& The Pigeons, they fly

and the pigeons, they fly

this uncanny path

swirling and turning

making eights, from where I stand

it looks as though

they are a group

it looks as though

they trust their flight

it looks as though I was one too

but maybe not,

for I have not wings, but hands

and the pigeons, they fly

happy as they sway

against and then with the wind and up

and down some come, while others replace

and yet the group

looks uncouth in its grace

they are stupid you know,

pigeons, they are

I don’t understand why,

but they never befriend an empty house

an empty court or an empty roof

they always seek a place to stay

as near as they can

to where we human do

they group and clutter and

noisily squatter

and never shatter this infinite loop

I wonder why they never ever

seek peace far from us

like we ourselves do

what is it about these lovey doves

these stupid birds

these flighty puffs

maybe we need their constance,

their company

to remind us that not everything

needs to be reasoned too

and the pigeons, they fly

in the same given symphony

some things don’t change

like we humans do

some things don’t evolve

the same way at all

maybe we need to let it be

because the pigeons will fly

whether or not we agree

Smells of a city

Text and Photographs by Anusha Narayanan

Every city has a peculiar smell. Every street has one. In Delhi, it would shift between the hot steam rising from the tarred roads, smog, smoke from vehicles - and then drift to the smell of Gulmohar trees, Raat Raani (night jasmine) in the dark of the evenings, or the spread out banyan tree and the tall (useless) Eucalyptus. (Does it have a smell at all?) When you go to the south of Delhi, it is the smell of food - of Hamas and Shawarma, the thick Mango shakes, the Puchka and Ghugni Chaat of C R Park, the concrete of Nehru Place and Sandstone of Mehrauli. And in the rains my nose can not avoid the smells oozing from the drains and Delhi Municipal Corporation garbage bins.

Mehrauli, Delhi © anusha

In Baroda, it is the smell of earth – dust and construction and occasionally, the smells of fruits, savouries and sweets that overwhelm you. The lack of trees in Baroda (ironically Vadodara - the official name of the city, meaning the land of "vad" or banyan trees) gives it a stuffy, breathless feel overall, with not much of a breeze except near MSU or Shiv Sagar Lake. But Faafda and Jalebi in the mornings and Pani Puri and Dabeli wafting in into the nostrils in the evening - the smell of rolled up steamed Patra, and the five rupee soda clearly make Baroda, the city where I can smell food everywhere.

In Ahmedabad - it is sadly the smell of smoke and only smoke that I remember. Except for the evening spent with a friend on the Sabarmati Riverfront with cute little birds that flew dangerously close to our heads, flapping fast towards water and back, about 3-4 inches in size - other than that the smell of smoke and tides of hot air is all I remember. Of course there was good food too - in Manek Chowk - where your nostrils get tentalised with Amul Butter's fragrance. This night-market, any foodie's heaven, opens at say 8:30 pm and goes on till 2:00 am, serving delicacies prepared in butter, garnished with butter, to be had with the side-dish which is... That Is Right - More Amul Butter! I don't remember more smells here, sadly.

Sabarmati Riverfront, Ahmedabad © anusha

Mumbai – It is an explosion of smells! My first few days in Bombay were during the months of monsoon; the famous/infamous Mumbai Monsoons. And I had a front-row seat to a city that smelt like a drain be it any business park or the local station. In the local trains – you smell people's armpits and sweat, and the dirty clogged tracks that run alongside. But after you exit, and start walking towards your office, there is first the smell of food – poha, sheera, upma, pakodas, wada-pao and idli saambhaar. These play in tandem with the smell of fresh fruit juices, fruit salads and veggies - all ready for the homely buyer and the perpetually-running Mumbaikar. There is always the smell of fish from the machhi-bazzar and milk from the strong-cutting-chai shops. The soft temptation of a wada-pao – the true miracle dish that remains dry throughout the year, come rain or shine – is the one khushboo I can never get enough of, in Mumbai. The temple peeping out of the street corners, tucked invisibly into the crevices, exude the sweet smell of incense sticks, of sandalwood, jasmine and rose, every evening during aarti time.

Marine Drive © anusha

And finally, as my love and hate for the Smells of Cities – or should we call this a mini-ode to the Smells of Mumbai – comes to an end, as a true Panwadi there are three things that I can never get enough of. The smell of a cigarette which is irritating, pungent and strangely marinated with the emotions of every human smoking it. And then, the smell of the sea. Near Peddar road, past the Haji Ali dargah, the sea threatens your nose with its heavily-saline and pregnant-with-acquatic-life kind of smell. The same sea smells of the blank canvas which you stare into at Marine Drive. Lastly - how can I forget this - the smell of old wooden staircases and ceilings of the buildings of Fort. The mind makes a trip through the stories of all those people who must have trodden up and down those stairs - the busy bees that built Mumbai over the decades. The smell of Fort is my true addiction.

Fort, VT © anusha

More than Words : Avaak

"Love is the expression of one's values, the greatest reward you can earn for the moral qualities you have achieved in your character and person, the emotional price paid by one man for the joy he receives from the virtues of another." - Atlas Shrugged

The one true form of art that can lead on to a catastrophe of revelations; the one true gesture that makes one do the most regretful actions they shall ever- is the need to – Express. 

Yes, well… Lady Positive is in the Dark Room my friends! And yes, I shall drown you with me!!! 

Love is truly a game. It is that insufferable need for us humans to fall into the arms of anything and everything that makes us “feel alive”. Yeah well sometimes jumping into a pot full of hot oil can fry the bit-Jesus out of your alive-ass. Just because it looks like love, it may not be so. Like those times when we fake a fever to get out of going to school.

It’s amazing how the overwhelm of winning a game gets to any relationship from the very beginning. Who called first? Was it you texted her? Or she who tried to make the first conversation, who calls and at what time of the day, who has a bigger phone bill? Who sent whom the first friend request? Who has liked whose images? 

Bereft of subtlety and lacking the very privacy of relationships, “this guy I met”, “this girl whom I’m seeing these days” becomes the coffee table discussion among friends. The commoditization of a person begins. We express…prophesize…gossip…and bitch.

But love is not something to be expressed. Not because it can’t be or doesn’t need to be, but because when you truly and completely love someone, the precise moment when you are to express it, all sense in you escapes. The only things that come to your mind are the bare minimum words to sustain a feeling so immense that words run scared. In fact, I learnt from a very dear friend recently… how immense under-expressed love can be.  

Love expressed is so much sweeter to the ears than love unexpressed. However, nothing can substitute the pang of affection you feel for someone who did something for you while you were looking the other way. 

Something that you came across days, maybe months or even years later from a stranger or a distant friend; something you know you will always be indebted to them for but you were far too eager to “hear” it rather than “see” what the person did for you. Love is something that is the hardest to explain. And yet, we long for more and more of the verbal expression, choking the other for words.

I also at this point, with no offense to feminists like me, would like to point out how the two sexes are two ends of the spectrum when it comes to “talking”. To most of my guy friends, merely “talking” or yapping isn’t expression. It runs much deeper. 

Picking you up from your workplace and dropping you home, getting your phone recharged when you’re busy running around in local trains, waiting for your call when you are away travelling, talking to your friends and getting to know them, finding comfort among your people, making you a part of their friends’ circle… 

...making sure they are the last person who’s voice you hear before you fall asleep and the first person who hears your groggy voice in the morning, waiting for you to calm down when you’re unreasonably cranky and touchy, and running to you for solace…these count for more than words. 

I am still astonished how very few of us women enjoy silent conversations. Why so? How can one not notice any of these? And if we do… how the hell can we still demand for words of expression instead of actions. 

“You never tell me enough”?!! Do they need to?  Okay, maybe yes… when it really matters. When nothing can substitute the feeling of hearing those words but excessive expression and repetition is like cheap advertisement that relies only on nagging the audience into memorizing the words.

Love and hate are far too heavy and strong to be expressed fully. This takes me to Gregory David Robert’s ‘Shantaram’, “Fear drives a man’s mouth dry, and hate strangles him. That’s why hate has no real literature: real fear and real hate have no words.” (Ch. 18, Pg. 414). 

I would parallel it to Love. Real love has no real literature too. It’s probably the denial or deprivation of that love that makes for good literature- like real tragedy… not reveling in it. Reveling in it is intrinsic. Like music.

And Now I see the Face of God

Photography:  Devadeep Gupta

Author: Anusha N.

"And now I see the face of god, and I raise this god over the earth, this god whom men have sought since men came into being, this god who will grant them joy and peace and pride. This god, this one word: 'I.'" | Anthem- Ayn Rand

I sometimes wonder what is it exactly that makes the spiritual. Like the journey to the temple. Did it really just start with the first step I took into its compound barefoot? Or did it start when the thought of worship was first seeded in my mind… or is it just the act of folding hands in prayer in front of god?

I have found God in the face of men. I have found God inside me. Every man who has a belief has a God. Every belief counts. It is like a higher collective conscience. Where every man is an end in himself. If you think you are contributing to a greater cause which is undefined, I counter that dream. Can you really work wholeheartedly for a purpose that isn’t your own? Can you vouch for anything with conviction because of hear-say? You are here to fulfill yourself. And it is in the self-satisfaction of some religious or spiritual or emotional or metaphysical part of you that you feel like a higher power surrounds you. How you turn out may or may not be related to that stone that you pray in front of. But for those who believe, it is so for them.

So what is “I”.

There was a girl I once knew. We were both really young. Like the age when pebbles and raindrops are our secret friends and we talk to an imaginary class with a chalk and a stick in our hand? Ribbons and frocks? That young! I met her in a place where we were all equals. And with each day that went by we discovered newer things about each other we hated. They knew her for her predecessors but I didn’t know them neither did I know her. I was the insufferable know it all. An out-of-towner, so I was as much of a misfit in this place as the place was a misfit on me. We were like an odd-pair of socks – black in one foot and white in another. Just never a match.

I envied her for her family. They seemed too happy to be true. I envied her voice. Much louder than mine. I envied her lunch. Much grander than mine. I envied her bag, her clothes, her sport and her smile. Much prettier, fancier, fashionable and cooler than mine. So was that how it would always be? But that is the age when we think of ourselves to be what we possess. Where we feel where we come from is all that we are. When I neither knew what was I nor who was She.

But all this while that I envied her possessions and her fame; she silently wished she was me. Because she knew at that age that this would not last and that day, what would last was I, myself and me.

Then we welcomed adolescence. By this time we had managed to co-exist. She had a fair share of drama. Boys falling around her left, right and centre. Sometimes she’d reject them even before they could speak. Sometimes she’d reject them the first time they’d meet. As I tagged along on her fun filled teenage I envied her every bit. And deep down I knew she loved my library, my books and my petty little tantrums. She’d smile at me and take to my nerdy whims. And she’d rather spend the PT class playing ping-pong in a hall. When the whole bunch of ‘Them’ was busy playing in the sun; she’d always meant for me to see. That they all had fun… but she had hers with me.  

And then we were adults and we parted our ways. Trying to see what really was I and Me. I went and searched the earth, the soil and stones. She went her way down science, logic and streams. We let time mould us and somewhere in this Apart; is when the whole “I” in me and the “She” in her came together. Like a patchwork of dreams and a board full of post-its, our memories just pinned up on the timeline of our past. We left.

And somewhere in all this time apart, I saw when we came back… it wasn’t the same Her. She was lost slowly like specks of sand from a fist. She had gone through the shredder on her own as had I. But this time, it was nothing I envied, nothing I could perceive.

She’d been a mother to a family that refused to grow up; a child to elders who refused to exist. She’d been a lover to lovers who didn’t know love, a faithful friend to friends who would never yield. She’d fought battles that weren’t her own only to realize. There was no such fight when enemies patronize. She’d been a pillow to sleep on for so many maniacs. When she had barely slept for herself in years. She’d patiently suffered for those who couldn’t for themselves. She’d listened and heard and battered and bruised. She’d never demanded of those who were incapable to provide because they were just that - incapable. She’d never expected from those born to disappoint – because they were that - disappointing. She showed me her wounds one by one with a sardonic humor. 

She’d told me that these weren’t badges from battles she’d won. She’d only meant it as lessons she’d learnt. She’d say she wants to shield me. But I wondered how could she- She hadn’t even seen what they’d done to her. She hadn’t known what she was to me. To her this was never her journey so far. Because all she’d done unknowingly was play hundreds of roles at people’s demands compensating for those who lacked the decency to play their own. 

What am “I” she said, she didn’t know. No belief. No faith. No expectation. No oars. Am I the same “I” you envied all that while? When I knew I envied you…because at least you knew there is “I” in you. They let you be and reveal the true you. But I, I am solitary and that is what is me. I don’t know how else to be anymore. Because all the while I should have spent in finding me... they and I never let me.

And she said “they gave me wings to fly. But all they forgot was that “I” too need a sky.”

She said something that she could never take back. Because the truth is we all exist for ourselves. Peace is not borrowed, like faith or belief or love or happiness or sorrow or pain. God can’t be borrowed. It has to be yours. It has to be born. I can’t just be. Every “I” that plays at least ten of our million dutiful roles with a little more conviction would relieve so many souls trapped like her to just be; in their due time to be “I”.

You aren’t the “I” you want everyone else to praise. Your identity is not that which is in my eyes or his. Because if my eyes envy you today tomorrow they could say pity. If my eyes love you today, tomorrow it may just be sympathy. You aren’t the “you” I see. You are the “I” you see. Even when you think the ones who loved you do not anymore. Are you even sure you know yourself well enough for them to?

If all you search for in the eyes of strangers is love and praise, you will never be satisfied, because the “I” in you knows better than that. 

“I am. I will, whether you like it or not, exist. I shall not apologize for my abilities, neither for success, nor for my dreams. Not one of those is what you owe to others. ‘I’ am the one you owe to satisfy. Because without a satisfied you, you will never fully be one of the ten “I” you Have to be.”

God is within you and me. I search for “I”. There is no bigger religion and no bigger God.

Half of Halves and an Ace of Spades

Photographs: Devadeep Gupta 

Author: Anusha N.

“I don't know half of you half as well as I should like; and I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve.”-  J. R. R. Tolkien, the Fellowship of the Ring.

There was once a Half of Halves- a man half understood. A man for whom no one stayed through his weak. A man few could see become all he wished to be; The Half that longed to be admired- to be wanted, to be needed or just to be seen. As anything more than that Half which finished the incomplete; as the Half that completed the queen bee. The Half that finished the unfinished halves. A Quarter that many longed for, but a Half of Halves just was he.

There was once an Ace of Spades. A woman of many shades. A girl who found her way into the hearts of men. Sometimes with little effort, sometimes with none. And even when she laughed, or wept or slept. It moved the pawns deep into their chests. She was like the deck of cards that always won. Either because of the deal or because of her veil. They’d either lie their cards all down so she could walk on their trumps. Or they’d let her bluff and let her win. She was like that queen of chess, who had many a pawns a bishop and a king. An army to defend her as she sat in her tower. An army to die, to kill for her, while she looked deep in her mirror.

She longed to be finished, to be as complete and then one day she met the Half of Halves. She knew that she had found what she lacked. She knew she too had that which he wished. A beauty, a charm and an innocent smile- a surreal dream which only she could provide. And so they walked hand in hand. Through the Poppies, and the Ivy and the Sunflower fields. Sometimes she’d drag him through minefields just for the thrill. And despite his defenses he’d always give in. And sometimes he’d carry her through and pull her out of the craters she’d always fall in. They walked and walked, never really seeing where the road leads. Never wanting an end, never wanting the road to bend. They walked till they hit a village carnival. And the Ace of Spades felt like a scene from a dream.

The Ace of Spades had been in her tower all her life, so she’d never realized. That the world outside had so many shiny lights. The Half of Halves felt her pull away, but just for a while. He let her go so she could see her clowns, her genies and her trippy lights. And he smiled as she laughed, and laughed as she blew bubbles that popped. He walked two steps behind her all the while. Not too close to steal her thunder. But neither too far to let her go unwatched. He knew the eyes that were on her galore. And yet he knew deep inside, it was the Ace of Spade they all saw… not the girl that this Half of Halves had fallen for.

They walked from one carnival to the next, just company for the duller parts and so much life at each stop. Till the day a man, an aimless wanderer took her hand… and showed her prettier lights. He showed her camel rides, elephant trumpets and a coveted throne. He whispered to her, as she pulled away from the Half of Halves, half a mile half a second… he told her of how many princesses and queens who’d wanted that seat.

His stories of battles, and trades and adventures were something the Half of Halves never had told her of. He’d rather been busy guarding her, while she’d dance with the gypsies. But he’d never really shown her that he too could fight and kill. So she said to Half- I thank you my friend. If not for you… I’d never have left the tower where I’d forever been. You’ve brought me to my King of Hearts and with him now I shall proceed.

But she never really dug deep enough to see the Half of Halves for what he was. Never deep enough to see that he wasn’t a mere Half. He was more than the Half that she could see, much more than the Quarter she had unlocked, and an Eighth she’d ever revealed. Not just the man who made her the woman she was. She never realized that the Half of Halves was a man who could complete any heck of a woman whom he’d chose to be. With just as much grit, passion and poise, The Half of Halves took it in his stride.

He waved her goodbye and carried on… but now he was just too lost. All this while, he’d never seen the side of him that she’d made him see. All this while he’d never enjoyed for adventures that were his own, they’d always been his queen’s. So when he stepped out of the Castle of the King of Hearts he turned around just once towards the porch. He saw her wave an innocent goodbye with a childlike smile, unaware of what she was letting go. And for what? A King of Hearts? A man, a chameleon, a trader of shady delights? A man one could trade for a broken barrel and two hollow dimes. A man who was that trader in every carnival. That trader who’d poach on unaware girls. A man that the Half of Halves had always feared for his allure. But the Half of Halves wasn’t half as cunning as the King of Hearts. And he’d never put a foot out of line with his Ace of Spades. So he left her putting up a happy face. He hoped that they’d meet again.

So they did as he walked head down. Aimlessly wondering, he hit another bend and another Carnival it shall be. And as he wandered aimlessly, his eyes wandered- for whom, he could not see. From one carnival to the next to a village he’d never seen. Where he’d heard tales of traders stop for pleasures and sins. He had no choice for he was too tired. And there he saw her- like a showcase doll. Wrapped around like a precious shrug, on a throne next to her King of Hearts. He asked around as to who the King had been. A woman next to him said, he is the one- the provider of Sins. His job was to show pleasures to men and women alike. A spell so toxic that no modest men could cast off. So he waited and waited on the sidelines. Till one day the King of Hearts threw his ashen Ace aside. While she lay there too weak to speak or to cry. He just put his hand out again and said… Come, you’ve seen enough.

But she hadn’t seen enough as it seemed, as she would later tell him. With each trippy light of a different color, she’d leave his hand. And with each new taste she’d forge his guard and let men in who weren’t worth a penny, a pebble or a speck.  And yet he’d watch with just as much passion as pain, with just as much anguish yet try to be sane. He’d watch till he’d seen enough and then turn the other way. Even then The Half of Halves stood his guard, whether she liked it or not. He’d stay because that’s what he’d always promised to himself. He wasn’t that Half of a Half – a man who walked off unfulfilled. He was that Half who stood his post in whichever way she demanded.

But one fine day he said he had let her see enough. That the Ace was worth more than the Ones and Two put together. That they’d never cherish her as he did. Because he was that Half of Halves that did indeed her complete. But the Ace in all her childish charm, forgot to realize one true fact. He didn’t say “I complete you” which was the truth… he’d said “you complete me” which rang a bell. So the Ace said Ah, Well! If I complete you… then you are Just a Half. A Half of Halves, that’s not as complete as I thought of you to be. I’m sorry but you’ve been a faithful friend, but I have my journeys which you can’t bend. I have adventures that scare you and give you nightmares. I like the lights but you cast a shadow too long.

The Half of Halves was never just a Half. He was twice of what you saw. Tomes more to write about, Stories that she could not explore. The Ace of Spades never really foresaw. That the day the Half was complete again… he wouldn’t need as elusive a trump like the Ace of Spades. Because in every deck of cards there is an Ace of each Color. But there is only one Half of Halves who wins the game. He is that hand that holds his cards close enough and long enough. Till his hand is filled with cards of his choice. And then while she shall still be an Ace that all kings and pawns would kill for. He’d become the Winning Knight.

Do you know why Knights fight with an unrevealing armor? Because they only want the world to see the Half that they wish to reveal. And the one who goes beyond that armor. That is the light that fills the Half of Halves and makes him complete.

India is Walking Stark Naked

According to Sigmund Freud’s Interpretation of Dreams, dreams of walking around stark naked have positive connotations (apparently). They meant that one was spiritually so liberated, so uninhibited that he/she was parading around naked- like breaking through the cosmetics of outward appearances.  Dreams are some figment of our subconscious or maybe a collection of anomalous memories, desires and imagination.  Just that…Then I read somewhere that a cop called fully-clothed women “Haramzadiyon” and I snapped back to reality.

When we started with Panwadi Tales – we started with an attitude to shed cynicism and talk about the simpler and smaller unspoken pleasures in life. It is obvious we all go through a great deal everyday to have to parade our wounds around so we made PT our anti-battleground. At the end of the day, it is our god damn personal blog…if this gets personal, so be it.

Ashamed. Abandoned. Agonized. Anarchy. Proud to be a Delhite; Utterly ashamed by the falsely ‘democratic India’.

This triggered off from an argument I had with a couple of friends/ acquaintances over a status update on Facebook a few days (before the angry protest at India Gate): “If you're a girl child in this country... there's a chance they may kill you before you're born, rape you after, never send you to school, molest you on roads, in buses or even classrooms, harass you in office, molest you / rape you some more -verbally / visually / physically, beat you or throw acid on you, burn you for dowry, or throw your newly born baby girl down a staircase - because It is a Girl Child. So don't walk alone, don't walk after dark... or with anyone less than a Schwarzenegger for a friend, don't look up, heads down, don't talk loud, don't talk on the phone, don't party, don't wear short clothes (like dressing has anything to do with 6 year olds getting raped)... don't be visible - just don't exist!” .

I think I say now, “This is what I meant in anger when I said “they”… “us” it is all the same.

Three days of continuous agitations at the India Gate and I was glued to the TV channels that brought direct images from the grounds of a Colossal Youth-led Leaderless Self-initiated and Socially-and-Morally-virtuous protests of all time. For three days I disappeared from Facebook and Gtalk and just delved in each minute of what unfolded into a prime-time Strip Club of the various agencies that “pass-the-buck”. It stripped naked everyone sparing none who came its way- be it the Muted Prime Minister, the Eccentric Home Minister, a CM and a Lt. Gen. on ‘vacation’, a non-existent 'Youth Icon' Rahul Gandhi or a brute Police.

Still my neighbors in Baroda preferred dry commentary with, “Yeh, Dilli mein ho raha hai? Dilli toh bahot unsafe hai ladkiyon ke liye… aap kaise rehete thhe?”

Shame people! When are we going to wake up and realize that it is not about Delhi vs. the rest of India? It is about a simple word- Respect. Something which we as Indians have become insensitive to - despite being educated. It is when we choose to act like 'a sheep in the herd' that our education flew out that window. Really, “they” and “us” is a shameful concept. And that was bravely showcased by all those thousands of young/old men/ boys who formed a large proportion of a seemingly unaware crowd. And let’s put a few things straight. Not all men are totally useless.

1. This 23 year-old girl’s rape is the instigator- it was the last pebble that was thrown into a pot that was brimming with crimes against women in recent times and it overflowed. It is not THE ONLY REASON why people were gathered that day. And Delhi is not the ONLY place where this happens. It was a show of solidarity which needed a spark to fuel it and which was manifest in this very case. And this is not the only heinous crime or the only time it has happened. It was just beyond a threshold limit this time.

2. The protest was not lead by “hooligans” and “goons” with an agenda to bring down the House of the “hardly-citizen-like-(to even be called) the First Citizen” President of India despite what people like the politically correct “Vishnu Shoms” or “Barkha Dutts” of an even more “calm and responsible” or the "brave and on-site" channels portray. It was a spontaneous reaction of people. In this case a mass reaction of a large majority whose actions peaked into a fiasco precisely because (once again) the Govt. of India failed to admit to its FAILING ADMINISTRATIVE SYSTEM. We are the largest and most populous democracy in the world. It is time we act like one.

3. The crowds were pretty composed till the police- like a BIG FAT BULLY- or a self-demonstrated MORON started spraying water cannons and tear-gas shells on an unassuming, young and morally wronged crowd on a Cold Delhi Winter Morning. I mean really!!! It won’t take a General to figure out what panic can do to a frenzied crowd…will it? And if you don’t have the balls to own up to your mischief then don’t commit them in the wide open in broad daylight, in front of a 100 cameras, thousands/millions of witnesses nationwide and expect to get away with it. Really Moronic Acts of Ass-ness here.

4. Don’t lathi-charge an already panicked crowd and don’t keep doing it five times over due to a general lack of Brains. The crowd will react. It really made me wonder if this was the plan in the first place? To just aggravate people so that they give a reason for the police to get violent? Also don’t go around calling unarmed girls/ women “Haramzaadiyon” and “Randiyon” while charging lathis’ at the crowd. The whole point of the protest is to demand Respect For Women in India - from the judicial system, the people, the men, the women, the politicians and the police. Calling them prostitutes in whatever fit of anger or momentary lapse of control it may have been, just proves the protest right, a grand case of “Paer ko kulhadi pe khud maarna” by the Delhi Police again.

And then the Police Commissioner says on National Television that yes, they have “training programmes” for “gender sensitization” of the police. Well clearly Mr. Commissioner- It Aint Working! ; Your or should I say OUR “Trained” officers/ constables seem to forget what the word “sensitization” means as opposed to the words “Haramzaadi /Randii” which they seem to involuntarily use to describe women. It is not just them it is a general mediocrity of mentality in many people- not all but many- that it is okay to lash out abusively at women this way.

5. Infant mortality, Sexual Abuse, Physical/ Mental Abuse, Domestic Violence, Genocide, Rape, Gender Bias aren't just Delhi's problems- they happen all over the country- if we remember Satyamev Jayate and the episodes. And why do we conveniently forget that Delhi is a multi-cultural city- Its has a lot of floating population- people from Other Cities who come to earn there- So this does get general and national and not just regional/ Delhi-Centric because there are people from all over the country in this city- anyone could be a criminal and a victim- so why just tag "Delhi- the City?"

6. Like we hail our laurels... we should also own up as a nation- a network of systems- failed systems- that failed to protect its citizens. My point is the President of America made a tearful speech to bring hope to the people within hours of the tragic Connecticut shooting.  Do you or I have such leaders who would openly say they will get rid of our insecurities? Even when they do the PM looks like a chicken(no doubt a halal ka murga) and the CM like a blushing school girl when saying things like “As a father of three daughters I am deeply…”

WHATEVER! Had the timing of the speech been appropriate to the gravity of the protests, we would have had a  so-called-mature frame of mind that we all accuse each other of lacking, but now I just don’t care if you have three, two or no daughters… How does it matter now? Are you going to do anything about bringing judicial reforms in his country of not? Don’t throw sentimental bullshit at people after asking them to "Control their actions” a day ago. And mind yourself- If you were that deeply disturbed as a father of three daughters, why didn’t you bother to address a simmering crowd when it would have counted? At the precise time when all they wanted was security for their daughters the same as yours?? A country- is not just people- it is their sentiments, their reaction as well. It is also a system- the failing system. Just ADMIT IT already!

8.  Is it okay to say "Delhi is not safe for girls" because rapes don't happen in Goa or Assam or Chennai or Kashmir? Going by the personal argument that general statements should not be made because they offend personal sentiments; What about the sentiments of responsible Delhites? They are All To Blame? Where is that argument when we blame the whole city for the shortcomings of some goons?

Deeply disturbed and highly aggravated as I am by the shameless vocabulary used by people right from higher up to lower down in our society, it is a long road to redeeming the “Izzat” of a woman because each day we involuntary commit a crime against her be it in our gender bias, our prejudice, our assumption/judgment or our actions. Till then we are all walking around as naked as any other victim. Like victims of our own thoughts.

The fact remains the fastest I have ever seen cops in Delhi budge his ass was when running with Lathis in their hands. 

Rael gaadi rael gaadi- chhuk chhuk chhuk chhuk

[Text by Anusha, photos by D.B. and MyIndiaPictures.com]

Toh maidam aap South se BELONG karte hain?

Train travel makes for the best anecdotes in the history of travel. In the multicultural and perpetually crowded frenzy that India is, train travel (that too in the sleeper) and with an unreserved ticket always unfurls into the best experiences for a lifetime! The fight begins with the dump of a website- irctc.co.in. Any ticket from any remotest of places to any other corner of the country always generates a waitlisted ticket so why bother getting a ticket! Well if all the brains in the Silicon Valley & the IBM’s & the APPLE’s are mostly Indian Boy-geniuses then how come no Indian Govt. Website actually works? Unless off course if you book two months in advance which most of India doesn’t...so who does get a reserved ticket, I wonder!


There was this one time I actually managed to book a ticket but the voice of a hormonal lady on the platform kept saying “Khripya Dhyan dein...blah blah blah...ek ghante tees minute se late chal rahi hai...” after every half hour. So I decided to just take any god-damn train headed my way- without a ticket.

Irrespective of whether you manage to get a seat or you don’t, in India, everyone is entitled to grab a seat. If the coolies let you enter in the first place. Brace yourselves if you’re hauled in for a long distance journey. The stench of urine and the spit of the paan will welcome you right at the mouth of the gate, along with clogged washbasins spilling water and overflowing dustbins. As the pandemonium unfurls the population of India starts fighting on who will enter first. Two collies will burst into the bogie after managing to push through the entrance together.

While you fight your way through the fat aunties with tyres of flab that can singlehandedly cause traffic jams, or uncles with bellies stretching a kilometre perpendicular to their bodies, who carry huge trunks and are stubborn to not let anyone live till they settle or insane toddlers who start throwing circus tricks. The Indian Travelling family is the most harassed traveller on the train... till they reach their seats. 


Then one of the mom’s loses her cool and points to you, while you pretend to ignore her hoping to vanish in thin air, in shear fear and embarrassment of being asked to babysit her kid- it happens just like that, “Beta, woh dekho... didi se baat karo... woh dekho didi kitne ache se baithein hain, app tangg kyun kar rahe ho?” Bass... then the kid is officially didi’s problem. Who dares ask the mother “Agar tum khud itne pareshan ho toh main kya ukhhad lungi?” But then you decide it’s better to take care of the annoying kid than let the brat stick a finger into the ceiling fan to gain attention. His dad grunts in anger and picks him up with one hand from his suspenders and throws him to the top berth for asylum.

There is always a noisy family, and then there are the lonely bachelors... or a group of guys in their youth- The Scavengers. They will tirelessly walk up and down and up and down the aisle of the bogies, preying on eye-candies. And they will always sleep late, chatting away to glory in the coach full of sleepy heads. If they find a pretty face- that is it. They will venture out in pairs, giving all the guys in the group an equal amount of time for bird-watching and will be unabashed in their eye-corner stares and peaky eyebrows.

Then off course we always have a smart ass. No offense, but this one is invariably from UP or Bihar or these days it could even be Jharkhand. His mouth will be frothing in Paan to the point of disgust and yes...he will choose to talk through the gooey redness of his mouth. “Aisha hai, ek baat batate hain aapko...dhyaan dijiyega... yeh jo Bala Saheb Thakarey ji hain...Inko bihariyon se sahi mein problem kya hai pata hai....” And all the king’s horses and all the king’s men will never put this humpty dumpty together ever again. 

What will follow is an introduction – “Aap kahan se belong karte hain?” Mostly this is a safe way of asking a person about his roots before you pass the next offensive statement and offend him. In India you never know. So I say “Main Dilli se hoon.” “Achha dilli se hain...toh Gujarat kyun ja rahe hain?” to which I stare at him thinking... “sorry, agli baar poochki jaungi!”

Dude cut the crap already before you spray your spit everywhere. “Mera ghar wahan hai.” “Achha achha... lekin aap dilli ki lagti toh nahi hain” to this my gut retorts - Dilli ke log kaise lagte hain? Technically a Delhite can be anyone because Delhi actually has no original “Sect” so unless I stick a Post-it on my forehead saying ‘Delhite’ you can never really make out one, but I decide to stick to “Haan main Tamil hun.” He acts to go into a shock hearing this and can’t stop himself from saying “Aap Tamil bhi nahi lagti hain!” Yeah well... sue me!  Spare me the stereotype.

Oh...wait for it! Then the discussion takes a new direction altogether, because the minute they realise you aren’t truly a Delhite- they decide to let the pent-up hater inside them out.  They go into great lengths describing every little flaw of Delhi... the menace of a capital... CP, Paalika Metro...Khod diya hai.... blah blah...  how unsafe it is for girls and for anything feminine walking on two feet.. blah blah... rape......blah blah...ladkiyan, chote chote kapde....blah some more... the autos “besharmi se” loot them. Once the recitation is over they say, “So you must be happy being in the west now.” I don’t understand this regional dissing that all Indians indulge in shamelessly. If you’re Tamil you diss the Punjabi... If you’re Punjabi you diss the Bengali... If you’re Bong you diss the Marathi and if you’re Marathi you diss the Bihari- and let us not forget the age old mind-numbing pain-in-the-arse question which sounds like nails on a chalkboard “Aap Tamil se belong karte hain (I am sure he meant Tamil Nadu, poor fellow) toh aap ghar pe kya bolte hain- TELUGU?”

God, please kill me. Really are we that culturally illiterate about our own country? The state is called TAMIL NADU for a reason, not TELUGU NADU for crying out loud! “Nai main Malayalam mein bolti hun.” What difference will it make to you- to the rest of India- Tamil, Malayalam, Telugu and Kannada is all the same. Although if I go to Bangalore they’d tell me Coorgi and Kannada were different as well.  

Yeah... I like my Rajni jokes too as much as Santa :P

A Delhite would then jump in and diss on Bala Sahib Thakarey. Then he’d diss on Communism in Kerala and the not-so-motherly Maumauta (Mamta) Didi in Bengal. Yoa mama so fat... no bro, your mama so black! Hate hate and more hate. By the time the journey ends you would just have had enough of the obnoxious intruders in your coach. All throughout the journey the red gooey-mouthed guy would say he’s a Marwari Jain- no onion, no garlic kinds- and order non vegetarian dinner to which you are forced to stare at him in disbelief!

How does it matter which state we belong to? The worst possible thing to be asked to me is where do I come from. If I say I belong to the South, the South Indians smirk at my non-South Indian accent, and if I say I belong to the north, the North Indians mock my non- North Indian looks.

I was born in Mumbai, lived in Gujarat till five years of age, shifted and lived for 10 years in Delhi, moved to Singapore for 2 years, did my college from Jammu & Kashmir- 5 years, then came back to Delhi for a year and a half. From the top of my mind my closest friends comprise of a Mallu, a Dogri, a Himachali, a Rajasthani, a Sikh, a Bengali, a Sindhi and a Punjabi – 4 Delhites + the rest of India. If I explain this then there will be no potential for bitching about the other states or people around me which the Indian Traveller loves to do, so why should I be the Party Pooper? Today I live in Baroda. Toh bhaisahab... main kahan se belong karti hun? Aapko kya pharak padta hai? Aap shuru ho jao...chalo.