It's all here - Serial Novels, Short Stories, Flash Fictions, Blogs and Poetry!

Message From 4IW Team

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 18:04:00 GMT

We at 4IW pay tribute to all women on occasion of the International Women's Day on March 8!

A warm welcome to our new writer, Sunanda Menon!

In Serial Novel - Chapter 9 of Karna, My Son By Uma Shankari, Bangalore, India

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 18:03:00 GMT

X

RECAP

Pandu incurs a curse that he would die the minute he has intercourse with a woman. Using the mantra that Kunti has learned from Durvaasa, Kunti and Madri give birth to five Celestial children. At an unguarded moment, Pandu seeks pleasure from Madri and dies. Madri follows him on the funeral pyre. Kunti returns to Hastinapura with the five children.

CHAPTER 9

Gandhari's laughter tinkled across the room. I had been chatting with her for an hour now – indeed, the first time I ever did so. When I had left Hastinapur, she had been married barely for two years. I used to maintain a respectable distance then.

That day, when Gandhari had sent her personal messenger asking for my permission to meet me, I was happy. It had been a month after Pandu's funeral ceremonies. We were slowly getting acclimatized to the new home and the new circumstances. True, Hastinapur palace itself wasn't new, but many things had changed since we had set out from there.

As she came in, Gandhari hugged and asked me if I was comfortable. Then we got talking about old times. She told me how she used to love the rugged and rustic charm of Gandhara that her father Suvala ruled. Then she talked about how Bhishma had sent proposals to her father. Though she described the events factually without coloring it with emotions, it was easy for me to see her anguish that she had been a pawn in the process. Yes, nobody refused a Hastinapur offer even if it was for a blind king. And a daughter had to respect a commitment made by her father, even if he did so without consulting her. So a carefree life amidst the Hindu kush mountains and lush countryside had to be given up for a blindfolded life in the confines of a cheerless, colorless, albeit expansive, palace.

She said all this with a cheerful face. "But why did you blindfold yourself?" I couldn't resist asking.

"Oh, Dhritarashtra was born blind. He has never seen the world. I wanted see the world as he would see it."

"But you could have been his eyes by keeping them open," I suppressed the words that rose to my lips.

The same thought was to occur to me several times in the future as well. If she had kept her eyes open, she would have been able to see her hundred children grow. She could have seen them take the first faltering steps, seen the subtle messages in their eyes when they fell down, got pushed, or lost in a game when they were kids, or seen looks of anger, deception and revenge when they were older.

Presently, my children entered the room. They touched my feet and Gandhari's by turns Their faces were flushed with excitement.

"So you have been playing," I said lightly tapping the soil off their silken garments.

"Yes mother, all of us were sitting on the trees, and Bhima shook the tree. All of us came tumbling down, and Bhima laughed and made fun of us."

"Really?" Gandhari was startled.

"Bhima, you shouldn't be rough any more," I chided Bhima and explained to an uncomprehending Gandhari that Bhima, being the son of the Wind god, had the strength of several hundreds of elephants and could, indeed, shake and even uproot a big tree.

“Who has got hurt,” Gandhari tried to conceal her astonishment and ask evenly.

“All of us,” said Yudhishtra, “we, the Pandavas as well as the Kauravas. All of them.”

“Sister, Bhima doesn’t mean any harm. He’s just mischievous. I’ll tell him to be careful,” I told Gandhari. I knew she’d be hurt even if she didn’t show it.

I had reasons to worry. Already, I had noticed the scorn and antagonism on Duryodhana’s face whenever the children played together or practised the use of weapons. It was no secret that the five Pandavas were more than a match for the hundred Kauravas. None of the Kauravas could rival Arjuna in archery, and none could similarly match Nakula in the use of swords.

I did not want envy to sow seeds of separation between the brothers. Already, the courtiers and common citizens were very open in their adulation of the Pandavas. Pandavas were well-mannered, well trained in the martial arts, well-versed in the scriptures…And the Kauravas? Disrespectful of elders, rude, and boorish. The inevitable comparison never failed to bring in a thinly veiled look of irritation on the faces of the Kauravas.

That night, I sat with the children and told them the future of Hastinapura lay in the unity between the brothers. If that meant playing low and safe, they should do it.

A week passed. One day, Duryodhana sent special invitations to the Pandavas for a special game of water sports. He told Yudhishtra that he had organized for a special ‘Jala Kreeda (water sports)’ festival on the banks of the river Ganges. A new palace had been especially erected for the occasion, and cooks were hired to feed them with novel delicacies.

I felt uneasy. I had been a witness to the seething envy that lurked underneath Duryodhana’s friendly exterior. I could not tell Yudhishtra not to accept the invitation. That was not expected of Kshatriyas. I prayed to God to take care of my children.

My fears were not unfounded, as the subsequent events were to show.

…to be continued

Share This 4IW Article

In Short Stories - Master Ji By Indrani Talukdar, Delhi (NCR), India

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 18:01:00 GMT

X

“God knows who he thinks he is,” Runu mausi jerked her nose towards Mr. Goswami, whom everybody called Master Ji. There was nothing in the art teacher’s demeanor to justify the epithet, though. Not to me that is. The term held the suggestion of a bony male frame, sartorially inelegant. Yet there was nothing inelegant about Mr. Goswami, as he resembled an Italian Lorenzo pipe, dark, brooding and sophisticated in a 3-piece tailored suit.

Customarily, he had cornered the conversation at Mr. Bhattacharya’s post-Durga Puja party. And customarily, he had listeners giving ear with partial enthusiasm.

“This was soon after I had finished my art course from Sorbonne.” Some of us stifled our yawns. The preface too was customary. Prudence, the district magistrate’s English wife, had stretched her eyes till her artificial eyelashes touched the edge of her eyebrows. Seeing me regard her thus she winked. Her husband, Sandeep, had turned his back towards the company. He was collecting his drink – ostensibly? – at the bar set up rather ostentatiously in one corner of the sprawling terrace. I looked up. The clear, spangled sky distended before my eyes, a billowing sari in zari-work.

Although we were in the midst of April, there was a nip in the air. Leaning out from the terraced roof of the Bhattacharyas both Runu mausi and I pulled our sari pallus closer. . The low-peaked bejeweled Mussoorie hills winked back at me.

“She said she was in love with me… she was lovely…” Now everybody craned their necks to look at the speaker. Including the disinterested congregation of listeners. Self-aggrandizement was another of Master Ji’s forte. Maybe not too much out of place in this instance, though, as he did cut a wide swathe amongst the ladies.

“Who did?” the voice was that of Shankar Menon’s, the Shantiniketan artist who headed the art department at The Doon School.

“The girl… my student I was referring to, Chameli.”

“Chameli? Sounds more like a housemaid than a painter.”

“Oh no, she looked rather hip, wore jeans with exotic tops and smoked heavily.” The sarcasm went unnoticed (I suppose) and the crowd pressed closer. “She was also taking classes in water colors.”

“Not Madhubani?” The voice was Runu mausi’s.

Everybody was familiar with Master Ji’s bold Madhubani-style paintings on Durga executed on hand-made paper treated with cow dung. He’d told us that he imported the paper from a remote region in the interiors of Bihar. Several artists, even students at art colleges, had approached him but Master Ji had, so far, guarded his knowledge like a child guards a much-loved toy. Many of his masterpieces adorned Runu mausi’s café-cum-art gallery, a unique diner concept catering to the town’s well-heeled.

“No, not Madhubani,” Master Ji replied staring at a point above Runu mausi’s head.

By now, several late-comers to the party had joined us. Everybody begged him to tell the story from the beginning. Master Ji, tipping his pipe on an ashtray in a well-recognized gesture of self-importance, cleared his throat.

“There was this girl I was teaching when I was a junior assistant professor at the Government Art College.” He began leaning forward in his chair.

“Was she young and pretty?” All heads turned towards Udayan Gautama, son of the poet Vanshaj Gautama and a dabbler in poetry. Udayan’s glad eye was a byword in the upper echelons of our small town society.

“You bet, she was. There were lots of boys after her, but she said she was in love with me.” Udayan’s eyes had narrowed in disbelief. So had, I suspect, everybody else’s. Master Ji was dapper enough but no Adonis, surely.

“I had taken this batch of students to view the cave paintings in Ajanta.” His eyes shone at the recollection.

“Those caves are something, aren’t they?” Sandeep’s voice cut in from the bar. “And did you take a stroll around the garden?”

“Oh yes, that’s when the entire incident took place.”

Now everybody leaned forward, including the arthritic Professor Shivraj Tarafdar who’d retired from Cambridge and built a cottage next to the Bhattacharyas.

“I hadn’t been expecting it. Her slipper having cracked she was hobbling behind the others who had gone far ahead of us.” Then, after a pause, “I had had to stay behind to help her along.”

“And that’s when she sprung it at you, is that right?” Shankar Menon’s voice was tinged with amusement.

“Well, not really. First we talked of this and that. She told me about her parents who lived in Nasik. I learnt she had a brother and twin sister.”

Master Ji wasn’t a man for ironies.

“I told her not to be silly and concentrate on her studies. I also let her know that I was a much married man with two children whom I had no intention of leaving. We walked on for a bit and talked of this and that. By the time we returned to college the stupid affair was forgotten.”

“Of course,” he continued, “there was some awkwardness which both of us tried very hard to ignore and nearly succeeded.” Looking at him it was easy to see that he wasn’t uncomfortable in the least; rather, he seemed to be enjoying himself.

“What happened then?” Professor Tarafdar asked.

“She finished college and went back to Benares. I heard she was teaching art at a local college there. And then…” He paused, scratching his beard. “And then she died. Of pneumonia.” The silence hung heavy, an unwanted pendant suspended in air.

“But, there’s more.”
The crowd dispersing at the periphery began to re-congregate.

“Ten years later I ran into her twin, Shiuli. Actually it was she who ran into me.”
”Shiuli? Another flower?” Professor Tarafdar’s cynicism was urgently shouted down.

“Do you mean Shiuli Chatterji, the artist?” he went on, unperturbed. “I think she has an opening in Triveni in Delhi sometime next week. Did she also become your student, or what?”

“Oh no. The thing is… heck; I’ll begin from the beginning. You see, I suddenly received a letter out of the blue saying that Chameli wanted to meet me.”

“But I thought you said Chameli was dead?” Professor Tarafdar was beginning to sound uncharacteristically impatient.

“I wish you’d allow me to tell the story my way.” Master Ji’s voice had spiked just a microtone higher.
”Oh, okay.”

“As I was saying, I received this letter, couriered to me as it were. It was my wife who’d received it. Opening it on my instruction she it handed over to me.”

“And what did the letter say?” Shankar Menon sounded half-amused and half-curious.

“That Chameli was coming down to Baroda and that she wanted to meet me.”

Our narrator crossed and re-crossed his legs. “I met her at the station.” He took a deep breath. “The twin, I mean.”

“And I bet she was a spitting image of Chameli,” Shankar Menon sounded a little less amused this time.

“You bet she was. Well, anyway, I took her to see my art department. By then I had also won my national award.” Many of us stifled yawns for the second time that evening.

“And when did you discover she was the twin?” Professor Menon asked.

“She told me so herself. I wouldn’t have guessed otherwise. They were so similar. And like her twin, she wanted me to give her some tips on my Madhubani style.”
“And of course, you declined.” Both Mr. Bhattacharya and Shankar Menon chorused like schoolboys.

“Yes, I did,” continued our narrator, ignoring their pooled sarcasm

“Well, anyway,” he resumed, “I took her to see the Baroda Museum and Picture Gallery and the Pratap Vilas Palace. It was on the day she was leaving that she told me about Chameli’s death in a road accident. She told me she was her twin. I never heard from her again.”

A tame end to a rather tepid story, said Runu mausi to me in private, later. I couldn’t agree more, I replied. Being tired I was loath to pursue the subject.

A week later I accompanied Runu mausi to Delhi. She had to buy ‘raw material’, as she put it, for her café-cum-art gallery. Our first stop was to be the Triveni Art Gallery not far from the Bengali Market. The suggestion had been mine actually; I loved its little café with its steaming parathas and fresh yoghurt.

It was Runu mausi who spotted the announcement. It said, “Shiuli Nathan’s Madhubani paintings on display.”

The painting at the entrance looked vaguely familiar. As always, it was Runu mausi who hit the bull’s eye. “Doesn’t it look like one of Master Ji’s works?” It did, certainly. The large paintings featuring sheep and cows, especially. I turned over the brochure. There was a brief biography, neatly calligraphed. It listed her exhibitions in India and abroad. There was only one sentence about her teacher; it read: The artist had learnt from her deceased twin sister.

Share This 4IW Article

In Jessie's Corner - HAPPY WOMEN'S DAY!!

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 17:30:00 GMT

X

You are special –so here’s wishing each one of you on this special day—all the FREEDOM and happiness you are entitled to.

Women or should moi say womanhood is celebrated on this day—8th March, when women are treated with a lot more respect and dignity than the other usual days! It’s even surprising that in this male dominated society, a day is actually taken off the calendar for the women to celebrate their womanhood. Very magnanimous moi could say! Women being recognized for what they really are, instead of just being looked as objects of sex, who are meant only to be walked all over, stripped off their pride, self respect, dignity that she actually deserves from one and all.

Women have always been looked as objects who pleasure men, completely disregarding their personal, intellectual abilities and capabilities that a female is capable of, a society which completely reduces women to be instruments of sexual pleasure and nothing more. Look around us—take any media from TV to the magazines advertising-- women are splashed across to make things even more appealing to the eye. Men moi believes respond to these visual gourmet presented to them – which obviously increases sales and quick bucks are in. This is the magic mantra that is universally followed and acceptable world wide.

Do women then in reality celebrate this day as it is meant to be?

How many of us can actually sit back, lazy around and say, “All is well”J

Hmm… few moi could say!

It’s a fact that on this day—when the world celebrates women, recognizing their worth, giving them their due credit and honoring them for their hard work and diligence --- some where in some part of the world –a woman still cries out in pain against the injustice meted out, a girl child being killed, somebody being brutally raped –stripped off her respect and pride—tarnished and labeled for life.

No matter what --- at the end of the day –she is still a woman –who has to pander to every whim and fancy that the society expects from her.

Why is that only on this day –women are celebrated? What happens on the rest of the 364 days? Doesn’t she exist? Isn’t she visible? So why give her the due credit only on this one single day. Doesn’t she deserve it on the rest of the 364 days?

Women are pillars—strong pillars on which the very foundation of a society stands—shake her, and you know what happens! You see all colors flash pass by. A woman blends the colors of life beautifully and intricately and one needs to appreciate her for what she truly is.

Could it be possible for every single woman to stop doing what she is supposed to be doing on this Women’s Day –take the day off, pamper herself, just doing those things that she actually wants to—not what is expected from her!

What could happen? J

Imagine –let your imaginations run wild—moi is sure that you have colorful pictures now splashed.

Is it possible then for us women to enjoy ourselves the day as we are supposed to be enjoying?

Share This 4IW Article

In Shail's Space - How free is Freedom of Expression?

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 17:29:00 GMT

X

How free is Freedom of Expression?

Freedom of expression comes with our democratic rights. We appreciate what we like and criticize what we disapprove of. In the same way, artists, writers, actors and the like express themselves and their thoughts in their work be it by paintings, books or acting. There are several other mediums of expression that we make use of as individuals in a free independent country, giving each other space and making use of our democratic rights too. But pray, when does this act of artistic freedom become an infringement on the sensibilities of certain sections of society? Why does it become so? If expressing one’s freedom of speech or artistic expression becomes a provocation for violence and disharmony should the person expressing himself/herself be treated like a terrorist and be shunted out unceremoniously? Does expression of speech come with its share of responsibility?

Live and Let Live

You may have heard of reports in all kinds of media of the reputed artist, M F Husain’s decision to give up Indian citizenship and take up citizenship in Qatar. This because he and his work were not guaranteed freedom of expression as is evident in all the events from the time his controversial painting of the nude goddess took place. His paintings were destroyed, his house vandalized and cases piled up against him for disrupting harmony in the country, causing insult to another religion and inciting violence among the people.

In the same manner, Salman Rushdie’s books were banned and a fatwa put on him that turned him into a complete recluse trying to save himself from the people trying to kill him.

Taslima Nasreen, also a writer is wandering from country to country only because she dared to write what others didn’t especially in her country.

There are innumerable other people who have suffered, have been traumatized and are still suffering for expressing their deserving right of freedom of expression. So, where did they go wrong for producing so much hatred and dislike for them and their works? Is it only a section of the society that is getting extra sensitive by this freedom of expression or are there other sections of society too that are genuinely affected by ‘irresponsible’ freedom of expression.

Those disturbed by the acts of these artists, writers, actors, etc state that since what these people do or say is liable to influence others because of the wide reach of the work, their actions must be judged critically. They also say that no freedom comes without responsibility. Creative people, they state, have a social and moral responsibility towards their work and should be held responsible for their work which means that they should not say or do anything in speech, action or work that could fan the embers of violence in a country which is home to so many diverse religions.

But what about the attempts to strangulate the voices of those who are not even attempting to do or say anything wrong? And here, the fault lies in the voices that are trying to shut them up. Like the moral brigade that does not want Valentine’s Day, like some governments in India that want a total ban on western music, like those who want a movie to be banned and indulge in violence only because the actor spoke about something that they don’t agree with. What about the blogger, Chyetanya Kunte who was forced to express an apology and take off his blog that criticized Barkha Dutt’s coverage and commentary of 26/11? What about the political parties that incite violence in the public on a regular basis by presenting wrong facts to them and then provoking them to indulge in violence? Why are they not held up then?

Today, more than ever, people have become aware (thanks to the internet) and are expressing themselves left, right and centre about issues that were earlier left to political parties and the like. People today want to participate in the social process and development of the country and so, express themselves in whatever forms they deem right. I am not saying that all are right. Some of them can be mighty destructive and scathing too in their manner of expression but they are only expressing their freedom of expression. Why deprive a person of his/her creative license only because it appears negative? In fact, a court hearing in Mumbai ruled sometime back that all religions in India can be criticized as it is the approved fundamental right to freedom of speech. Of course, the issue is not just about the criticism of religions. It is about being comfortable and being free to express one’s thoughts unmindful of a possibly dangerous consequence like a ban, attempt to murder, etc. Like someone said, “Assuming he is wrong, he has a right to be wrong.”

You tell me friends. Does freedom of speech and expression comes with a no holds card? Or does it require a certain degree of responsibility with it? Who has the right to judge how much is too much!

Share This 4IW Article

In Movie Review By Irene - Atithi Tum Kab Jaoge?

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 17:09:00 GMT

X

Film:

Atithi Tum Kab Jaoge?

Directed By: Ashwini Dhir

Screenplay: Robin Bhatt, Ashwini Dhir, Tushar Hiranandani

Cinematographer: Aseem Bajaj

Editor: Dharmendra Sharma

Sound:
Subhash Sahoo

Music: Pritam Chakrabarty

Cast:
Ajay Devgn, Konkona Sen Sharma, Paresh Rawal, Viju Khote,Satish Kaushik, Akhilendra Mishra, Sanjay Mishra

A guest who overstays his welcome, makes himself quite disagreeable with his unreasonable demands, and one who refuses to take any hints about leaving – sounds like a perfect nightmare and an idea for great comedy. But Atithi Tum Kab Jaoge? is guilty of never developing the idea to justify a feature film length. Moreover, since there is nothing new or unpredictable in the situation, you would expect some novel / bizarre developments, and there aren’t any that have been developed properly enough to not feel contrived or predictable. And of course, the sermonizing – even though not agonizingly long – is very much present.

Puneet (Ajay Devgn) and Munmun (Konkona) lead their busy, urban, insular lives in Mumbai. They have a little boy Ayush, whose Hindi teacher is not very happy with his progress as his Mom, who supervises his homework, is a Bengali and not very knowledgeable in the subject. Having been taught the phrase atithi deva bhavo in school, the little boy longs to have an atithi (guest) at home and one day it seems his prayers are answered. Lambodar Chacha (Paresh Rawal) from Gorakhpur lands up and though Puneet has no memory of him, convinces Puneet that they are indeed related, albeit distantly.

Yes, Lambodar Chacha is the coarse rustic sort who slaps the building watchman on arrival, imposes upon his hosts in all possible ways, manages to infuriate the maid, gargles noisily at dawn, and farts all over the place. He is not even a bad guy but belongs to a time warp and behaving thus comes naturally to him. Worse still, he shows no desire to leave, compelling his hosts to think of novel ways to speed his departure. The problem is that the ways are not innovative enough and get boring in no time because of their predictable conclusions. Like when Puneet enlists the services of an underworld don to speed up Chacha’s departure, you know the don will have a change of heart. I also found it hard to believe that an urban couple like Puneet and Munmun will open their doors to an unexpected guest, of whose arrival or existence they had no idea. They never make a call to Gorakhpur to check with anyone else about Lambodar Chacha but trust him with their son and their home. They never ask him what brings him to the city, or when he will leave – questions that should be asked, even if a bit awkward.

Yes, there are a few situations that are funny, like when Puneet, who’s a scriptwriter, takes Chacha along for a film mahurat and Chacha literally terrorizes actor Viju Khote, thrilled to bits upon encountering Kalia from Sholay. But the film soon runs out of steam and the songs slacken the pace even further – even though the suhani raat dhal chuki number is funny in bits. The second half is loaded with contrived scenes like the hotel raid scene, the police station scene and the Ganpati visarjan scene.

The problem with the film is that the comedy is never irreverent and therefore dull. Comedy and sermonizing do not make good partners and if you are out to watch a comedy, you do not want to listen to lectures about changing value systems. The resolution liberally relies on divine intervention and is not fun. Okay, Ayush’s Hindi has improved, and I learnt my moral science lessons. But I didn’t have fun.

Of the actors, Ajay Devgn is thankfully restrained and Paresh Rawal is, well, not inspired. Konkona is fairly effortless. The other actors don’t have much to do.

The existence of films like these is sometimes justified by comparing them with an older generation of film-makers – Hrishikesh Mukherjee, Basu Chatterjee, etc – but the language of cinema has changed a lot since. I am not saying that a simple morality tale cannot be told any more, just that it has to be told with more imagination and without resorting to paradigms that are age-old. Atithi Tum Kab Jaoge? is based on a short story by Sharad Joshi. And sadly, the film always feels like a story that is being stretched beyond any sense or interest.

Like the guest in the film, the film too overstays its welcome…if it was ever welcome at all, that is.

Rating: One and a half stars out of five

More Reviews

Share This 4IW Article

In Poetry Corner - Woman, Beautiful Woman! By Shail Raghuvanshi, Chennai, India

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 16:22:00 GMT

X

Woman, Beautiful Woman!

Woman,
Beautiful woman.

The world searches in you

frantically,

qualities that it does not possess.

In vain, for ages,

you have been judged,

accused,

traumatized

for things you were not even guilty of.

What the world wants of you

is unconditional emotion

like the waves of the ocean

that come to the shore

pouring out heart, soul and spirit,

not waiting for any reward in return

merging again into the vast waters.

Woman,

Beautiful woman.

Like Mother Earth

which trembles,

tormented by those she loves,

you keep going back

to give more and more

but, what when the coffers

get emptied?

When there is nothing more

left to give?

Who will soothen the hurt

that ravages your very being?

Will you, like Nature

pour out venom and lashing lava

to get even with the shameless offenders?

Woman,

Beautiful woman.

There is you,

only You

that can make peace,

make love,

make war.

Your power, only you know,

Not friend, not foe.

Don’t wait for change.

Await not for love.

The world knows

only to grab and run.

For them, it’s just sadistic fun.

So, tarry not oh! Woman

before it becomes too late.

March ahead and design your own fate!

………..

(For all my friends,

Wishing you a very Happy Woman’s Day!)

Shail Raghuvanshi

Share This 4IW Article

In True Incidents - I Was There By Joy Clarkson, Gurgaon, India

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 16:21:00 GMT

X

It had been a long flight. Due to various reasons I had to fly to Chile by the South African Airline, which meant a circuitous route. My sojourn began from New Delhi domestic airport on February 18, Thursday. I had to go to Mumbai from where the first leg of my journey to Latin America would begin. First stop was Johannesburg. A change of planes and I was on my way to Sao Paulo, Brazil. Another change of planes and I was on my way to Santiago, Chile. However this wasn’t my destination. Vina Delmar, that is where I had to go. Fortunately, my son had booked me into a hotel for two days and I was able to catch up on some rest and sleep, and seeing a bit of Santiago was an added bonus! That was Friday night. On a bright Sunday morning we drove to beautiful Vina, a city by the ocean.

I sent off mails to everyone. I was in exotic Chile. Sunday and Monday went off getting used to the change in time and settling my tummy that was thrown out of gear as it was stuffed with breakfast at tea-time and so on and so forth. By Friday I was quite used to many things Chilean, or so I thought. What I hadn’t reckoned was that Quakes are as much a part of Chile as its blue waters, splendid beaches and happy people. I would soon learn that too, at an unearthly hour.

I was awake later than usual as my son and daughter-in-law returned from one of their Friday night parties at 3.00am. Half an hour later, I was still trying to coax myself into slumber when it hit. It was a swift rumble, giving us no time at all to even reach the door as all hell broke loose. We barely managed to keep ourselves standing as we clutched on to the wall under the doorway. The building was rocking and rolling. Swaying madly like a flimsy leaf in a storm. “Jesus” I said aloud, sending up my prayers to storm heaven. It became worse, and another sound rent the already crackling air. There was the distinct sound of walls cracking around us. Is this it? One part of my mind whispered...the other stronger part kept up the prayers without a break, even as we clung to each other and the walls for support. Then it subsided a bit and we made a dash to pick up our passports and ran down six flights of stairs. It had been a short time in terms of ‘normal’ time, just 90 seconds. But it was the longest period of time I’ve known.

We found ourselves in the street along with many others. More horror was writ large on the faces of non-Chileans. It was apparent. We were not properly clad for the cold outside, and my son did not even have on his slippers, as he had run into my room to see to me first. The tremors kept rolling in at intervals of 1-2 minutes. We were assured by Chileans that we should not worry now, as these aftershocks were low intensity. I’d like to tell you that the so-called low intensity tremors were all “low” as in lower than the 7.6 magnitude that had rocked us earlier. This meant that the aftershocks were 5+ and above but lower than 7.6... Hats off to the Chilean spirit!

Not fluent with Spanish, it was difficult for us to understand any instructions being given. What was frightening was that we were cut off from the world and our loved ones everywhere. The first things to get cut off were electricity, gas supply, water supply and communication lines. There was pandemonium everywhere. We made our way shivering with cold and fear, to a pub not very far from where we lived. The owner knew my son and also spoke English. Although his pub was in shambles, with glass strewn all over the place, he and his friends extended us hospitality and assurances of safety as we were made comfortable in chairs outside in the garden. Water was provided and protection too. Yes, protection is the first thing one has to think of in such situations we learnt, as vandalism and looting could begin. We were informed that they were armed and it gave us some comfort to know that a couple of them were ex-Army guys.

We were refugees. Out on the streets the whole night, and till evening of the next day. Food was scarce as was drinking water. We had to scour the place to find a shop or bakery that was open and had the goods we needed. That’s when we went to another Indian’s apartment which was stronger and had withstood the quake better than ours had. Many others had also found their way to this relatively safe haven. It was just a one-bedroom place, small for so many. But we found ourselves relaxing here mainly because it was on the second level. The rest who were there resided at levels higher than our 6^th level apartment! It had been more frightening for them. One lived on the 22^nd level. I was so grateful then that we were on a much lower level. With my back and knees the way they are, I’d have never been able to run down the stairs. I had one more reason to thank God. The first one of course being that my trip didn’t get postponed by a week as I had wished, as then I’d have been in Santiago which was worse. Santiago was closer to the epicenter of the quake, where it measured 8.8 on the Richter scale.

The tremors hadn’t completely stopped. But the only consolation was that the intervals had become longer between each. Next morning we went back to our apartment. I was horrified. It was a mess. Plaster from the walls and things lay strewn on the floor. My bedroom and bathroom had taken the brunt. The door of the bedroom wouldn’t close as the door-jamb had tilted by a centimetre or two; all four corners had developed forty-five degree cracks near the ceiling; there were cracks running across the middle too. The bathroom had semi-circle cracks and one wall was visibly separated from the other.

Although water and gas supplies were still not functioning we were thankful for electricity. As the kids cleaned the place I rustled up some food in the microwave and oven. We hadn’t had a decent meal in all this time. Then tired I picked up courage and ventured to lie on my bed. No sooner had I laid myself down than the creaking began and we were rocked, though not as strongly, again. I dashed out. I wasn’t going to be in my room. This decision became a dilemma for me and the children.

“Why can’t we get some place on the ground? Or perhaps the second level in a stronger building?” I asked aloud, and prayed for silently.

Just when I had decided to make the sofa my bed, a call came in from my son’s boss. We and a few others were to drive out to the country, about 25kms away. Our place of stay for a few days was in a country house. This is where I am even as I write. We are in the hills beside the Pacific Ocean. Idyllic, if the tremors (which still continue to shake us) didn’t remind me that Chile is “shaken by the sighs of hundreds of volcanoes.” We have no access to the internet, but I’ll get this through somehow. Offices are functioning, and internet is available. Someone will get it to you for me.

The Chileans are a very resilient people. Life swung back to normal by Monday morning. The amazing thing is how they have built their buildings to be earthquake-resistant. Although there was damage to many buildings and a few were declared unfit and evacuated, not one collapsed in this massive quake in Vina Delmar. Builders and those responsible for the construction of these buildings will face criminal charges I’m told, as quake-resistant means they shouldn’t have been damaged this badly even with a quake of such magnitude.

All I can say, five days in Chile and I had one hell of an experience; a story to tell about an ‘earth-shattering’ experience I honestly wouldn’t like to go through again. Well, the week is progressing and as I sit and type this out my eyes keep wandering out to the picture perfect scene outside my window. Who would believe this serenity is a veneer that can be shattered in the twinkling of an eye? But I was there and know it can happen.

Share This 4IW Article

In True Incidents - Small acts of courage can empower By Sunanda Menon, Kochi, India

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 16:20:00 GMT

X

It was in the summer of 1984, that I first visited, Dehradun, Uttarakhand(India). My husband was serving in the army then and we had just shifted to the cantonment area called Clement Town in Dehradun. A sleepy little place, it had all the comforts an army wife looks for; a cozy house, a good school, ‘bazaar’, the park, all within walking distance of the house. All I needed was a housemaid who could help me with the household chores. Being a working woman I needed someone who could be with the children, in case the need arose. A day after we had shifted to our house, I was busy unpacking all the stuff we always lug around due to my husband’s nomadic army life and as I was rummaging through one of the trunks, there was a knock on the door,

’Come in ‘I said.

A tall lady with a charming smile entered and said very politely ‘Good morning, Im Dayavati. Your neighbor has sent me. I believe you are looking for a new house maid”.

Dayavati looked like a Godsend at that time. ‘Of course I am,’ I replied. ‘Come in and tell me the kind of work you could do’.

Well, things worked out well between me and Dayawati and she joined work from the next day. It was evident the children liked her because there were no complains or protests from their side; she in return showered both my children with a lot of affection.

I got to know about her life as the days passed by; a life no different from many like her who are uneducated and married off at a young age. She had a husband, a complete drunkard, much older than her in years. She had borne 8 children! The youngest was two when she came to my house. All the money she earned was used to feed and clothe her family. Her husband never paid any of the bills and wasted all his earnings as a clerk, in buying and drinking country liquor .Most evenings he would come home drunk and demand food and comfort as if it was his birthright, and if things weren’t to his liking, in fits of rage he would brutally beat up Dayawati or thrash the kids into submission, if they cried out too loud.

One morning Dayawati , walked in , not looking her usual self, the left side of her face all black and bruised up.

‘Did your husband beat you again’? I asked.

She nodded her head.

‘Why don’t you do something about it? I said in anger.

She slowly held my gaze as if to ask, ‘What can I do?’

‘Well to begin with you could hit back at him when he raises his hand on you. Let him also get to feel the physical pain one experiences when one’s body gets battered up.’ I replied.

Dayawati’s look conveyed shock and surprise. In a voice, just above a whisper, she asked, ‘ Beat up my husband? How can I do that? We have been brought up since childhood, on a steady diet of being told to be submissive and obedient to all that a husband asks of you.

‘Yes I know ’ I said. ‘But does that include your being bruised, bashed, kicked around, abused, overworked, exploited every single day of the year. Shouldn’t you be allowed to show some self respect to yourself, once in a while at least!’

But how does one show self respect to oneself, she asked.

‘By demonstrating and resisting abuse from others’, I said. ‘Try it, it can be very empowering, but you have to do it yourself. Next time he raises his hand, remember my words. Steady your hand and just hit back. After all a drunken man has very little control over his faculties’.

Dayawati kept quiet. Her look conveyed that my words were sinking in. She finished her work and went home. A few days later, as she walked in, there was a trace of a gleam in her eyes and the hint of a bounce in her feet.

’You look like you are in a good mood’ .I asked with a smile.

‘Yes I am’, she said. “Do you know what happened yesterday’? My husband came home drunk as usual and started hitting me because the food wasn’t ready. He hit our youngest and in that drunken state also bit the boy’s finger. I just couldn’t take it anymore. Remembering your words of retaliation, I picked up a burning wood from the kitchen ‘chulaah’ and hit out at him. My husband fell against the wall and looked up dazed at me. I was standing there with the burning wood in my hand; a strange pleasure seemed to engulf my body, as if all the pain and suffering of all these years of abuse was drawn out in that one action of mine. I heard myself saying ‘If you dare hit me and the children again, I will throw you out of the house and complain to the police! I refuse to take this uncouth behavior from you anymore.’ To my utter surprise he crouched against the wall asking for my forgiveness. He did not utter a word after that.”

Before going home that day she said,’ Thank you for telling me that if one wants to be respected one must exert one’s authority when required or else the whole world takes advantage of you.’

In the four years that Dayavati worked for me, her husband had not raised his hands on her even though he continued being a drunk. Many years later, after we had moved out of Dehradun and moved on in our lives, I heard that she too had got the courage to move on. She got her children married and built herself a small home with her earnings.

I may have provoked her to retaliate that day, but it was she who instilled self-respect in herself that empowered her to live her life with dignity.

Share This 4IW Article

In Social Issues - SOCIAL TRAITS – Perspective of social interaction By Seema Moghe, Deolali, India

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 16:18:00 GMT

X

It seems so much easier to talk to strangers than close ones these days.

Why?

Probably because we get to spend very little time with them rather than those who we meet for short intervals in our place and time of work. All those who matter are not close when we wish to talk about things that matter and all those who really don’t matter are with us at all times that really don’t matter.

So, when we do want that outlet of communication, we let it out at anyone who shows little interest in our affairs.

So, here it was an evidence of my inference, a social peculiarity, of talking heart to heart to strangers who you met 14 years ago in a stray public function or something like that.

The man began with his daily routine. Then he narrated the well being of his siblings.

Then he came to the disclosure that all had separated. Elaborating why and how they had done so. He spoke about his feelings regarding the family separation and his vehement opposition for the same. But he shrugged, “it is their entire wish” so I did it!

After that episode of division, quickly he opened his office drawers and showed the laminated news clip of his son receiving an award for some commendable feat. Swiftly he turned the lamination to show the other side of his life- his son’s life – with his photo and his college mark sheet. Beaming with pride at the success of his son!

After that he extorted the much needed applause for his son and also for his foresighted ingenuity in getting a double lamination done, to preserve the praiseworthy news. After that he continued with the errand I was there for, but superimposed it with the verbose information on alliances and proposals for his marriageable daughter only after he had described how meritorious her academics had been and how she was now working for a highly reputed professional in the city and her successful stints of work in the nearby place of pride- Pune. Without a moments interval he showed me her photograph and her passing certificate. A nod of kudos was enough to boost him to show me the photos and list of boys in line for her.

“Oh but this boy was good, only that I am smarter, I found out so much about him, from so many sources I have, that I could avert the danger I was into, by accepting this proposal “ he eulogized. “The boy was not of a good character, even though he is well placed, I don’t mind a little less money for my daughter but …. No no!” he justified.

Now the Xeroxes I was waiting for had arrived. A signature and my work was done.

I was ready to leave. In a span of 25 minutes he had given me a loquacious version of his life in the last 25 years!

To a stranger who knew barely his name!

Had nothing to do with all that he was telling me about, and yet I was listening while he was unloading his pent up thoughts to me. Mutual convenience, peculiar traits of social interaction in a highly mechanized world, I concluded.

No matter how much we adapt and get adept to revolutionize communication technology we still depend on human ears, eyes and touch for our ultimate interaction I was convinced.

This incident was a revelation enough!!!

Share This 4IW Article

In Social Issues - When Women are tagged Witches By Gouri Guha, Delhi, India

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 16:17:00 GMT

X

In many backward parts of India, there is a wide belief about witches and witchcraft. Going along with this thought many cases have come to the limelight and many women have been killed when the tag of “Witch” has been attached to them. The reasons known to those who are strongly in favour of it to attach such a strong label.

Why is it that women get this name of being a witch? Women have always been an easy target and that too when they belong to the backward section of the society and are economically weak. Also lack of education pushes them back to fight against it.

Looking closely at this we can find the enemies as - Superstition, Illiteracy and Economic Insecurity. In all this the woman is always at the receiving end.

There are many instances of women being put to brutal tests for practising witchcraft. There has been no age bar for branding a woman as witch and practising witch craft. Women and children accused of being witches are spreading not only in India but in many more countries across the globe destroying the lives of many.

Killing and violence against alleged witch women are becoming common events. Many stories crop up to brand these women as witch women. Small instances like a death in a family or even the death of cattle can put the blame on the women and she is called a witch (Dayan). When a woman loses her husband, she knows her loss, but there are others who come out in the open to say she is a witch and eaten up her man. She becomes a victim of torture for a happening in her life because of her destiny. Many more different types of cases still prevail in our society about the practice of witchcraft that causes pain and suffering to the woman victim.

There have been many instances of torturing woman witches and even taking away their life in India which puts us to shame. These girls and women are hunted by those so called saviours of our society who award the punishments. These women are made to parade naked before the locals, hunted for their lives, shunned from living a social life and even have to pay up with their lives. Why have they to pay such a heavy price which is only a false belief of the society?

Ways have to be found to wipe out this social stigma from our society. The Literacy campaign has to be strong and worked out successfully. Our villages are a treasure trove of handicrafts and art. Women can work in these areas and earn a living which will give them economic support to fight for their cause. Superstitious beliefs are man-made. They should learn to live with the truth and not on false beliefs. This will create a healthy atmosphere and let them live a normal life without fear.

For all this it is the support they need from the government and the people who can afford to help them out not only financially but to be with them and make their life safe and happy.

It is not an easy agenda to handle but a concerted effort can make the lives of many women better in this “Growing India”. Let us try to do away with this horrendous practice that still thrives in India.

Share This 4IW Article

In Female Issues - Poser to Housewives: What Do You Do the Whole Day? By Padma Mohan Kumar, Trivandrum, India

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 16:16:00 GMT

X

It’s very difficult to think of a homemaker who would not have faced such a question. One can imagine only too well her seething frustration on hearing it. The very word ‘housewife’ conjures up visions of a lady whiling away the hours in non-productive activities while her ‘working’ counterpart is engaged in multitasking at various fronts and bringing home a fat pay packet to boot. It is indeed strange to see that during the past few decades the term ‘non-working’ has been used with reference to the homemaker. In actual fact this phrase is an absolute misnomer if one were to consider the endless round of household chores that the homemaker has to perform everyday. By what stretch of imagination can she be considered a ‘non-working ‘woman? Another term used to describe a homemaker is ‘non-earning member’. Is a fat salary the sole criterion for judging her role in society?

It is dead wrong to assume that a homemaker has time hanging heavy on her hands. Though the task of keeping a home is a challenging one, it is looked on with all superciliousness. The job has become even more demanding these days owing to the difficulty in getting a reliable domestic help. The homemaker with school-going kids would find the going really sticky. Once she is through with the various chores such as cooking, cleaning, washing and swabbing, it’s time for the kids to return home from school. The afternoon just vanishes in looking after their needs and the evening brings its own round of chores.

Working mother/ ‘non-working’ mother

The working woman certainly deserves all admiration for adjusting her day successfully between home and office. There cannot be two opinions on that. This brings to mind a story about a group of schoolgirls discussing what each girl’s mother does. One mother was a music director, another was a journalist and so on. Among these children there was a girl whose mother was a homemaker. This girl listened as her friends narrated, in turn, their mothers’ achievements with pride. She was at first nervous about how she would list her mother’s accomplishments when her turn came. But when she thought about her mother, she felt a surge of pride within her. When she had to describe her mother’s work, the words just rolled easily off her tongue. She spoke glowingly about how her mother was a source of joy for her, how she would wait for her to return from school, how she could transform her sadness into happiness, and that her home was a haven for her. Her friends’ initial pitying looks turned to admiration and even jealousy, by the time she had finished her narration. Her mother’s love was far more priceless to her than a hefty pay packet.

Definitely, one cannot help admiring the working woman for whom the domestic chores would be doubly challenging. Moreover, hiring a domestic help would bring in its own risks. If her children are of school going age or even younger, she would definitely need the help of elderly relatives in caring for them. However, no one can replace parents when it comes to spending quality time with children. It’s no one’s case that a woman should not contribute toward keeping the home fires burning. One cannot overemphasize the importance of providing all material necessities for the growing child. But the contribution of a home-staying mother should be valued just as much.

It’s not just her children who take up a homemaker’s time. Various household chores also involve a good deal of time. After all, these jobs don’t get done by themselves. It goes without saying that hers is a 24-7 job. Just imagine what the state of matters would be if she too demanded a weekly off!

A homemaker’s job is often described as a ‘thankless’ one, but this occupation carries its own intangible rewards. One cannot overestimate the pleasure that she gets on seeing her house spic and span after she’s through with the effort involved. She feels on top of the world when her family and friends relish the latest delicacy turned out with so much love and labor.

Empty nest or new world

The homemaker may be warned by well-meaning friends that she would definitely be at a loose end when her children grew up and left home. However viewed in proper perspective, there are very definite advantages to her position at this stage. In fact, she becomes a highly privileged person. A whole new world opens up before her. Neither is she confined to the four walls of her home nor is she chained to an office desk. She is at perfect liberty to pursue those interests which she had kept aside during the earlier years. Gardening is among the most rewarding pastimes that one can think of. Even if one is living in a flat with limited space, potted plants can brighten up the home. The internet brings in endless possibilities and opportunities for freelance writing, online editing and so on. If she wants to start working, at that stage in life, she can opt for that. But she should resolutely avoid comparing herself with her contemporaries who had never had a break in their careers and consequently are in far higher positions. Such comparisons will bring her nothing but misery.

It is also at this stage that a homemaker can develop new interests. She could, for instance, learn a new language or go in for a computer course. Or she could opt for social work. Books could be boon companions for those who love reading. Just imagine the pleasure they would get in visiting a book fair or browsing in the library! The possibilities of spending time gainfully are endless.

It is at this golden stage that the homemaker can afford to pay attention to her own health, or for that matter, her own looks. There is nothing wrong in it. Why should anyone fault her for her privileged position? If she is enjoying her life, without infringing on others’ happiness, there no need for her to feel guilty. At no point in her life should she be made to feel that she has nothing to contribute to society. A happy person is an asset to the society and home. A person with a negative outlook would not only lead a miserable life, but would also make others unhappy. A happy home is one where there is a cheerful homemaker.

Share This 4IW Article

In Perspective - Women Who Have Influenced Me By Mita Banerjee, Pune, India

Team 4indianwoman — Sat, 06 Mar 2010 16:15:00 GMT

X

Who are the women whom we look to for inspiration? Mother Teresa? Indira Gandhi? Sushmita Sen? Well they are right there on a pedestal – but on a more day-to-day basis, I think we look closer to home – women like us, ordinary women, who go through life, displaying rare tenacity, determination and strength, even in the face of adversity. They may not be geniuses, or breathtakingly beautiful, or from the social elite; in fact they have nothing which would make them stand apart in a crowd. They are just the women-next-door, whose lives brush against ours sometimes fleetingly, sometimes on a more long-term daily basis; and only suddenly are we made aware that under this commonplace exterior (and often worn-out clothes) is an intrepid brave-heart navigating hostile environment to the best of her capacity.

I have found inspiration from a motley group – a domestic help, an untrained nurse, a small entrepreneur, and yes even a murderess!

Rani, who works as a domestic help in my daughter’s house, ‘Maushi’ whose husband killed her two children and left her for another woman, Mangala Bai who sells vegetables at our street corner, Shalini Behn who has built up a Rs 60 million business in instant foods starting out with a seed capital of Rs 10, and Anita * (name changed) who in self-defence killed her violent alcoholic husband and is now serving time in prison.

Rani lived with her husband in a joint family system for 15 years, cooking, cleaning, looking after the family’s cows. But when her husband died five years ago, her in-laws began ill-treating her and her four children aged nine to fifteen. There were times when they went to bed hungry. Finally Rani could take it no more. Bravely she packed her meagre belongings, took her children by the hand and walked out. My daughter took her in, gave her a job and a room to live in. Rani works diligently and sends all her children to school.

We all call her ‘Maushi (aunt). At 65, she is a serene-looking woman who looks after my ageing neighbour who has a host of ailments ranging from diabetes to sciatica and cancer. Living 50 kilometres away in a village she travels that distance everyday changing three buses and taking four hours. And though she is the perfect nurse she had had no formal training. Everything has been learnt by quiet observation. Maushi’s husband was an alcoholic, who compounded matters by having affairs with various women. He would also beat her up in his alcoholic rages, and in separate incidents killed two of their babies. Maushi quietly packed up her two remaining children and brought them up on her own. But she continued to maintain good relations with her in-laws, who supported her decision. A year ago, when her husband passed away, she even performed his last rites since his latest mistress refused it.

Mangala Bai has four daughters. Selling vegetables at a street corner, she sends all four to school, while the eldest is now in college. Avers Mangala, “I will educate my daughters so that they can become teachers or get other jobs. I do not want them to lead the life I lead.”

Shalini’s husband had a modest cloth store in the old part of Pune city. But when an accidental fire burnt it to ashes, he went into depression and would not budge out from home. Shalini’s neighbours had always relished the tasty ‘pan-masala’ that she made at home. These were a combination of various spices which served as mouth-fresheners after a meal. Shalini invested Rs 10 to buy the spices. She begged her neighbours to give her their discarded plastic milk pouches which she washed, dried and filled with this pan-masala. She then sold it to them for a small profit. More orders poured in, and slowly she expanded her business. As more money came in, she began to grind and sell various flours. With expanding business, the next step was to buy machines. Fourteen years down the line she has a thriving business worth millions, and her two sons, now grown-up, also help her.

Anita is young, not even 30 and has a little daughter who is barely six. Anita is serving time in the prison because she killed her husband. I met her at the local jail for women, and this is her story, “Everyday he would come back drunk and beat me and my daughter. He broke so many bones. I was always covered with bruises and cuts because he would attack me with whatever he found at hand. I feared for my life and for my daughter. One day when he was lying in a stupor after beating me, I killed him. I had to save myself,” she says without hint of remorse. Anita is a model prisoner, obedient, friendly and hard-working. From behind the prison walls, she applied for correspondence courses and hopes to complete her college in a few years. “When I’m released, I’ll get a job so that I can make a new life for myself and my daughter,” she says, determination writ on her face.

I admire Rani for her dogged courage. To walk out into a hostile world, not knowing where your next meal is going to come from, and especially when you have four other mouths to, to feed – takes guts.

I admire Maushi not just for her hard work in providing for her children but also because she had the largeness of heart to forgive the husband who ruined her life.

I am amazed that Mangala, who is uneducated, understands the power of education.

I marvel at Shalini’s business acumen in building up a business brick by little brick.

And as for Anita, I am in awe in the face of such courage and fortitude.

All these women come from the most socially and economically vulnerable backgrounds Yet, they have risen above their pasts to make a better future for themselves and for their children. They are the true Earth Mothers full of steely resolve and unbounded love for their young.

Share This 4IW Article