My letter to the president of India

The recent gang- rapes are an eyeopener. I really want justice. I want the accused to be hanged- the crime they/ him commit are horrendous.
There has been 16/11, the five year old's rape and the photo journalist's. Women are portrayed as sex objects. It might sound as though these topics should not be  appropriate for a young girl to talk about, but if a five year old can be raped and her life traumatized already,it is okay for me asking for justice. When the accused are hanged, we'll be sure that the crevice is alive, and light can fade the darkness away.
Juveniles must be hanged, if their mind is so pathetic that they can actually 'murder' a 23 year old, why can't they be hanged?
If I do get an answer, I think there will be something much better to do than crying over newspapers.
If I don't, it won't matter, faith is just going to be another long step ahead to arrive.

Tanishq - Mia film (2013)

Once upon a time'.... was the start of Roshni's favourite fairytale. She would listen to her mother soflty telling her the wonderful stories. She would hear it and then as her mother would turn over the pages, she would give a happy squeak whenever she saw the words 'Happily ever after'. It was part of  her, a little voice, that would calm her and tell her that she was going to have a happily ever after ending. As Roshni grew up, she never forgot her aim. But what was it? To do something big, she knew.

Roshni was beautiful. Beauty in the world has changed it's meaning. Wearing a short dress and putting on make-up with heels is not beauty. She had jet black hair, tied into a braid, and she was not very fair. Her hair were usually coming out of her plait and she used to keep stroking them behind her ears. She was very girlish. But coming from a humble background and living in a village, a girl could be anything but girlish.

Her friends were not educated. They could barely even say ABC. Roshni wanted to study. She had an older brother and secretly he taught her English, Hindi, and a little bit of maths.

Her dreams were full of heroes, women heroes. Sonia Gandhi, Elizabeth Blackwell, Beatrix Potter and Anne Frank. Because of Anne Frank, she too wrote a diary, but not with many details.

She was close to one friend, Maya. Maya also soon learned and studied at Roshni's brother's, Rahul's school, which had two students. They were all the best of friends.

Roshni's mother had died when she was three, leaving her with her father, brother and the fairy tales.

On her sixteenth birthday, her father called her when her friends had left their house, after giving their wishes. He gave her a red box, tied with a green ribbon. As she opened it, she saw a pair of earrings. They were gilded with a design of abstract green gems. "They're real?" She softly asked her father. He nodded, replying, " They were your mother's. I gave it to her when we got married. Keep it. Do something great in the world."

Her father had never been those superdads, but if you would see the village, you would regard him as one.

As she became 18, her father started the 'find suitors' brigade.

She pleaded everyone, but everyone thought it was stupid. "No woman here is unmarried. Be mature."

She begged her brother, her father. "Father, please. I won't let you down! I'll do something great. It's  a promise, remeber?"

And then her father remembered. Not the thing he told Roshni, but what he had promised to her mother. To let her break the barriers, the limits- and to give her everything she needed to do something great, to work and make her mark in the world.

Roshni is now a CEO of her company-her schools for girls.

Her brother is now working in an international company.

Maya is a news reporter- all thanks to Roshni and her brother.

Her father is as proud as any father can be. Sometimes, he meets his children and they all sit together for a nice dinner prepared by him- or they have a takeaway.

Recently, Roshini was chosen for the 'top business leader' for her schools and her new- found jewellery store that displays well known brands such as Tanishq- http://mia.tanishq.co.in.

She wore her mother's earrings while recieving her award.

This is her story. And the speech she gave that day.

Roshni means light, fading the darkness away .

And that's exactly what she is. You're welcome to be inspired.

This is a post in association with the Mia Tanishq contest at womensweb. 

Stop Acid Attacks !!!!

Stop acid attacks !

She had dreams too. Dreams to touch the sky. To fly high.

Her name was Meera.

She knew about eve teasing and molestation but one thing had never come to her mind. One thing that would change her forever.

Meera was young and beautiful, was in a government school, came from a very humble background, and studied hard. She had great friend, was a topper, and was going to get a scholarship- everything was going great. Until that day. There was a dispute in her school and a row of words with her friends and some cheap lads who hardly even attended school. She tried to come in, to stop the fight, and when the fight worsened, with kicks and bruises, she complained to the principal. Those lads were suspended- but they wanted one thing- revenge.

So when Meera was walking back home, with her neat two braids and a bag full of books, the three lads came in the motorcycle and threw sulphuric acid on her face. That moment was like shock, and when the boys got scared they zoomed away. Her face was burning and she cried and cried- the pain was too much- it felt as though her face was burning. Everyone stopped- and stared. One little girl asked her mother, "Amma, why did this happen?"

For a few seconds, no one came. And then a woman ran and ran and threw water on her face. And then people came. They came and started helping- throwing water and milk on her face. Then that woman and an auto driver took her to a government hospital.

The treatment was so expensive it would take six years for her family to pay it. They went for the short treatment- what else could they do? Meera lost her eyesight- "It's good that I can't see my horrible face".

It's not horrible. It never was, never will be. It's those people who made it horrible. Those boys, that public who started helping only when one got up. It reflects pain, anger and trauma.

It was a moment that costed her a lifetime.

The school said they could not recognize her, her true friends stood up, the others, busy in their whole life.

And those boys? What did they get from stopping a young girl's well flowing life? From wasting her parents hard earned money? For giving her trauma that she couldn't even have ONE peaceful sleep?

Nothing. They're roaming freely. And so is the acid being sold. 

So that is her story. A story of injustice. No one likes sad stories anymore.

What happened next? Because of the part of our society that was just staring, hardly helped. The woman, helped, yes, but it was too late. 

If only there was nothing like this in the whole world. Stop acid attacks. Stop something which is not my fault and which I cannot control, she said- in every breath of her life- which was her last one.

What do we people say? Men are much stronger than women? Yeah, that may be right in a way, but a girl who could live with undying faith, never seeking desperate answers, and who died burning- is no weak woman

Poem on being a girl

Darkness covers the eyes,

People ignore the cries,

Why was I born a girl? Why?

Is it a sin?

Why am I so used?

Why am I abused?

The roads unwind me;

The night blinds me;

The small street lamp shines something bright,

Or perhaps it is just another awaiting fright.

I hate the dowry system in India!

A person's wedding has always been their favourite or 'most memorable moment'. These moments are memorable, that is for sure, but the fact lays behind that what made the whole wedding was money and presents and gifts. It's a pity that such activities or rather, thoughts, still continue, but there it is, the truth, and you can't deny it. It's a good thing that now, in India, love marriages have become very common, because otherwise, everyone would just settle down for a groom who asked for less. The dowry system is something without any logic. The girls' family give the most precious thing they ever had- their darling daughter, and even when they give her, they have to supply money. That is neither sensible nor correct. It should be the opposite. The family is certainly not asking for a favour by giving their child and giving money to allow her new 'family' to accept her. The changing of surnames is also very disturbing, somehow, but changing that would take loads and loads of hard work to take off the typical mindset and stereotype. After all, isn't marriage supposed to be something full of joy and happiness and...change? Then why can't there be peace, why can't there just be a simple wedding without the old people and women wearing heavy makeup and outfits sitting in the back seat chattering and gossiping about the car, the gold and the money that came out of the wallet of the girls' family? Hope is the only thing that keeps these visions alive, and maybe, if this idea, if this new change for good does not work out, perhaps then, we'll still keep on protesting and fighting for our rights when any woman or we were eve teased but the fact is that we don't even allow our equality and rights on the best day of our life.

What 8th march means to me

What 8th March means to me

Sometimes I wonder what my job is regarding me, my liberty, my country and my equality. ‘Women’s day’ has never really meant anything at all to me. If the world changes it’s thoughts for even a day on 8^th March, I would pray and thank god each night. But, if we think properly, nothing changes after this day. We know, with grief and pain that women will still not be even considered as humans. We write poems, create protests, barricade places...and then forget the very thought of it. But I think I know what we’re supposed to do this women’s day. We’re supposed to STAND UP. We won’t ignore them. We won’t complain. Just one look from our bloodshot eyes. And then....BOOM. I remember I never said as a kid, that ‘girls rule’. Instead, I admired the very fact that guys were just so great. They could do anything they wanted. While I was getting into fights at school, I was taught it was not lady-like. When I rebelled my way on cutting my hair and wearing Bermudas like other guys I was told to respect my gender. But why should I, if no one else does? So I cut my hair. And I still don’t look like a guy. I shook my head at people saying women should not wear short dresses and skirts. I clenched my fists whenever I DID NOT hear a mother telling her son to respect women and when they did tell their daughters to not try to show their faces or be seen or heard or found attractive. I wish people understood. I wish they could do what we can. Because, you know what? I’ve stopped caring. It’s nothing but a tough game. My ancient computer has this bike game (which I like playing) where my bike is always placed last. But then, I still come first. It’s not based on a stupid bike game, it is life. (Okay, okay, huge problem, there is that board game called life) but we can always call it GG(girl game) or WW(wow woman).

Here we go.

1.    Born in a village that has more orthodox and stereotypical ideas than crops. MISSION 1: LIVE the hatred. Or rather, just survive.

2.    How’s it going?

3.    Go to school (Remember, you’re in a village and you’re a good girl so you’re still staying with your sick family, no offence, imaginary parents...)

4.    Clean the home, cook the utensils...just do what Rapunzel did, okay?

5.    GET THE BAD GIRL in you. Leave your home, fled for the city. How do you go? It’s so impossible. You run.

6.    Find work as a maid.

7.    Where do you live? In a remote room in a construction house.

8.     Get into the proper city. Get amazed. How do the girls wear this stuff? So many talks about women power, but where is it??

9.    You don’t like it. Ignore the men making cheap dialogues.

10.           You don’t like it this way either. Punch the men hard.

11.           Oops.

12.           The men belong to the typical ‘gunda gang’. You fool!!

13.           The men are ready to teach you a lesson.

14.           NOW WHAT???? What are those two legs you have for? RUN!!

15.           Shout out loud, “Jai mata di”. Get saved.

16.           Get educated in some way or the other (now don’t ask me how, I’m not always having awesome imagination!)

17.           Get a loan and start any type of business.

18.           Get rich. You own a BMW, you wear the attire you once asked, “How do women wear this stuff”?

19.           Now you’re the woman. Live every girl’s life. Go to the metro and experience those goggling eyes, get winked by those nonsensical-could have done the earth much good without-being-born-people.

20.           Just survive.

21.           Question. And live without getting the answer.

THE END.

HOPE + PATIENCE + PROTESTING + STANDING UP+ DESIRE+ HUNGER = ANSWER?

Or am I missing something?

When it all started- an excerpt

Closed. Cold. Dark. Harsh. My life.                                                                                                

  I grew up in XXXXXX  village fourteen years ago. It is known as the XXXXX village because knowing the name of this village would kill the reputation of it’s already bad-named reputation. Two pieces of information would help you a lot in understanding the main subject of what I am talking about. They are: a. I am a girl, b. I lived in an Indian village where my life was totally traumatised. That information helped a lot for sure. It would only really help if there was a flashback because if I would say anything it would sound stretched, exaggerated and a lie. Only a flashback would work, a flashback 14 years earlier. A flashback...

The room was silent. Silent as though death was playing her little tricks and muffling up the whole room.  A man stood up. His face, if there was a glass mirror that could reflect feelings instead of looks showed pain and anger.  There were three other women and excluding the man, there were two other men. A woman, wearing a thin cotton sari with her hair and a piece of fabric covering her sad eyes looked depressed and under emotional turmoil.  Another man was glaring at her as though she had done something worth murdering her. The third man, older than the others was looking out of the window, into a faraway distance, dissolved into a thinking bowl where he was glued and coming back was hard-like a black hole or the eye of a tornado. The two other women were looking at each other nervously; while one was fidgeting with her ring, the other woman had her hand over the young woman’s shoulder, which could mean that she was either consoling her or she was just doing it to make her feel guilty of whatsoever action she had committed. “Do you have any idea about the situation we are in right now?” asked the old woman, looking at each person, hunting for an approval sign by any individual, praising her intellectual interrogation. No one did. The man who was glaring at that time looked miffed with her very dumb question. “The real question is: What so we have to do now?” Everyone nodded their heads like a springing and jumping toy except for the young woman and the old man. “Let’s just destro-” a voice came from another room. A man, with a coat that a doctor wears looked and was a doctor.  “Please, its  advised that you people must  not take any kind of outrageous action that would land you people in legal trouble. It is our humble reques- well, just remember that I was never a part of this, clear?” And he went out. “Idiot person...”muttered the young woman. “You don’t understand anything that you have done- you three!” said the old man, looking at the man standing up, the old woman and the glaring man. The young woman closed her eyes, paused and patted her stomach. She was pregnant. With a girl. 

It was a problem. What was the problem? Describing it was easy, but getting the main point (the how, when, where, when, why) makes even the person fluent in each and every speech speechless. It looks like a makeup kit without a mirror. Or a person going starting a dream without an ambition. But when things start, the only way of explaining when they started is by starting the sentence and saying that it started right by the start of anything.