Speaking up..

“Hi champ, how was school today?” I asked my son as he trudged in looking a little sad. He is usually quite chirpy and is forever bursting to let me in on all the minute details of his school day the moment he barges in, but today he looked slightly off colour.

“What seems to be the problem, champ? Want to share?” I quizzed not wanting to be overly nosey.

“Dance sir slapped me on my cheeks. I lost balance and he just slapped me.” He looked hurt.

“You could have tried explaining what went wrong.” I suggested.

“I did. He said he doesn’t want to listen to anything.”

To read the rest of the post...go to parentous.com

The decision....

Sumitra was in pain. The labour contractions were just about 10 minutes apart and she knew it could be anytime now. But it wasn’t the contractions that were causing the pain, this would be her third child and she knew how the birthing process would be. Her pain was rooted in something deeper, something more emotional. Having had two girls one after the other, she had been under tremendous pressure to deliver a male heir to the family. If only she knew how to magically beget a male child, it would all be well. Her husband and in-laws had told her in no uncertain terms that if she had a girl child again, she would have to fend for herself; they would never take her back. She let out a loud scream. It was almost like a cry. Her sister-in-law assumed it was the contractions, and gently massaged her hands and feet. Sumitra was just happy to let out her anguish in a scream. She didn’t want to think what would happen a few hours from now, if the child happened to be a girl.

The contractions were quicker now, and dai ma, the midwife, was encouraging her to push harder. Sumitra prayed fervently for a male child, numb to the pain her body was experiencing right then. And then she felt the baby gush out of her womb and let out a shrill cry. She looked expectantly at her sister-in-law and at dai ma, as they cleaned the baby and wrapped it up. 

“It’s a girl, Sumitra,” announced her sister-in-law, like it was her fault. She looked at Sumitra disapprovingly, before placing the child next to her and exiting the hut.

Sumitra looked at her daughter, her eyes filling with tears. She looked so beautiful. She ran a finger on the little one’s cheek, and heard her gurgle. She struggled to get up as everyone just seemed to abandon her at having delivered bad news. She sat up and held the child close to her bosom for a very long time. As she nursed the baby, she felt a surge of happiness run through her. Outside the thin wooden door of the hut, she could hear her brother and sister-in-law fighting.

“If her husband does not come to get her, let her go to hell. I don’t care if she decides to die, but she cannot stay here; let me make that very clear. We have two mouths to feed; I cannot bear an additional four mouths.”

“Where will she go? Don’t be so unkind to my sister. Let me talk to kunwar-sa.”

A little while later, Sumitra heard her brother talking to her husband on phone.

“Kunwar-sa, don’t say such things…. Where will she go…..you have two daughters…..yes, kunwar-sa, I understand….I have a suggestion…..”

Then she heard him talking to his wife again.

“Kunwar-sa has agreed to take her back, there’s only one condition….”

Sumitra let out a deep sigh. Peace had been brokered between the heartless husband and the hapless brother at the cost of her new born daughter. No one thought it fit to even ask her. As if she didn't matter, as if she didn't even exist. But what would she have said if they had asked her?  What happened to Rukmini and Tejo when they refused to part with their daughters was like a folk tale in the entire village. Her sister-in-law had told her horrifying tales about them, how they were starving without food, being assaulted by unknown men, and in short, how their their life had turned into a living hell. God alone knew how they would raise their daughters all alone. She didn’t know where she would go with her daughters if she was thrown out. It would be better to sacrifice a child than make her other daughters beg.They needed a roof over their heads and food in their tiny stomachs. 

No one really spoke to her about what she was supposed to do. She had heard stories of how little infants had been drowned in cauldrons of milk or fed ground seeds of cotton, so that they would choke on it. She wondered what they would do to her daughter. 

She threw up at the thought of it.

The police were more vigilant now and killing an infant like that would complicate a lot of things. But that wouldn't deter her brother or husband from getting "rid" of the baby. They would find out a way. She thought about it for three whole days. And then her decision was made. She regretted making that decision, but that seemed the only way out of the whole mess. Moreover, it was her entry pass to her husband’s home.

The cold winter night had claimed several lives in the village. She hoped it would claim her three day old daughter’s life too. She would then raise a cry in the morning and no one would suspect that she had been killed. The policemen would not suspect a thing. She removed every shred of clothing on the baby and laid its tiny bare body on the charpoy in the verandah.  She closed the door and went inside and sat by the window waiting for the baby to breathe its last. A tiny cry could be heard from time to time and then even that ceased to be heard.

She didn’t know when she fell asleep, but when she woke up, it was early morning, and the sun was still deliberating if it should cast its light over the darkness that had shrouded the village. She looked at the baby from the window, and saw it had turned bluish-red from being out in the biting cold. It wasn’t moving, it was probably dead by now. Preparing to scream and alert the neighbors, she ran to the verandah and picked up the child. To her utter shock, she heard the tiny heart beat, though faintly!

Her eyes filled with shame and remorse as she looked at her little fighter. Here, her three day old daughter had almost fought off death, and she wasn’t even capable of being as brave as her! She huddled her child to her bosom and wept for a very long time. And with that another decision was made. And she knew she wouldn’t regret it this time.

                                                           **********

(I heard this story at a satsang, and it really moved me...Reproducing my version of the story here, because I feel it might help someone take that one decision to square their shoulders, grit their teeth, but smile and face their fear.)

The sound of silence...

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 47; the forty-seventh edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.

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An eerie silence had descended on the village. As the news spread, villagers had started piling up near the old peepal tree. They looked on speechlessly, wiping away a tear that seemed to occasionally flood their eyes. The quiet itself was quite chilling. You could hear a pin drop if you heard closely. Munni’s body hung from the branch of the tree, bearing a testimony to the brutal way she had borne the savage of the beasts.

Munni’s little 4 year old sister looked at her in awe. What was this new game didu was playing? Just yesterday, didu had taught her how to swing on the tyre that hung from the same tree branch. It had been so much fun! She had screamed in delight as the swing kissed the skies. Why was the rope around her neck today? And why wasn’t didu swinging? Maybe it was a new game. She would ask didu when she came down.

The silent protests had done nothing to unnerve the beasts. The beasts had assumed the silence was out of fear. 

Fear of their autocracy. 

Fear of their power. 

They had ravaged the village before and they would do it again. Who would stop them? The arrogance was smug on their faces. Ignorant villagers! Did they think their silence would be heard? Who would hear the silence when the loudest of voices could be easily muffled?

The beasts had been celebrating their victory. After years of protest, the villagers had finally been tamed. There was not one voice of dissent. Their revelry had reached dizzying proportions. But what they had not anticipated was the power of silence. They had not anticipated the entire village to turn up at their den. The din of the crapulous beasts was soon drowned in the cacophony of sharp axes, pitchforks, plows, cudgels and spears. Silence prevailed again, and one could hear nothing except the sound of blood sputtering out of the bodies of the beasts. 

 Munni had been avenged. And with that so many like her had been avenged too. 

The arrogance had been pithed. They and their ilk had been taught that silence must be heard. No one would now dare to de-sanctify their village and its goddesses.

And all that could be heard after that was the sound of silence.

           ***************************************************************

The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. Participation Count: 06

Spare the child...

My little one is forever full of questions! Maybe all children are like that. I was cooking dinner, when he strode up to me, his toy zebra in one hand, and tugging my dress with the other.

“Mamma”

“Hmmm…?”

“Why do animals live in the jungle? Why can’t they live in apartments like us?”

I will save our conversation for some other day, but I remembered his question in context to a news that I saw on TV a couple of days ago.  A live-in maid inPune, who took care of a couple’s 11 month old baby girl while the parents worked in night shifts, was tossing the baby in air, kicking it with her feet and terrorising it in every possible way! How on earth can anyone be so heartless, was beyond my comprehension. To say I was shocked, would be an understatement. I felt repulsed just watching it. The contents of my tummy did a flip, every time she threw the child in air and played with like it were a toy! Luckily for the child, there was CCTV installed in the house, and alerted by the little ones reluctance to be alone with the maid, the parents decided to check the CCTV footage. And this is what they found out! Was the woman mentally sick to have been so ruthless with a toddler?  

Read the rest of the post here.....at Parentous.com

The struggle- 55 fiction

There she was, tucked snugly into one of her books, lost in a world of her own. Unmindful of what "those" people thought about her. How did being a girl deny you the pleasure of a book? She adjusted her veil over her head and sighed. 

This was going to be one long struggle. 

********************************************************************

The prompt for this 55 fiction came from Vidya Sury on Write Tribe.

UBC day 27 - I can.

Just a little sapling I was,

with dreams that eyes behold,

Fire in my belly and faith in my heart,

Waiting for life to unfold.

You mustn't grow, no rights have you,

they cried and pinned me down,

I pushed, I fought, I kicked, I begged,

but they would not let me crown.

Losing all hopes, I cocooned within,

scared and shaken and sad,

limp I lay on the earth alone,

lifeless, cold and unclad.

You mustn't lose hope, you can stand up tall,

said a little voice from within,

grow your roots, gain the strength,

learn to grit and grin.

Don't give up yet, the mind's your puppet,

you can guide it as you might,

teach yourself to be so strong,

that one day you can stand upright.

I know I can and I know I will,

One day the demons defeat,

and that is the day when I will have,

the whole world at my feet. 

UBC- Day 21 - Nipped in the bud.

(This is my entry for picture prompt on the IBL at Write up Cafe.) This poem won the maximum points in the total tally! 


A bud I am, not yet a flower,
Let me bloom in peace until,
Bitter nectar, no fragrance yet,
Yet a timeless beauty still,
Tender body, delicate petals,
Wither and die, if you will,
Do not my desires and my hopes,
Deserve to be fulfilled?

Hands that should hold a book,
Are burdened with work today,
Eyes that were meant to dream,
Stare vacantly at the day.
My smile worn out, my face sans charm,
My plight do they not relay?
Without love and nourishment,
I see my childhood rot and decay.

Before the first fine rays of the sun,
Kiss and envelope the earth,
I drag my feet to familiar grounds,
But unsure what it will unearth,
Wondering if my existence,
Is actually of any worth?
Wonder why in a world of abundance,
Of love undiluted, there still is dearth.

To be tied in knots with a beast,
Is that my desire at this tender age?
The notebook of my life is filled,
With hollow blanks as the page.
Will my story be unwritten,
And left alone on life’s vast stage?
My deepest feelings, and desires,
Can no one really assuage?

I wish someday my hands will hold,
A pilot’s wheel or a soldier’s gun,
I wish today you will let me live,
And let me colour my life crimson,
I wish someday my eyes might dream,
And conquer every inner demon,
I wish someday I can put this down,
And spread my wings under the sun.

7x7x7x7

What is the 7x7x7x7 Writing Prompt? Well I picked it up from Shilpa who blogs at a rose is a rose is a rose .

1. Grab the 7th book from your bookshelf.
2. Open it up to page 7.
3. Pinpoint the 7th sentence on the page.
4. Begin a poem/a piece of prose that begins with that sentence
5. Limit it in length to 7 lines/7 sentences.

The 7th book on one of the shelf of my bookshelf is…Sydney Sheldon's Mistress of the game
it says......"Lexi Templeton took a deep breath."

so, here's my take on the prompt.



Lexi Templeton took a deep breath
If it had to be done, the time was now.
She took out a .45 caliber silver Smith and Wesson from his cupboard. 
She crouched behind the sofa and waited for him to come.
He walked in 10 minutes later, her daughter in tow, all tied up with a cellophane tape.
Tears streamed down her cheeks as she aimed for the center of his head and pumped in 3 bullets one after another. 
His face froze as he fell down and saw her emerge from her hideout, a smile on her sweat drained face. 


This is in response to the  Write Tribe prompt

A victory?

Phat…

 The back of his hands made a clean sweep of her face and she felt her head hit the adjacent wall before she fell down limp on the floor. Warm blood trickled down her forehead where it had kissed the wall. She bit her lips trying not to scream, swallowing her pride with the pain. She tried to grab the legs of the chair in an attempt to get up, but he pushed away her source of support, kicking her abdomen with the tip of his shoe. He felt a sense of pride like a footballer who had just landed the ball in the net, surpassing the goalie. He kicked her few more times, his shoe landing on a different goal each time, till she could bear no more and let out a howl; an ear piercing scream that threatened to curdle his blood.

The scream kind of terrified him because he left soon after, leaving her alone in the room. She lay on the ground but she needed to get up quick. A wave of nausea had begun to sweep over her and she felt the muscles of her stomach loosen and transfer its contents to her mouth. Unable to get up, she puked on the ground. The blood in the vomit scared her and the putrid smell made her nauseous again. Gathering herself, she trawled to the washroom, and slowly tried to stand up holding the wash basin for support.

The face in the mirror seemed to ridicule her. A neat reddish-blue bulge had formed on her forehead, the blood had clot after having trailed down her ear. She splashed water over her face and the icy water felt like tonic on her wounds. Her lower lip looked like it had been bitten by a bug, red and swollen. She stared at the face in mirror.

She could see a young girl, the parting of her hair smeared with deep red vermilion  Her gold and red veil that had covered her head during the wedding rituals lay on the ground. A fresh cut adorned her lips from which warm blood oozed out and her cheeks looked flushed and red; not with the shyness of a new bride but with the imprints of a palm that had just landed heavily on her cheeks. She had been too shocked to react and too young and new to complain.

And today she stood here again, before this very mirror, and as on that day and every other day after that. And all she was doing was washing her face off the blood, like she always did. No wonder the face in the mirror seemed to ridicule her. Why hadn't she stopped it right then? Why hadn't she stopped it after that? Why had she silently borne his abuse through the years? Why had she been in denial?

She remembered the first time it happened. A new bride, she had coyly brought him a glass of hot milk that her mother-in-law had given her. The milk had apparently been hot and he had lost his temper when it burned his tongue. That was the first time he hit her, not even bothered that she had just stepped into his life. She had felt that she deserved it. How could she be so careless? He had been apologetic soon after and she had been more than happy letting him lust after her.

The silliest of reasons had been enough to turn him into a monster. But she had never accepted that it was actually abuse. Maybe he was just drunk, maybe he’d had a hard time at work, maybe he didn’t mean what he did, maybe some patience and love would change him. She could accept any explanation but this. And again, didn't he always come back to her at night?

Surprisingly, no one had ever asked her about her visible wounds and her mother-in-law had told her in hushed tones about how men will be men and how she has been patiently tolerating her husband since she had been married. Having children will change all that she had assured. Nothing did change after two children and she had been plain lucky not to lose her children during the nine months, when she carried them in her womb.

The face in the mirror seemed to ridicule her. She looked away and let tears flood her eyes.

Her closest friend had tried to counsel her, telling her to put an end to the abuse, and it had taken a lot of time to come out the emotions that her mind seemed to be caught in and accept that what was being done to her had to be stopped. As much as she would have liked to take her friend’s advice, she felt trapped financially. What would she do if he were to disinherit her and her children? She was dependent on him for everything. How would she survive alone?

She stumbled out of the washroom to the kitchen for a glass of water. Her eyes were blurry with tears and she did not notice her children walk in. The terrified look on their faces said it all. They were growing up and what happened to their mother had terrified them. They held her hand and wept unable to convey what their little hearts felt. She could feel them trembling with fear.

What years of abuse and months of counseling could not do, the look on her children’s faces seemed to achieve. What example was she setting for them, she asked herself? Her son would eventually learn that it is his right to abuse women and her daughter would learn that it was OK to be abused. She couldn't let that happen. They needed to know that a woman has to be respected, and if she is abused, then she would not tolerate it. If as a mother, she couldn't teach them that, no book on earth ever could.

She heard her husband calling out her name, demanding a cup of tea, as if nothing had happened. She put the kettle on boil and poured out the tea in a cup. As he stretched out his hand to pick up the cup, she snatched it and splashed the contents across his face. ‘Did it pain? Are you hurt?’ She asked, as he screamed in agony, trying to grab her arm. ‘Know that it pains when you hurt me, don’t ever dare to do it again’ she said as she led her children away even as he hurled expletives at her. She wished she had done that with the first glass of hot milk she had brought him as a bride. Better late than never, she thought as she saw her children let out a feeble smile. Though in pain, she walked up straight, shoulders pulled back, as if she had just come back from battle. 

She didn't know what this action of hers would lead to, but it was a day of victory for her, however small that might be. 

A victory over her own fears.

She....

A pretty bloom in myriad hue,

Delicate, colourful, fragrant and sweet,

She's nourished many a mind, and heart, 

And little tummies of bees and flies,

Paying the price for all her love,

Crushed and forsaken today she lies,

The nectar dry, the colour all gone,

The fragrance in jaded memories still,

On a picture frame on the wall. 

Who is to be blamed?

 The Godmen, the bureaucrats, the politicians, and all those self styled moral protectors of the society have strained their voices hoarse over who is to be blamed for the growing crimes against women and have given every possible atrocious solutions to the issue, ranging from covering up the women from head to toe, to keeping her indoors, restricting her to house hold work, from blaming her for not calling her tormentors as brother, to asking her not to step out with any other person other than her own relatives. The conclusion being that the victim is to be blamed for the crime than the perpetrator!

Let us for an instant nod our heads tamely and accept the blame. But how on earth would the so-called moral guardians explain similar assaults on children as young as 2 or 3 and women as old as 60 or 65? When will they accept that, what is lacking is a moral value, what is driving the crime is perhaps frustration or an unsound mind, and what will help is not victimizing the victim but taking steps to ensure that such things do not happen. Isn't it a shame that we are more focused in telling the woman how she should behave, what she should wear or where she can go, rather than pulling up the criminal?

Sacrificing the girl child

Something as simple as letting the girl child live, could save thousands of other girls. Aren’t the two connected? Ironical? Paradoxical? Yet they seem to be connected. It has been discussed on a number of platforms how the decreasing number of girls, has led to a pathetic situation for the men. We have seen how some states are “buying” women for their boys from other states, how men are sharing brides in a blatant repeat of the Mahabharata, and how assaults are the order of the day where neither a bride could be brought nor shared.

So why not let the girl child live and create a healthy ratio of men and women so that such situations do not arise at all? 

Lack of moral Education

By education I do not just mean basic schooling, yes where there is none, the need is for a basic education as well. But the education has to extend beyond the books, beyond mathematics and science and English. Moral education and sex education has to be taught in schools, whether in a rural area or urban. Education is more than a luxury; it is a responsibility that society owes to itself.

Children are more exposed than ever to uncensored content on the internet, newspapers and television. The curiosity to know about the other sex and to experiment is on the rise. With no information from parents at home and teachers in school, they are left at the mercy of information from unreliable sources. Children are not getting enough information about the biological and emotional aspects of sex. 

Talking to the children at home in a open atmosphere, responding to their doubts, teaching them to respect not only women but everyone else and treating others with dignity, from a very young age will inculcate good values that will stay on with them throughout life .

Troubled youngsters should be identified at the school level and counseled at the early stage so that  any  wrong notions are nipped in the bud. An education isn`t how much you have committed to memory, or even how much you know. It`s being able to differentiate between what you know and what you don`t and between whether you know right from wrong.

 Frustration 

Frustration at not having a job, at being treated unjustly, at being ridiculed can manifest itself in a toxic way.  A depressed or frustrated individual wants to still feel in control, feel powerful and will do anything to feel so, even if it means resorting to the wrong methods. It is hardly possible to build anything if frustration, bitterness and a mood of helplessness prevail.

While the politicians are busy exercising their power, the rich are becoming wealthier thus adding to their power , we, the middle class, are struggling to keep up with life, even as there is a class below us which is starved of the basics.  They are the most exploited, by politicians and by the business class. And when they turn to crime, we suffer.

Unless there is a direction to their lives and they get to eat well and live well, their frustrations will continue to be directed at us, as the other two are too powerful to be harmed.

These three points may be inter-related or separate. They have to be dealt in terms of how and where they exist. But the clean up has to happen at all levels, the cobwebs have to be removed from every corner . The approach has to go beyond the routine blame game. 

When the roots are rotting, there cannot be healthy fruits and flowers, can there be? 

This post is part of the contest Who is to be blamed? on WriteUpCafe.com

Better safe than sorry!

In my previous post I talked about how fear psychosis was getting the better of women around me and how I have resolved not to let fear get into my already frazzled nerves. So I thought I’d share some views on how to keep you safe rather than fearful. 

1. Look around you as you take a walk in the park, on the streets, anywhere for that matter. 8/10 people are busy talking on their mobiles or listening to songs, with their ears and hence their minds completely sealed out from their surroundings.

 

Always be aware of your surroundings. 

This applies whether you are traveling alone or in groups. Don’t just focus inwardly on your thoughts, or keep your self busy with your phone if you are alone. Even if your friends are together, don’t get lost amidst the chatter. 

If you are used to listening to your walkman while outside, drop this habit, especially in isolated areas. With your walkman on, you cannot hear the approach of a possible attacker.

Keep one eye out for your environment, looking out for suspicious characters, possible danger, etc.

Also, don’t assume that because your area has been “safe” thus far, that it will continue to be so.  If you see people loitering on the streets near your house, call the police on a non emergency number and report it.

2. Remember that criminals look out for easy targets. Slouched walk or panicky walk makes you look like an easy victim. 

       Walk with a straight posture and your arms swinging by your sides. 

Look up and look confident. Look an attacker in the eye. It usually scares the attacker now that you've seen their faces and could identify them in a line- up; you lose appeal as a target. Carry something like an umbrella or anything you can use as a weapon.

3. Change routes/mode of travel

We often stick to the same routes and mode of travel everyday seldom bothering to change it. By changing your route/ mode of travel often you can avoid being attacked or harassed from those who know your schedule, method and route of travel. 

Avoid taking the road less traveled, even if it means you take a little longer. Avoid unfamiliar areas, or unsafe areas. 

If you are riding by bus or train, do not sit on the window seat as you may be "blocked in" by a potential assailant. Always select the seat next to the aisle so that you can quickly leave if necessary.

If you are taking public transportation alone after peak hours, sit as close to the driver as possible and/or choose the section of the bus/train that is most crowded. Try to get a seat near the exit as well. Your safety is more important.

4. Tell others about your whereabouts

Parents, spouses or friends should know where you are going and when you will be back, so that your absence will be noticed.

5. Trust your instincts.

The ‘gut’ feeling is more often right than wrong. 

If you are walking somewhere and feel strange or scared, don’t ignore this feeling. Take extra precautions by walking a little faster to get to a more populated or well-lit area or change the route you’ve been driving on.

If you think you are being followed, change your route and activity.

You can cross the street, change directions, or enter a populated building or store. Do whatever is necessary to avoid being alone with the person who is following you. Inform a police officer or security official about the follower.

Mentally note houses at intervals on each route you take that can be used as "safe houses" if you are attacked, such as shops or houses that you know to be occupied by a friend or acquaintance.

Attract attention if you are in a dangerous situation.

Get others to pay attention to what's happening to you if you are under attack or being harassed. You can alert others by honking a car horn or loudly describing what is happening. Shout “fire” instead of “help” to attract attention. Attackers are known to leave a woman alone if she yelled or showed that she would not be afraid to fight back

Danger can lurk anywhere, in elevators, staircases, parking lots, public transport, college campuses, on streets and even closer home. You cannot control the mind of the attacker, but you can keep yourself safe by being alert and confident. Whether or not they are punished is beyond our realm, but being safe is within.

Better to be safe than sorry!

From Nirbhaya to Bhaya.....

The past few weeks have caused a national uproar over the way a fellow human being has been tormented. I chose to use “fellow human being” instead of “woman” because; she was first another human and then a woman. The sheer inhuman nature of the crime makes me wonder how the hands did not tremble and heart did not bleed as they treated another human being with so much cruelty as to put the worst enemy tormenter camps to shame.

There has been an unending debate by various sections, some demanding harsher punishment/capital punishment , some criticizing women for the clothes they wear, some asking women to learn self defense, some advocating teaching men how to behave with women…etc. But I am not even getting there. It is not about what should be done, what could have been done, who is to blame, or how tough laws should be. I am still closer home, on how the women around me have been reacting to the crime. How fear has started impacting their psychosis.

The horrific nature of the crime and the heartless gut wrenching manner in which a woman has been abused has left an indelible fear in the minds of scores of women across the country especially the women around me. A friend reported how giddy she has been feeling ever since the news broke out and every time she talks about it she feels stressed out and jumpy. Another friend didn’t want to talk about the episode because she felt nauseated every time anyone even spoke about the issue.

My mother didn’t want me to hire a driver to drop them off to the railway station because I would have to come back alone in my car with an unknown driver, even though he would be from a known source. A friend, who commutes to work by auto everyday as she could not drive due to a back problem, brought a vehicle last week, so that she may drive to work. She reasoned her life was more important than the back pain.

And today as I picked up a friend to go to the market, she came down in a lovely sleeveless dress and even before I could comment on how nice she looked, she ran upstairs. “Just a moment, I’ll be back” she said. I saw her grabbing a shawl and draping it around her. “Why take the risk”, she said as I looked quizzically at her.

The fear of suffering, they say, is worse than the suffering itself.

It does not mean that I have ceased being fearful, but I have ceased to let fear control me. I want to accept fear as a part of life -specifically the fear of the unknown; and I want to go ahead despite the pounding in my heart that says: turn back, turn back, and don’t venture too far for you know not what lies beyond. I want to be a butterfly that spreads its wings out in the sun. I want to be the heroine of my life, not the victim and I hope all the women out there want to be the same.

                                                    ******************

Raavana

There was once a big guy with a lot of heads. On a particular day when the combined grey matter of all his heads were in resting stage, he unceremoniously kidnapped a married woman and whisked her off to his exotic land. He regretted his decision pretty soon. For he paid for it with all his heads rolled off his proud and arrogant neck.

The once mighty Raavana is paying for it every year since. As thousands of years later, people still find it entertaining to see his head blasted off with crackers. Amidst festivities and distribution of sweets.

In the very same place as the festivities, thousands of women are being whisked off unceremoniously every day. Putting even the mighty Raavava to shame! But the modern Raavana walks tall with his proud and arrogant head still intact on his head. The wails of the outraged women notwithstanding. 

Wonder when these Raavanas will pay for their sins? Wonder why this lopsided justice? Wonder…?

Spare the child!

“Baby Falak leaves for a better world!!”

Reading the headlines brought a lump to my throat. A two year old baby girl, so severely beaten up that she finally decided to leave this world and go to a better world? That someone could be so cruel to hurt a two year old child, leaving her with bite marks and cuts was unfathomable. I do not know this little child, but nevertheless it was painful! 
May she rest in peace.

My friend called me after reading about this and she sounded pained too. But why would she be pained, I asked myself. I know her to routinely spank her children. Just because they were not as grievously and fatally injured as baby Falak, did not mean they weren’t being abused. And here she was feeling the pain of a child she did not know but ignorant to the pain of her own children!

But aren’t little children in most houses being subjected to this kind of an abuse everyday? I have seen this in the homes of friends, relatives and acquaintances. In the garb of correcting the child, in the garb of ensuring that he/she grows up right. Eight out of ten people I know hit their child to ensure that their child is not spoilt. Take break guys, they are not mangoes!

I have seen parents spank their little ones mercilessly for reasons ranging from anything to everything!  To me it seems like they are venting someone else’s anger on the poor child.

One parent spanks her child because he gets up late. How will he learn discipline otherwise? So I ask her, how has hitting the child helped? He still cannot get up early!  Could it be the outcome of last night’s party? Maybe the child is too tired after the endless extra-curricular activities. He maybe genuinely, falling short of sleep. Maybe there is a serious disorder that needs to be addressed. But no, he will be spanked. Wouldn’t it help, if we spend time with the child at bedtime, instead of spending time watching television, trying to talk him out of his problems?

Spank the child if he is fussy at the dinner table! A friend spanked her child because he vomited on the dinner table. The child was made to clean his vomit and quarantined for bad behavior. Arre Behenji, I will vomit too, if I have eaten something disagreeable! Be thankful he didn’t try to eat it and choke on it!

Another mother complains that her son is rude, ill mannered, and fights all the time. There are numerous complaints from his teachers and friends. In her own words, she spanks him black and blue but he shows no remorse or improvement. I can guarantee that he will not! If anything, he will become more stubborn.

Why is the child behaving so? Is he craving for our attention? Is he a victim of bullying? By spanking the child, we make him feel more victimized than ever. In all probability he is picking up what he sees at home. Children are fast learners and our behavior is like a school.  

The same lady tells me, ‘Your son is Shravan Kumar, you must teach him to fight back, or else people will take him for a ride. ‘An eye for an eye’, that’s what I tell my child.’ she says. Oh! So therein lies the problem!  But sorry, I beg to differ. I believe ‘An eye for an eye will make the whole world blind’. It may sound clichéd, but I could never teach my son to hit back someone who has hit him.
My son told me of an incident where his friends were teasing him about something, and instead of fighting back, he explained to them that he felt hurt by their teasing and as a good friend he would never do that to them. They apologized. And I felt incredibly proud of him.

If our children see us lying, they will pick it up in no time. If mom and dad can lie why can’t I? Mouthing bad words? Be sure the child will learn that better than his ABC’s. One mother says, her son lies to her all the time, so she has to spank him; it will deter him from lying. 

Really?

I don’t think so!

My child doesn’t lie to me. I tell him that I trust him. I tell him that I will love him even if he has made a mistake. I tell him that admitting his mistake is a bigger virtue than denying or lying about it. And when he admits his mistake, I ensure that I do not admonish him for that. If he has admitted his mistake, it already means he knows he was wrong, isn’t it? I ask him what would have been the right thing to do. 

Trust your child.

I asked my friend to try this. But she said it did not work out. When I spoke to the child, he said, ‘Even when I spoke the truth, mom hit me, I might as well lie and get away with it.’ So there lies the problem!

There are endless reasons why we keep abusing our children, and we have great reasons for defending our action. But I can think of only one reason.

 WE HIT THE CHILD BECAUSE HE IS TOO WEAK TO HIT US BACK. 

We know he is defenseless. We like to keep him awed about our presence at all times. 

I have strongly believed that no child should ever be abused, physically or verbally. It leaves an indelible scar on their young minds, FOREVER. For us it is a momentary action, but ask any child and you will know that they carry the wounds for a very long time.

Moreover, their little bodies are too weak to bear our heavy fists. What if you accidentally hit a vital organ, what if your spank on his back stopped his little heart or caused internal bleeding, what if it damaged an ear or eye.  We hit out of anger and seldom realize where our hand lands. Why do something that we have to regret for the rest of our lives?

Our children are born out of our love; they need to be tended to with love. I do not mean to say that we should not correct our children even if they are wrong. By all means, we should. That is what we are there for, for holding their little hands, when they falter. Every child is different and only the parent knows the best way of bringing up their child.

But there are a million ways to do that and spanking is definitely not one of them.

There is an old adage that goes, ‘Spare the rod and spoil the child’, but I would rather spare the rod and spare the child. I would rather make this world the best place for my children to be. All our children need is a little patience.

(P.S. I guess I have been a little preachy, and I hope you will forgive me for that)