 kms extra after all the day escapades,  only to learn of a defunct show. Why on earth did the travelogue not mention that? The articles I read on the show in Hindu and elsewhere, surely they should have mentioned that. Also Karnataka State Government, who do you think will go to see a show on Tipu Sultan in Kannada? I mean I am all for supporting the mother tongue, but how on earth will one raise footfall, in the light of thousands of non-Kannada speaking tourists visiting the area. How? How?

We made it back to Mysore, only to see the last of the lights of the illuminated palace.  

Everywhere I read, Mysore is a weekend trip, but a weekend doesn't do justice to the sights in and around to visit. We wanted to visit the Mysore Zoo, but long queue, heat and different age groups, meant forgoing some. We wanted to see the Brindavan gardens, but we didn’t have time. So we decided to visit the Chamundi Temple.

A decent drive up to the hill, fresh air, winding roads and we were at the Temple parking. If you have a child who gets mountain sickness like mine, then do go slow. We made two short stops. Ornate and beautifully carved in gold, the temple is a marvel. We walked up to the steps of this magnificent abode of god, only to give up going inside. The line was serpentine and given my father in laws bad back and mother in laws accident affected leg; we decided not to be brave. Disappointed, yes big time!

The journey out from the temple to the parking lot is teemed with small shops, selling all kinds of cheap toys. Needless to say, my toddlers bawling continued, till we satiated it with another cheap substitute of kitchen accessories.

The journey home was now re-planned. We decided that since nothing much had come from the trip, an extra 75 kms could perhaps be the saving grace. The mighty Shivasamudra could well become the highlight of this visit. So off we went, GPS being our lone guide. A diversion through some hills and what seemed to be a canal marked the entry to Shivasamudra. This route different from the main Mysore road had no restaurants and by 1 pm, my bladder was badly complaining. A lame signboard marked a hotel that seemed nowhere to be seen. We trudged along through what seemed to be an embankment road.

The hotel in sight, we stopped to break. As I made a beeline for the washroom, my mother in law stuck a conversation with the hotel staff. She asked them about the falls, only to be taken outside. There in front of us, was well a waterfall. The mighty Shivasamudra was trickling down a hill. I almost couldn’t believe my eyes. I asked three other people. Immensely dissatisfied, I decided to go for a walk and explore. Sure enough, Shivasamudra was a tourist spot; adjacent to the hotel, with a viewing area, with some vendors competing to sell tender coconut water. I looked for the falls, truly wanting to enjoy its magnamity, at least imagined, but couldn’t.

The way back home was beautiful, particularly the Ramanagaram rocks that we found so close up. I was etching to get off the car and take some shots, but well, another time.

Much wiser, my next trip will surely be better. 

Baby steps

 A number of things happened yesterday after I reopened this space. One of which was the need to find my old work. Guess what I found many of my article online. Reuters, Alertnet, Relief Web, forestry blogs, ambedkar round table, they were all carrying my writings of yesteryears and I was oblivious to them. Felt good to gather some of my work. I realised that even a book had been published that had one of my story. Felt good. Really good!

So here is what I am going to do. I am going to a) find all my work and slowly repost it here b) promise to start writing again, however lame it may sound ( ahem read!) And I am going to sort the millions thoughts running through my head, into some kind of coherence and start discovering again.

Fighting for Forests- Posted on the blog Indian Tribals and Foresty News Blog

India’s forest cover accounts for a little over 20% of total land and is home to more than 8% of tribal population. More than 90% of them live below the poverty line, struggling for their basic survival. Read the testimonial by Ditabhai, a tribal living in the reserved forests of India on his life and struggle with rights. 

Dithabai and his family has lived in the forest for generations. He's been active in the forest rights movement for 30 years.

Winding paths through dense vegetation and three hillocks leads to the village of Morchucha, in the Jharol bloc of district Udaipur. All the villages in this bloc are entirely under the reserved forestland marked by the State. In the distance peacocks roam freely and the goats chomp on fresh new leaves. 
In the past, the tribals colloquially referred to Adivasis have faced large-scale displacement from their ancestral land by an exclusionist policy of conservation followed by the state. But with the historic Scheduled Tribes and Other Traditional Forest Dwellers Right (Recognition of Forest Rights) Act 2006 things are fast changing.
Dithabai has been associated with the Forest Land People’s Movement for over a decade now. The Movement launched in 1995 by Astha Sansthan, DanChurchAid’s partner in Rajasthan, has its work spread extensively in three blocs in Southern Rajasthan.

Ditabhai’s testimonial

“Two generations of my family have lived here on these hills. I have 15 bighas (five bighas is two hectare) of land and we grow crops on it; different kinds of lentils but mainly corn. We can often afford to sell some parts of the produce, but not without ‘cutting in our stomachs’. I have eight people to feed in my family. What I grow is never enough though, so I have to travel far away to work on other people’s land.
In the past forest officials used to dictate terms to us. They would beat us up, abuse us and harass us. They would demand money or a chicken to leave us alone. But all that has changed now. Now nobody comes any more.
I know of the new forest law. I learnt of it in a camp organized by Astha. I think a lot of people will get their rights with this new forest law. Most of us were completely ignorant in the past not knowing how to demand what is rightfully ours. But now I know about the Forest Right Act and how to fill in claims for land.
This is our forest and for long, we have faced a lot of harassment for living here. Our livelihood is dependent on this forest. Why should we harm it? There are no animals here, but I do believe that man and animals can stay amicably without any conflict.
Under the banner of the Forest Land and People Movement (Jungle Zameen Jan Andolan) started by Astha Sansthan, we struggled for our rights, for what is rightfully ours. For long we have been exploited by those in power. They used to oppress us and put us down, but not anymore. You see, one individual cannot fight alone. When we are a collective we can achieve so much.
]
I have been involved with the Jungle Zameen Jan Andolan for 30 years now. I have been all over for rallies and public meetings: in Kotda, Jaipur and Delhi. Even my wife went to the Delhi meeting in 2006. I think the biggest benefit of this struggle is that our land is with us. We can go into the forest and collect minor forest products. Our cattle can graze on pasture land. I am also part of the Van Adhikar Samiti (Forest Rights Committee) of my village. This committee is meant to help people access traditional forest land and help them access legal claim for common and individual land. We have, till now sent 120 forms for claims, out of which 28 have already been cleared and reached the office of the District Magistrate.
I believe it is important for people to take ownership over their lives and I think this Act provides us with a scope for working for our development. It is now up to us. We must grab this opportunity with both hands.”
By Priyanka Mukherjee, Documentation Officer, DanChurchAid, New Delhi, India

Woman of substance- Posted on ZESTCASTE, REUTERS AND ALERTNET

In the course of finding my old work, I realised that they have been published in multiple spaces!!!

[ZESTCaste] 

http://www.alertnet.org/thenews/fromthefield/danchaid/b1e8d30dcc22d5d37514320be2b11c5e.htm

Woman of substance
18 Dec 2009 10:45:58 GMT
Source: DanChurchAid - Denmark
Reuters and AlertNet are not responsible for the content of this
article or for any external internet sites. The views expressed are
the author's alone.

Sonedeyee is a 55-year-old Dalit woman. Her gait reflects her
boldness and her razor sharp eyes take an appraisal of everything
around. Sonedeyee is not literate, but her mannerism and speech
command respect. She is the elected Sarpanch (leader) of the
Ballabhgarh village council, and one would think that the
constitutional position would help her wield authority. Not quite,
because Sonedeyee is not only a woman, but also a Dalit women. In
India’s patriarchal hinterlands, the double burden faced by lower
caste women is evident in the large numbers of cases of atrocities
faced by them. Ballabhgarh village with 4.000 members on the voters
list is a constituency reserved for Scheduled Castes, and Sonedeyee
was elected as the leader about one-and-a-half years ago after the
previous occupant of the office, Hardeo Koli, had been intimidated,
thrashed and blinded by upper caste Jat ruffians. Attacked in broad
daylight
Sitting tall amidst her fellow villagers, Sonedeyee narrates the
brutality of the abuse she and her son faced a morning in January
2009. As I was returning back from the village primary school after
making payment for a kitchen set. I had close to Rs.20,000 with me. It
is then that I and my son were attacked with rods and sharp edged
weapons. We suffered wounds and fractures to our head, arms and
legs. She went ahead and pressed charges against the upper caste
perpetrators under the SC/ST Act, but they bribed their way out. Later
on, one person was arrested and three more fined. In a twist of
events, the upper caste Jats injured one of their own children but
accused the Dalits for being responsible. So now it was a cross case
and the police took side for the upper castes.
She refuse to be a puppet. But not being the one to break down under
pressure, Sonedeyee went all the way to Jaipur. She sought help from
CDR and also met the highest ranked police officer.


The real problem is that I refuse to be a puppet. There are many
people in this village who support me, but there are a few upper caste
families, who cannot tolerate a Dalit woman taking the lead role.
These goons want to dictate their terms to the village Panchayat and I
wont have it. They want access to the muster role under the
government approved NREGA scheme and I was beaten up because I
didnt give in to their cohorts. In fact it has made me even
stronger. But I have learned my lesson, so now I never go anywhere
alone. I always have 8-10 people around me, because I know I may be
attacked, says Sonedeyee.
Opposition from within
Violence against women
A study entitled The State of Panchayats: 2007-2008 by Institute
for Rural Management (IRMA) highlights that sexual harassment and
physical violence against women Panchayat leaders belonging to
Scheduled Castes is widespread Read more at www.irma.ac.in
Sonedevee has achieved a lot for Ballabhgarh village: five community
kitchens to cook mid-day meals, ensuring everyone gets job cards under
NREGA, and ensuring no lower caste gets beaten up in the village. The
village is segregated on caste lines and she now wants to put a hand
pump near the Mehter (lower caste community doing menial work)
dwellings. She even crossed the bureaucratic hurdles to get it
sanctioned. But she faces opposition from within. “The upper caste
wants the hand pumps placed near their dwellings. I can’t allow
that, but neither can I stop it either, so I told the Mehters to
approach the court and get a stay order.� She used to get beaten up
by her husband for being outspoken when he was alive, but that
hasn’t dented her spirit. “My blood boils when I see injustice.
You can say I have very high blood pressure. I fear no one. I guess I
was always like this! There are many women who spend their lives
contemplating the future; I am not one of them. I just do what I think
is right and what my heart tells me,� says Sonedeyee. By Priyanka
Mukherjee, Documentation Officer, DanChurchAid, New Delhi India
[ Any views expressed in this article are those of the writer and not
of Reuters. ]

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