Terra Infirma: Ulta Pradesh

Is this an autobiography? Well, for quite a bit, yes. But fictionalised, so you keep guessing how much of it is true. Like a game of Truth or Dare? And then, of course you must add some spice, some sex, some violence to the saga... Kya pata kal koi OTT platfor par series bana de???? And anyways...the written word has been left behind in this era of OTT portals y'know. Its hard to keep the interest going without all that. As I was told by seniors on the Editorial of so many papers..."In the past as in the present and forever afterwards, Sex and Violence are the most read news stories for any publication." So, through Azra, the protagonist, let me document, a journey through life, some of it mine, some borrowed from others. It starts with Azra, an atypical Shia girl related to one of the most pedigreed of families, with the best of education and good looking to boot. A typical liberal Arts mind, she has sought admission for a postgraduation in Economics. Now thoroughly bored with the dry subject, trying her best to resist the almost daily deluges of proposals from well meaning but persistent people in her community, she turns to the world she can do best at with her flair for writing--Media. Circa 1987, Azra starts applying for a job as a journalist in the terra infirma of Uttar Pradesh. Little does she know what lies in store. resisting an arranged marriage where she is unlikely to even meet her mental match in a prospective groom, she accepts the proposal of Salim and for all the world to see--they have a runaway love marriage without the consent of Azra's parents. Azra's "love story" with Salim, a traditional, orthodox Muslim businessman escalates to a reality check on marriage and motherhood in a conservative society. Her turbulent marriage and motherhood at 20 is peppered with setbacks. Typical family reactions to a daughter as firstborn, the problems of not just a working mother but a journalist with no regular timings and constant pressures at home and at work. As the relationship with Salim turns rocky, the political upheavals of the times echo the turbulence in her life. For thia is the time of the the Ram Janmbhumi-Babri Masjid discord, seen from the point of view of a young female journalist reporting as State Correspondent for the Iranian News Agency IRNA. Entering the world of journalism she realises that the pen is not necessarily mightier than the sword, but a woman's fiery spirit is. Her trials and tribulations do not curb her wild, wanton spirit, her never-give-up attitude. Life takes her through many spaces and countries. As her roles change, she goes on to bag a prestigious British Scholarship and for the first time, lands solo in London. This is perhaps the best phase in her life--and she discovers herself as a woman and a strong one at that. Never in her dreams had she imagined that she, a married Muslim woman from one of India's most backward states of Uttar Pradesh, would at 32 jostle through the thousands of applicants and become the first person (not woman) to bag the scholarship from her state. This idyllic stint too comes to an end and she returns to her family and workplace. Back home she pays the price forflouting unwritten laws in matrimony and breaking the glass ceiling at work. At India's 2nd largest English daily, she faces a bitter power-drunk editor with a character 'pockmarked' by ambition, lust and the need to comntrol, hell bent upon breaking her spirit and "taming the shrew." As the old song goes, Una Paloma Blanca, and Azra's a free bird in the sky. Azra has been called a storyteller par excellence-- and not as a compliment--by her own family. A superb yarn spinner. So let her decide how she wants to tell her story. Mind you, sticking to fixeed timelines and sequences are not her cuppa tea. Welcome to the rocky road of Azra's life, told by her, her way. If you are patient she will tell you all about how she caught a former Chief Minister going 'soft' on chosen journalists and donating funds to sponsor a pornographic Holi tabloid that cleaved a gender chasm through journalists associated with leading newspapers of the time. Then again she may traverse the pubs of Temple Bar at Dublin with her Irish journalist friends, find her way through the quays. In a professional crescendo that leaves her stumped too, she is invited by the Irish Prime Minister Bertie Ahern, to see in person the Indian lady "who has changed our perceptions of Indian women by her pro-women fiery outbursts in the paper she is interning for in Ireland. How she flits from the world of journalism to that of consultancies with some of the top names in the development sector and discovers scandals unpublished and unhear in the health sector will leave you stunned. To find peace in the haloed portals of learning, she switches to become a media educator. is it justy her or is life neither white nor black but shades of grey for all? From State Universities to top notch private education institutions'---nothing in the country is as idyllic as one would have us believe. Faculty, high on power bestowed arbitrarily by a negligent management, are open to exploiting and abusing students with an impunity that leaves her soul scarred and bitter. How she tells her story is her choice. Believe it or not---How does she care? but if you would, just sit back and savour the tale. And you are allowed --- to weep in pain, scream in anger, throw-up in disgust and lament at the rape of innocence and the double standards and hypocrisy now woven into the warp and weft of our country. She is not pious as her name, but not sinner either. She is Zainab and Fatima, Sakina and Maryam, Durga and Sati, Parvati and Chandi all rolled in one. Be with her, for she was all alone all through and could do with some company as she walks barefoot on the rough hewed road of life but emerged, stronger through the cracks. She is a woman of today....who has emerged through life---scarred but strong. And this is her story....

Poems from the Past: I-1983

Poems from the past: Poems from 1983--Age 16 Sifting through some old papers in Lucknow on the Eid trip, I found some poems that I considered my best in the early Eighties. Some are childish, some have promise…and some were written out of an outburst of anger or depression or anxiety—the typical teenage mood swings.

Short story-- Kya Karta Hai

Kya karta hai? (What does he do?) By Shirin Abbas/ Written 02-02-2018 LIKE hundreds of courtrooms across this country, this one is no different. The entrance spittoon looks like it has never been emptied. The future in sports, cricket in particular, looks bleak. For a country that boasts of the worlds best cricketers, most of those trying a long-distance paan spit, have missed the mark. Brimming with the black coats, amply balanced by male and female litigants, the court is awaiting the arrival of the judge and their fate in Lucknow's family court. After a while you find solace in the monotony of the routine regimen. The clerk arrives with a heap of brown paper files, all meticulously marked and strung together with a thick cord with dumb-bell like ends… to keep the tattered pieces of people's lives in place. The judge enters to put the buzzing murmurs in the room to a sudden stop. The clerk calls out a name. A woman from the back moves to the front … not quick paced… slow, weary and wary, much like the legal processes in the country where time loses meaning and lives get crushed under dusty, unseen court records, buried under more such files, almost into oblivion. "Naam" -- (Name) the clerk calls out "Rupa Rani" "Kya karta hai?" ( What does he-- the husband-- do?) "Pata Nahi ( I do not know) " "Kaisey pata nahi? Pati hai na tumhara" (How do you not know what work he does? He is your husband? ) the judge asks. "Humau kuchchu batavat nahi sahib, poochchin to hadkaye leyt hai” (He never tells me what he does, if I ask he yells at me.) "Janit nahi ho kya kaam kartey hain tumhare pati?" (You don't know what your husband does?"). There is no alarm in the judge's voice. Just a matter of fact tone… you know it’s something he has heard many times before. "Na sahib, par jaavat roz hain. Haath mein kachchu deyt nahi." (He goes every day but I don't know what he does. He doesn't give me a penny in my hand.) she responds. The Judge says something in Peshkar's (Clerk’s) ear and waves to her to go. One by one Rukhsana, Meeta, Vimla, Kashish, Bubbly and more-- all go through the same procedure. One by one each woman takes what should be a stand, but is a makeshift space between the two enclosures on the side. The faces of the other of her sex in the room are marked with tension. Some run their tongues unconsciously over dry lips. Others just cling to the shadows at the end of the room, comfortable in their space away from the scrutiny. Finally her name is called. The young woman is no more than 22 years. A shriveled grape of a woman, her clothes hanging as if on a skeleton, drags herself, as though in acute pain, from the back of the hall to the front, one babe in arm and a toddler. "Shaadi kab hui?" asks the judge, biting his words. "Chaar saal hui gain hai. Four years almost, she answers “Bachchey hain?” Do you have children? The judge inquires casually—as if the one beside her and in her arms have been borrowed from an orphanage en route the court. . “Ekko bitiya teen saal ki bhai hai, bitewa chhatey mahine ka abhain bhawa hai," (My daughter is three. Son is 6 months old. ) “Paisa waisa kuchch deta hai?” (Does he give you any money?) asks the judge. "Naahi sahib, kuchcho paisa nahi deta. Maango to maarin hai" (He doesn't give me any. If I ask he beats me up.)" she displays some wounds that showcase her four years of marriage. "Kya karta hai?," (What does he do) again the same question. She looks like she has been struck dumb. Paralysed in fear. The judge asks again.."Tumhara pati... Kya karta hai?," (Your husband, what does he do –as in work), he asks a second time, louder. It is as if a dam has opened up inside her. She finally can let it all go--- "Maarat hain sarkar, ee dekho yahan maarin hain, yahan, au yahan, aur.." (He beats me regularly—see—here, here and here—he beats me a lot, she answers.) "Arrey karta kya hai," (I asked what does he DO?” an exasperated judge repeats his question. "Maarit hain, " she repeats defiantly, but in a dull lifeless voice now...a voice devoid of hope. "Gawah kaun hai tumhara? Yahan likha hai.. Soni, kahan hai gawah? Soni kahan hai," (You have any witness? You have written Soni here, Where is your witness, Where is Soni?”) a by-now irate judge asks. "Ee hai naa, mor bitiya, Soni," she clutches the hand of the toddler accompanying her and drags her forward. Startled by the sudden jolt—that has broken her awe at visiting the imposing building, shakes the child awake at the sudden transformation from obscurity to limelight. She stares around the room, her eyes scared now. Her mother shakes her "Soni, maarit hai na? Bappa maarit hai na? Batao na sahib lo—kitna maarit hai,” (Soni—does he not beat me up? Your father beats me, right, tell the gentleman here, how much he beats me) her voice now almost pleading with her child to bear witness to her agony," she repeats her question. The girl's eyes suddenly lock with her mother's as the question is repeated, "Maarit hai na?" (Doesn’t he hit me?) A shadow of fear drops across the child's face and she lets out a wail of pure agony, breaking down and sobbing uncontrollably, wailing, flailing her arms as her mother tries her best to pacify the child, now trying hard to free herself . Twisting and turning like a tortured, possessed spirit her screams get louder with each sob. "Arrey koi hatao issey …kahan kahan se chaley aatey hain court mein bachchey lekar?" (Will someone remove this urchin from here please, I don’t know from where they bring their children also in the court.) The exasperated judge orders the child's removal from the court premises. The guards at the entrance carry out his will without a second thought. The plaintiff-- for by now her name has escaped all present in the courtroom-- follows behind them, closely clutching the child in her arms to her breast, which he is trying hard to suckle on and failing, bawls, adding to the din. The courtroom has fallen silent as some lady policewomen attached to the court remove her from its premises. In the now-silent court room none of the men are fidgeting now. Instead, looking here and there, trying to ignore what they just saw. The women exchange shy, furtive moist-eyed glances in silent agony of a shared experience. And suddenly an unspoken anthem fills the silent courtroom. #metoo, #metoo, #metoo #metoo, #metoo, #metoo, #METOO!!! Written after my experience at my own court hearing the Lucknow Family Court on February 2, 2018. Based on a true incident.

Shoes of hope...Happy Feet!

On our last day in Kathmandu we became part of a unique project. One that touched our souls and lightened our feet. Wandering for gifts in Thamel we were accosted by a group of volunteers from the World Hope Asia & Africa Foundation supported by Microsoft as part of the Art Miles Project. In the middle of a market square a box of white keds lay open and volunteers in yellow jackets asked passers by to participate in “painting shoes for Nepali children at work in various industries.” Eager to learn more my son Sahil, his friend Rishu and me stopped to ask what the initiative was all about. It seems each year the volunteer activity picks one nation from the Developing World. Thosands of white keds land in the country, to be painted, tagged and sent off to some grateful hapless child, earning his daily bread and a square meal for his family through his daily toil, never setting sight on a school, a classroom, participating in an assembly line or enjoying the cumbersome routine of completing homework and scurrying to class early every morning.
We painted a pair each—Sahil, Rishu and me. Leaving simple message cards tied to the shoelaces in the hope that someone would read them and be warmed by the love in the effort. Sahil scribbled: “May this shoe reach the person who is in need of it. Love n Peace” Rishu scribbled –“Best wishes n Love” It took maybe half an hour, forty-five minutes from our day but left us with a really “Feel Good” memory of the effort. And on my return I often wonder which child will be trudging to work in brightly coloured rainbow-hued keds with a message written on the front—“With Love from India”

A self respecting artist

A self respecting artist...
He sat there on the cold pavement. Barely in his teens and bare in his vest—deftly holding a pen in his mouth and outlining on a cheap A4 sheet. His legs—or what was left of them—stumps stretched out before him, his crutches beside. Another intelligent beggar boy making the most of his disability to make an earning by the roadside, I thought as I passed him by at first without much notice. I was in a rush to explore the spirit of Kathmandu on my first day in the city after 30 years.
On my return that evening he was there still, the painting however complete and by his side, surrounded by passersby. This time I stopped to read the handwritten notice below his painting begun that morning. Now complete and ready beside him with several others. I stopped to read it...and thus it read: Namaste. My name is Anand Kumar Paswan. I am 15 years old and I have no hands and one foot since birth. I make paintings here every morning and auction them in the evening. The money thus collected goes towards my school fee and living....”
Before I knew it the “auction” had started. Tourists passing by stopped too like me—most , like me, out of curiosity. At the end of the day, as the daylight faded, Anand had sold all his paintings for the day. He beckoned an auto, stood up without help on his crutches and made his way home, his pastels and day’s earnings collected in his bag. A wide smile on his lips...
The next day he was there again...on that cold pavement...making the outline of another painting... starting another day—hopeful, resilient, optimistic! In more ways than one he summed up the spirit of Kathmandu for me—proud, resilient and optimistic! Today and always!

Travel tales---

Starting with an update of stories collected through travels--- to interest, touch, move, humour---whatever. Hope I can persuade some friends on Facebook to follow my blog.

Homeward Bound...

I wish I could return to safe arms
a home, a hearth a warm heart a place to call my own
childhood dreams that shattered like slivers
as the ground beneath my feet shook and trembled
and me, trying to keep a foothold,
slipped, bruised, fell, got up and walked again
one step two steps, one more then fell again
all the while head high, show no pain
shed no tears for when these fall
the arms that reach to wipe them
seek gratification in kind
leave, just leave them all behind
and walk -- not too fast
to lose the magic of the sunrise,
not too slow to miss the tawny sunset
just in pace, in sync-- one step at a time
into the horizon-- in search of peace of mind...

Written May 26, 2007