Waste not, want not

The other day, I had to throw out a kilo of potatoes. I bought a bunch of vegetables, took them home and put away some inside the fridge. Potatoes and onions were placed on the shelf as usual.

Three days later, a luxuriant layer of white mossy fungus had appeared. So I threw away the potatoes, which were still inside the plastic bag. Of course, I felt guilty about wasting food. But I felt even worse because one corner of my brain had warned me: “Take the potatoes out of the plastic bag; wash and dry them or they might rot.”

This small bit of advice is part of a larger wisdom about food handed down to us – to women of my generation at least – by our mothers and grandmothers. But then we went to hostels and found jobs before we learnt to manage our own meals. Or, we allowed hired workers to take over the kitchen. Partly through neglect and partly because we cannot be bothered, we no longer apply that wisdom.

Some of us may have learnt the science behind food management – how air and moisture is trapped inside plastic, how fungus grows in dark moist places, how fruit can be ripened naturally. We may even retain this knowledge from school text-books. But we forget to apply it. We forget that it is one of the most important kinds of knowledge a human being can have. 

And this forgetting is costing us. Not just as individuals who are struggling to cope with food inflation, but as a nation where every other person is malnourished. Even Pope Francis has said that wasting food is akin to stealing from the poor.

The world produces more than enough food – four billion tonnes of grain. But 1.3 billion tonnes, one-third of the food produced, is wasted each year. Both developing and developed nations are responsible. Lack of good storage facilities or transport infrastructure are to blame, but so are unimaginative and wasteful lifestyles.

A recent series of articles in Tehelka pointed out that rural Indian households very rarely waste anything. Even peel and straw is used as fodder. But more and more Indians live in cities and they know very little about growing, storing, preserving or recycling food. Besides, supplying to people in urban areas isn't easy. Our current situation is so bad, we're losing 25-40 percent of India's fruits and vegetables. The food waste burden could be an appalling 100 kilos per urban household.

There's another kind of loss happening. The head of the United Nations panel on biodiversity, Zakri Abdul Hamid, had pointed out that the loss of diversity is intensifying the nutrition crisis. There are 30,000 edible plants around the world but we usually cultivate only 30 crops. Which means that every time there's a minor shift in ideal weather, soil or water conditions, and a crop fails, many more people are likely to go hungry. Animals are at risk too – 22 livestock species are on the verge of extinction because animals are being bred with the single purpose of extracting milk and related marketable produce, not because they are sturdier and more likely to survive in tougher climate conditions.

I can't help wondering how we got here – how is it that modern, fast-urbanizing nations are not aggressively promoting food management knowledge? Is it because managing food is low-paid or unpaid work? Or because many generations have never grown a single potato on their own? Or because people who can neither grow food nor care to experiment with dietary possibilities are the ones who control the economy?

First published here

The Decent Thing To Do

I've often heard it said that you come into this world with just your body and you leave the same way. Which is to say, don't get too attached to what you have. But as long as you live, you need certain things. Your desire to live is proportional to how much you have – money, work, love, support, freedom.

Indirectly, our laws acknowledge this fact. That's why every society eventually has to allow for divorce in some form. No culture can deal with mass unhappiness for too long. This is also why governments have to enforce minimum wages, the right to work, or unemployment doles.

In a humane culture, allowances are made for those who have suffered. People who are under extreme stress – say, they lose their livelihoods, or their health, or have been emotionally abused for too long – may lose their desire to live. Sometimes, businessmen kill themselves rather than adjust to a life of poverty. Some farmers kill themselves because they cannot bear to lose their land, or their dignity. Some people kill themselves because they feel trapped in an unhappy marriage and see no way out.

In a decent society, alternatives are created. Farmers don't have to lose their land if they lose a crop. Being homeless and jobless doesn't have to translate into you becoming easy targets for violence at every street corner. A divorce doesn't have to translate into abandonment by your own family.

In an indecent society, you are forced to stay alive because others do not want to acknowledge your pain, nor do they want to look for long-term solutions. It is easier to criminalize suicide. Or call it a 'sin' against God.

But criminalizing doesn't help (and God, obviously, doesn't care enough to intervene). If someone is deeply unhappy and starts feeling powerless, that person will quit. Even animals stop eating if they're unhappy. 

But suicides make the rest of us feel guilty or upset. Everyone has troubles. If people just quit whenever we feel pain, what happens to the family? To the nation?

Besides, families (and governments) invest in individuals. Even from a socio-economic perspective, suicide is such a waste of resources. So we try to prevent it, or locate the source of a suicidal person's pain. A decent society looks for reasons why people feel hopeless. An indecent society looks for a scapegoat, a convenient target on whom we can collectively turn. We make laws about 'suicide abetment'.

A twenty-five-year-old quit because she saw no hope of ever finding happiness. She was hurt, possibly assaulted, but did not talk about it openly. She may have thought nobody would believe her and her career wouldn't survive, or that she herself would be blamed. She did live in a society where any hint of liberation is seen as an invitation to sexual violence. Where 'bachelors', especially artists, are not welcome as tenants. Where elected representatives get away with shaming rape victims. Where, despite alarming statistics about child abuse, schools refuse to allow gender workshops. Where officials conduct virginity tests before allowing weddings. Where, if she survived the suicide attempt, she could be punished by the law.

And we turn to the young boy who didn't want to take responsibility for her happiness, nor did he know how to cure her pain. This is the safe thing to do, after all. Because if we acknowledge where blame actually lies, we'd have to admit that our current way of being deserves to be smashed. Rapists would have to be punished. Women would have to be set free. And our society is not decent enough to allow this.

First published here

Reclaiming Magadh

One of the best things about reading a good book is that it makes one want to rush out and buy everything else by the writer. It makes us hungry for more. On that count, 'Magadh' and its translation by Rahul Soni scores high.

I was introduced to the work of Shrikant Verma only in 2009, when some translated poems from 'Magadh' appeared in Almost Island, the literary journal that has now published the book in English translation alongside the original Hindi.

When one first encounters Verma's pointedly sparse poems, the impact is electric. His unfussiness forces the mind to focus on the cacti of dilemmas and questions that never quite leave. These poems are about history, violence, direction, vision. They grapple with the attempt to reinhabit a place. But what is this place? Where does this path lead?

Perhaps he spoke for a generation that witnessed the crumbling of independent India's Constitutional ambitions, when he wrote: “There is pity in no one/ There is shame/ in no one/ No one thinks/ Those who think once/ don't think again.”

But Verma does not mention 'India' or 'Delhi'. He mentions Kapilvastu, Ujjaini, Magadh, Kashi, Mithila. He speaks of an Amravati that belongs to everyone. The book is populated with soldiers and amended laws, corpses and courtesans, ill omens and confusion, the unpleasant prospect of descent and ascent on staircases that don't care. The enemy is unarmed. Rulers are absent. “There are/ no rulers/ Those that were there/ thanks to liquor, stupidity and laziness/ are/ no longer/ worthy/ of being called our rulers/ What do we do then?”

Indeed, what?

In 'Wailing from the Inner Chambers', the poet asks: “...why this sorrow?/ When/ everyone/ says/ what happened/ was right, / why this repentence?”

The poet has dated the poem as being written in 1984, but he may as well have written it in 1992 or 2002. Most of Magadh was written in 1979 and 1984 and though the horrific events of the Emergency era or the Hindu-Sikh riots are not mentioned directly, the allusions are unmistakeable.

In 'The Customs of Hastinapur', Verma writes: “It isn't the custom to listen in Hastinapur – / those who hear/ are either deaf/ or have been appointed/ to turn a deaf ear”. The poem 'Kapilvastu' seems to refer to the new emphasis on us being a 'young' nation and the preference for younger leaders, starting in the 1980s. We can guess at the troublesome political coteries that would have made Verma write: “Being young/ only means/ that no one old should be in Kapilvastu”.

Yet, Verma is not mourning. He seems more interested in the people, those who mourn (or don't). He rejects the idea of an equal grief after a battle (or a riot). “I say/ it is not possible/ One-sided the murders/ One-sided the victory... One-sided the dharma/ One-sided the shame/ The number of dead on both sides/ is not the same”.

Reclaiming 'Magadh' for a new generation of Indian readers was necessary and Soni's translations go a long way to enable this. He communicates both the wiry frame and the lean flesh of these poems for readers in English.

The grammar and syntax of Hindi allows for a stronger rhythm, some of which is inevitably lost in translation, but Soni makes up for the loss by focusing on alliteration. Many poems also bear internal rhythms of meaning. Very few words are used. Entire verses are repeated. But then, a single syllable changed holds weight. Soni's decision to stay faithful to the original enjambment, as far as English grammar allows, also helps to retain some of the grace and nuance of the original poems.

There are things that are untranslate-able perhaps. For instance, the word 'anarth'. It means the lack of meaning, but it also hints at horrors to which no voice can be given. Yet, it is used in a poem that is about writing, giving voice. In English no word comes to mind that can convey both meanings so easily. The translator plays it safe and goes with the former meaning rather than the latter.

Besides, in Hindi, because there is no capitalization of names or the beginnings of sentences, meaning becomes ever more fluid, harder to pin down and yet, twice illuminated. Soni has worked around these difficulties admirably, though, and rendered 'Magadh' twice as readable.

Publisher: Almost Island Books

Rs 399

This review was published in DNA

Why not kiss and make it right?

Imagine being dragged out of your home at midnight, being beaten up and shamed publicly. 

Imagine that you have not beaten anyone else, done no violence, no economic fraud, nothing. All you've done is fallen in love, and decided to live with someone. And for this, you were punished by someone who claims to speak for everyone.

This is what happened in Balrampur district. The woman was separated from her husband and had begun to live with another man. This couple was reportedly dragged out of their home at the middle of the night. They were beaten, heads shaved, faces blackened, paraded around the village. The village 'pradhan' is another woman but she neither intervened nor reported the assault. Her own husband allegedly led the attack. 

Eventually an FIR was filed, which is how we read about it in the newspaper. But judging from the newspapers and TV channels, it would seem that the only thing occupying the collective mind of this nation is cricket. As if it really matters that people bet money on sports. As if it really does not matter that Indians can be beaten and humiliated for being in love. As if people's freedom to live with who they like is of no consequence. As if cricket matches alone assure us dignity and personal liberty.

I can imagine that we all have different views on morality. I can imagine that some of us might be moved to tears by cricket, and that most people toe the majority line when it comes to sexual freedom. But I fail to understand why we want to ignore the most pressing issues of our times.

I suppose a large part of our indifference comes from the fact that this incident was reported from a village. We like to think we are secure in our urban bubbles, where 'people like us' live as they like. We like to think that we will not have goons barging into our homes at midnight to thrash us.

There was another development reported recently, which was also largely ignored by most media houses. Turkey was witnessing a wave of protests that's described as unprecedented. The government, although democratically elected, responded with panic and brute force.

People were fighting to protect fundamental freedoms – their right to public space, and the right to kiss. Before the protesters took to the streets, there was a unique protest. Kissing had been disallowed in public spaces, and people began to stage 'kiss protests'.

It was the natural thing to do, perhaps the only thing to do. If you believe in your right to kiss, or to gather for protests, or to drink in bars, then you must do it. 

You must do it until it becomes ordinary, so much a part of your culture that it is ridiculous for anyone to be offended by it.

Indians, young Indians, especially suffer horribly from 'public morality'. Some bans are ridiculous but official – like a ban on mannequins wearing lingerie – but most of the time we suffer immoral, illegal attacks. Under the guise of offending some random group's sense of 'decency', we could be harassed or arrested. Young couples are often beaten up in parks, promenades and beaches. They often have to pay off the offended 'decent' citizen to avoid violence.

And I have never understood why we do not defy more often. Why do we not protest? Why do we not hold hands,or hug, or kiss until it becomes such an ordinary sight that nobody bats an eye? Until the only indecency remaining is the indecency of harming a couple in love.

First published here

2 poems

Two new poems published in Kindle Magazine.

A Flesh Poem about War

and March-end Sonnet

Schools spell trouble?

Schools have been in trouble lately. Hundreds have been derecognized. Thousands of them stand accused of fleecing us – all of us taxpayers, not just parents – of crores of rupees. There is talk of how the fate of millions of students hangs in the balance.

I have to confess that I find these developments slightly amusing, because schools are where we are supposed to learn basic democratic values.

Take this week’s report about 600 schools being declared ‘bogus’ by the Maharashtra government. It began in Nanded in 2011 when the then collector Shrikar Pardeshi asked for a survey of schools in the district. It turned out that about 30 % of enrollments were fake. Then Chief Minister Prithviraj Chavan asked for a state-wide survey and at least two million ‘bogus’ enrollments were detected.

The interesting thing is that several of these schools were controlled by politicians affiliated to various political parties. Now this should not really be surprising to anyone who understands the new Indian economy. There is money to be made in education. And politicians like to control anything that makes money. They get even more powerful as they make decisions that enable them to make more money. According to the state’s own website, Maharashtra set aside Rs 26,443 crore (Rs 13,670 crore for elementary and Rs 12,773 crore on secondary education) for the year 2011-12.

What is at stake is not just children’s education, but also their health. The Indian state aids schools through cheap land, grants for teachers’ salaries. Funds are allotted for mid-day meals, which is imperative for a nation where half the child population is malnourished. There are special funds for residential schools for adivaasi children. Hence, the scam: set up schools and apply for aid, then claim larger and larger grants based on the number of students and teachers. The state-wide survey also discovered at least 12,000 teachers’ names on fake payrolls.

One way of dealing with such scams, of course, is to stop aiding schools. To make education a thoroughly private enterprise – by those who can afford to offer the service, for those for who can afford to buy it. But the problem is not just politicians or scamming ‘educationists’. Unaided schools are also turning out to be a problem.

Take recent reports about Billabong International High School in Thane. The institute reportedly served a legal notice to parents protesting a fee hike, demanding Rs 5 crore against defamation. But the parents did not pull their kids out and enroll them in other schools. They’re heading for the law courts instead.

In recent years, there have been many school fees-related protests across India. Delhi, Coimbatore, Aurangabad, Kanpur, Jammu, Bhubaneswar. Parents form groups like the Forum Against Commercialization of Education. They demand ‘transparency’ and proof that teachers are indeed well paid. They want politicians, activists and the judiciary to intervene although it’s none of the state’s business. After all, the parents chose unaided schools that set out to be expensive and exclusive.

So what do they want? Good schools, of course. But there is also a definite attitude that education shouldn’t be a free-for-all bazaar, that people deserve ‘quality’ education, even if they cannot afford it.

People often conflate ‘quality’ with how much money they’ve coughed up and this is obviously a problem because the best teachers aren’t the most buyable. But what does this attitude among the upper and middle classes tell us? I think it tells us that we all recognize the fundamental principle of the right to education. Assured of ‘quality’, we might even prefer state-run schools for which we pay a modest fee via taxes.

First published here

On mirrors and foggy lenses

For the first time in years, I found my toes literally curling in fear during a film. My stomach was in knots and my knees were drawn up to my chest. The film was 'The Whistleblower', set in post-war Bosnia and based on true events. One scene was especially difficult to watch. A young woman was raped in front of many others – to teach her a lesson for trying to escape and as a warning to the rest. Yet, there was no lust involved. The film makes it quite clear that this brutality is essentially about money and power. Half-way through the film, I began to wonder if the director was a woman.

What was happening to those girls was torture and it communicated itself as torture. The camera focussed a lot on the girls' faces but it did not shy away from the violence done to them. I went online later to confirm my suspicion. Indeed, the director turned out to be a woman, Larysa Kondracki, who wrote the script along with Eilis Kirwan.

How and why did I start thinking about the gender of the director? 

Read the rest of this essay on how sexual violence and gender stereotypes play out in cinema, and the question of how women filmmakers in India hope to hold up a mirror to society if their work carefully avoids the rampant sexual violence in our society. 

More (or less) racist

I was traveling a few years ago, reading a book. The family seated opposite me began to eat. They offered to share their food with me, and I declined. But the young wife was rather insistent. 

After I’d said ‘no’ twice, she said: “It’s okay. We’re not from a low caste. We’re upper caste.”

I suddenly felt weary. This was a literate woman, trying to be friendly with a stranger on a train. Why did she think I was more worried about caste than being drugged and robbed? What made her assume I was ‘upper’ caste and therefore she could, and should, let me touch her food? And if she thought I was the sort of person who wouldn’t eat her food because of my caste, why did she want to talk to me at all?

I am thinking of her now because of the Washington Post survey that claims India is among the most racist nations in the world. And now begin the disclaimers – people are stepping up to assure us (or themselves) that while we are indeed bigoted and casteist, we are not more ‘racist’. Which, of course, bring us to – what’s the difference?

Traditionally, the western view has been that racism is about discrimination based on racial (genetic, physiological) differences. The colour of your skin or eyes, the texture of your hair, the shape of your nose – this betrays your genetic history. There are far too many people in the world who believe their noses make them worthier and that your nose and hair must condemn you to an eternity of less – less food, less water, less comfort, less education, less property, less cultural space. They also believe that people who carry different genetic histories should not marry.

Sounds a lot like casteism, no? 

In fact, caste is covered by the UN’s Race Convention, although it’s not much discussed. Besides, a quick dip into India’s ancient history will tell you that the roots of casteism are racist. The Aryans and Dravidians were from different races, with different cultures and social norms. One dominated and began to crush the other. Over centuries, there were a lot of conversions across caste and religion, a lot of up- or downwardly mobile marriages, a lot of migration, and breaks away from caste-dominated religious practices. That complicated things. Which is why Indians are no longer able to judge caste just by looking at your face. Which is why that woman on the train felt the need to clarify that she was not from a lower caste.

I suspect we want to believe that casteism is somehow softer, less dangerous than racism. But there’s no difference between killing a black man who flirts with a white girl, and killing a lower caste boy who wants to marry your daughter. One look at Indian matrimonial websites should tell us how racist we are.

Are we ‘the most’ racist? Well, I don’t want to believe it but I will say that India is far too tolerant of every intolerance, including racism. Sample Shaadi.com’s decision to give a prize to a woman who tweeted that she did not want ‘black’ kids. Other friends have been regaling me with descriptions of Shaadi.com ‘melas’ where casteism is borne aloft like a pennant. There is not even a token attempt to pressure the company into taking a stand on the caste issue.

If a website in the USA actively encouraged people to marry within ethnic groups, and allowed a platform for race-insensitive remarks, there might have been some outrage. In India, there’s mainly relief that such platforms exist. And I think that does make us more racist.

First published here

questions of what to drink and how

The question of water

The official cause of death was 'cardiac arrest', brought on by exhaustion and dehydration. Parvati Jadhav was tired, stressed and needed to drink more water. A year ago, Jadhav died in a hilly village called Dolara, district Thane. According to news reports, people counted on a government-supplied water tanker. 1,400 people needed 20 litres of water per day, or 28,000 litres. The government sent 8,000 litres once in four days. That's 1.5 litres per head.

Can you imagine surviving on 1.5 litres of water? Dehydration is a given. Disease is expected. Conflict is inevitable. In Jadhav's case, she got nothing from the tanker, had to trek a few kilometres further to a well, where a fight broke out and probably brought on her cardiac arrest.

In Dolara, the only water source was the well and reports suggest the water was not really potable. Since 2012, there have been reports of water being sold in tribal villages for Rs 15 a bottle. Now Maharashtra is supposed to be reeling under a drought. In Thane district alone, the state acknowledges a water crisis in 388 villages. But the action plan reportedly involves sending tankers to 100 villages. There is no clarity on how much water will be sent – 1.5 litres per person? – or what happens to the other 288 villages.

Meanwhile, Thane's 'guardian' minister Ganesh Naik has been quoted as saying that there is no water crisis. There are also reports of a fresh influx of migrants in the district's urban areas because people are fleeing water-scarce villages. Mumbai is also perpetually reeling from a crisis of overcrowding.

I think now would be a good time to start asking a lot of questions. Thane district has two rivers, Ulhas and Vaitarna, which flows across Shahpur and Vada, which are water-scarce areas. How does a place become so water-scarce if a major river flows past? There are at least seven dams in the district and some articifical lakes created to supply drinking water. Yet Parvati Jadhav had to die, fighting for water. So, who exactly is the water being supplied to?

Recently, there was a joke on a radio station – something about a child misunderstanding the 'save water' campaign and wanting to mix the sev (from sev-puri) with buckets of water. It's intended as a pun. Which is alright, I suppose. The man's voice laughs, then mentions kids playing around a water fountain. In a newly constructed housing complex. Essentially, it's advertising. Which is also alright. Who wouldn't want to live in a complex with lots of space and lots of water?

But the ad made me think of our blinkered relationship with water. Even in areas much closer to Mumbai, like Diva, there is a crisis. Reports say that Diva residents spend several hours a day commuting to Mumbra just to fill water. And yet, homes are built (often illegally) and bought in Diva. The assumption is that the administration will eventually start to supply enough water.

Nobody really cares where the administration will get so much water. Some lake or dam, right? But diverting water from rivers means that people who used to depend on the river will now be left, quite literally, high and dry. People like Parvati Jadhav.

Mumbai and Thane and dozens of other cities in the state are seeing new suburbs come up. I wonder how many of them have considered making water harvesting compulsory. Do city administrations have a plan for water that does not involve snatching water from the villages? I think now would be a good time to ask these questions.

First published here

The naked and the humiliated

This week, a childhood memory comes to mind. As high school students, we were sometimes asked to help 'mind' small students. These were toddlers, barely three years old, and already frightened at being put in strange new uniforms, forced to sit still on benches with dozens of other kids in the room, crying and screaming. 'Discipline' was definitely in short supply.

One of the kindergarteners was being difficult. A young (female) teacher was kneeling in front of her, asking the child to do something, or else... The teacher was saying: “Do you want to be punished? I'll take off all your clothes and parade you naked around the school.”

I was watching the child's face. She was too little to understand why taking off one's clothes should be a punishment. After all, she still needed help washing her bottom. But she did understand that she was being humiliated and threatened. As the teacher began to unbutton the loose tunic that hung down to her ankles, the child broke into a howl.

It still saddens me when I think of that kid. I was tweeting about violence against children a few weeks ago when somebody wrote back to describe the time she was punished in class – made to stand up on a bench, arms raised, a teacher threatening to strip her. Clearly, the humiliation has not been forgotten, all these years later. I wonder how many millions of people in India have been brought up to associate nudity with public humiliation, or as a negative condition that is worthy of punishment.

And now there's this little to-do about Congress-affiliated student leader Suraj Thakur being suspended for taking off his clothes and dancing. He and two other NSUI office-bearers have been accused of 'indiscipline' and of course, it is the party's prerogative to decide what it sees as disciplined behaviour. Still, it is so saddening to think that leaders who fail to keep electoral promises are not punished for 'indiscipline'. Leaders who are corrupt, who live beyond their official income, who spend hundreds of crores on weddings while their constituencies reel under drought, who misuse the state's armed machinery against farmers demanding water or land or seed soverignty, against women demanding their right to be acknowledged as human beings – none of these politicians have been suspended.

All it took was for a young man to take off his clothes and look like he's having fun. If they had accused him of ragging, the suspension would have made sense. That would have been tantamount to breaking the law. But this whole furore seems to be centred on the fact that he took off his clothes!

It's such an ordinary, innocuous thing. Taking off your clothes does no damage to other humans. Even if you take off your clothes and dance like you've been electrocuted, you still damage no human being. You come off looking silly. Some colleagues might never be able to keep a straight face when, in the future, you stand up in Parliament to debate an important Bill. But there is nothing criminal, nor even indisciplined, about being naked.

This is the trouble with an attitude of shame vis a vis the human body. We refuse to look at it for what it is – a body. This is precisely what is wrong with our nation's attitude to women. We punish women for having women's bodies. We humiliate and terrorize children. And we squash all attempts by men, especially politicians, to actually enjoy their bodies. And what does this accomplish?  What, except keeping us fearful and eternally humiliated? 

First published here

What's wrong with us

Heard about the father who killed his daughter in Murshidabad district? She was ten years old and, according to reports, she was resisting her father's decision to sell her off. This isn't the norm, I know. But some fathers (mothers too) sell children (boys too) or even kill them. Some just give in to a violent impulse. And even if such incidents are not the norm, they happen often enough to make us wonder about India – 'What is wrong with us?' is a question one often hears these days.

In an online chat about helping prevent sexual crimes against children, Anuja Gupta of RAHI, who works with people who have survived incest and child abuse, pointed out that the solution lies in the problem itself. “Abuse thrives in silence, secrecy, ignorance, denial, shame and stigma. In order to stop sexual abuse, you have to remove these conditions... Learn to listen to and respect children.”

It may seem like an ordinary thing to ask – respect children. But one of problems of mainstream cultures in India is that we don't respect children (or women). We idolize them. We fetishize them. But essentially, we think of children as property. We worry about them but we rarely take responsibility for our own behaviour towards them.

In the current psychological atmosphere of fear, we are starting to talk about what to do to save kids from violence. Now might be a good time to remind ourselves of children for whom we are actually responsible collectively, as a society.

There were 48, 338 child rape cases recorded between 2001 and 2011. A significant percentage of these happened in 'observation' homes, special homes, or children’s homes registered under the Juvenile Justice (Care and Protection of Children) Act. A recent study by the Asian Centre for Human Rights highlighted 39 cases of child rape. 11 of them were reported from government-run institutions, 27 from private and NGO-run homes.

There are 733 juvenile justice homes that receive grants from the Ministry of Women and Child Development (WCD). Thousands of others exist without registration. The report said that the Ministry did raise the issue of non-registration with many states last year. But there is no punitive provision for non-registration of institutions.

Some of these kids are orphans. Many are girls. Some are disabled, perhaps abandoned. Some have been trafficked. Some may have been caught stealing or begging. We're shocked at children being raped inside their own homes but forget about the thousands tortured and raped because we – as a society – put them into 'homes'. We're relieved they're out of sight but unwilling to consider that they're being treated like adult criminals even when they've not done anything to deserve it.

Technically, there are 462 Child Welfare Committees across 23 states but there is very little actual inspection of children's institutions. In fact, some states discourage surprise visits. In 2010, Karnataka appointed a new committee with a warning: “members cannot visit child care institutions (...) without prior permission of the heads of these institutions”. This is the Karnataka where 1,089 children (younger than 14 years) went missing from 34 children’s homes between 2005 and 2011.

We – as a society – are more likely to gather for a satsang or majlis or cricket match than volunteer time to conduct inspections of 'homes' and schools. We are more likely to raise funds for a festival than to adopt. Or donate towards community-run education and counselling programs. And I think now is a good time to think about why we do this. It is part of the answer to 'What is wrong with us?'.

First published herehttp://www.dnaindia.com/analysis/1830791/column-the-kids-aren-t-alright

Chicken Claws at Midnight

A poem was published recently in the Prarie Schooner, as part of a special 'feast' themed issue. This one is called 'Chicken Claws at Midnight' (upon which I was not feasting; stray dogs were).

where blame lies

There's a new app called 'Trial by timeline'. Amnesty International (New Zealand) offers to make a quick calculation of what crimes you might be guilty of in how many nations, based on what you've been sharing on Facebook.

I was found guilty of 'socializing with an unrelated male', consuming alcohol (based on party photos where, in fact, I was not drinking). 'Suspicious activity' included two poetry events (which I did not attend though I had RSVPed 'yes') and demanding the right to express myself. I was also guilty of listing my gender as female. Finally, I was found guilty of being on Facebook. In at least 40 nations, I could be beaten, lashed, tortured.

As the virtual baton smashed down, splattering yellow on the dark screen, I flinched. So, today, you could say I'm feeling grateful. I have some freedom. At least, it is not a crime to be out with an unrelated male in India.

And yet, there are fathers killing daughters for doing just that in India. Husbands. Brothers. Boyfriends stabbing women who don't want to marry them. Strangers or mere acquaintances throwing acid on women who don't want to get sexually involved with them.

I've been thinking a lot about what legal freedom means if it is not backed by cultural freedom. What does it mean to say 'I am free to choose my profession', for instance? Some careers require that I be out late at night, like journalism. In Delhi, the state's knee-jerk reaction to attacks on women was to ask employers to drop off women who work after sundown. I know that this kind of rule automatically makes me a liability for the company. If it is a small firm, it will try to avoid hiring women. Then what does my freedom mean?

But right now, we're outraged at toddlers being raped. Not just in schools or buses, but in our own neighbourhoods. In homes. Still, we refuse to recognize that this is a culmination of a process we have allowed for centuries – denying grown women their natural sexual and economic rights. We refuse to see how violence is tied to freedom. Governments, religious leaders, corporations – they only inflict violence because it benefits them.

Mutilated and maimed bodies are not helpful to society. What does help is fear. A state can terrorize women by telling us that we deserve to be flogged if we talk to male friends. A state can also terrorize us by telling us that it is helpless to prevent attacks, which we ourselves have invited in the first place.

For too long, we've tolerated violence against women under the guise of 'culture' or religion. We tolerate schools that refuse to talk about sex but persist in segregating spaces in the hope of quelling all sexual curiosity. And we tolerate politicians who publicly blame women for sexual assault.

Not just tolerate, we elect them to power. Politicians say what they do because they believe they are expressing 'common' or at least majority sentiment. In a democracy, it is hard to argue with this belief. If we have elected such men (and women), then the majority of India must find it convenient to blame women – their sexuality, the very fact of their existence – for horrific crimes.

And now that toddlers are being targeted for sexual crimes, we no longer know who to blame. But out of habit, parrot-like, we go on blaming women's bodies, their female-ness. Because if we didn't, then we'd have to acknowledge that blame lies elsewhere. Perhaps, with doomed millenia-old battle to own women? Perhaps, with our tolerance of any act that damages women's freedom?

First published here

How I came to writing

This post was written as a special essay for the AuthorTV blog.



I didn’t grow up wanting to be a writer. And this wasn’t because creative writing or writers weren’t valued in my family.

My maternal grandfather, Ali Jawad Zaidi, was a scholar and Urdu poet. His day job was to serve the Indian bureaucracy in one capacity or the other, often in posts that were related to communication or culture. On a small civil servant’s salary, he brought up seven kids of his own, as well as a series of long-term guests who stayed with the family whenever they needed to. Actually, I should say that my grandmother, Safdari urf Shehnaz somehow stretched his small salary almost to breaking point.

By the time I was born, Grandpa had retired, but he continued to work with the Urdu Academy in Lucknow. And he wrote.

Grandpa wrote from about 4:30 am to 8 am. Then he went to work. He returned at about 5:30 or 6 pm, and then wrote again until dinner-time, which was about 9 pm. He had, effectively two full-time jobs. I did not yet know this, of course.

He had a study and his books lay in stacks on open, metal cupboards. He had a large writing desk, the drawers of which were filled with paper, pens, ink, pins, stamp pads, letterheads – his grandchildren stole from him quite often.

Because we messed around with his papers and stole his ink and paper, we had been warned against playing inside this room. But the more it was forbidden, the more I wanted to. So, I would go in and climb on top of his desk when he wasn’t around.

I was not yet interested in his work, and I couldn’t read Urdu. But I have a vague memory of opening and shutting boxes, peeking into drawers. What did I find there? What did I know of his work?

Nothing. Nor did the other adults in the house. My mother and her siblings also read. But mainly in English because they went to English medium schools. Some of them could fuddle through Urdu texts, and while they did appreciate the sound of it, they did not have the felicity of language to really enjoy a book in Urdu, or buy much literature. It must have been sad for Grandpa, but there it was.

All I knew about him was that he was a respected man. He was also a very tired man. At night (later in life, in the afternoon) he would lie down and want a gentle massage before he could fall asleep. His children did this when they were younger. Now it fell to the grandchildren, and we were awfully lazy and easily bored. It was hard to make us stay beyond a couple of minutes.

Except, he told us stories. As long as we pressed his back and limbs, he would keep drawing out a narrative. The wonderful thing about Grandpa was that he wasn’t afraid of diversity. And I don’t mean that in a clichéd ‘all Indians are brothers and sisters’ sense. He didn’t try to tell us stories from the Urdu world, to which he must have had greater access. He knew that we read Tarzan and Phantom and Mandrake the Magician stories. So he told us stories about Phantom.

These were not stories he himself had read in comics. He just told us whatever story happened to pop up in his head, and allowed Phantom to be the protagonist. I have to confess that I don’t remember any of these stories. But then, I don’t remember any of the Phantom comics either.

I also have a dim memory of cooking up stories when I was very little – Five? Six? Seven? – and telling them to cousins who were close to me in age. I didn’t try to write anything down. My cousins tell me some of these were quite shocking and I have no idea where I came up with the ideas. Perhaps, from forbidden films that I managed to catch a fleeting glimpse of.

It couldn’t have been books because my reading material was rather tightly monitored. For children, comics and Enid Blytons were allowed. Besides, I wasn’t much of a reader yet. I liked things to be read to me, especially rhymes. But it was taken for granted that I would learn to draw my entertainment from reading, or films (TV was still a new beast and did not give off any subtle scent of art).

To be honest, I would rather have watched TV, or films, than read. But when I was eight, I had a rather serious fracture. I was bedridden and hospitalized for a long time. I suppose I must have been bored, or in pain. I don’t remember all that.

What happened was that my mother began to buy books rather recklessly, going far beyond her limited means as a school teacher. I remember the books clearly – it was the Noddy series by Enid Blyton, brightly illustrated. I read rather fast. Soon, I was reading a book a day.

Mom couldn’t afford to keep buying a new picture book every day. She bought a couple of slightly more complex books. The more I read, the better I got at reading and comprehension. Within months, I had graduated to reading other Blyton books, like the Secret Seven and Famous Five series. There were some Russian books too. I remember When Daddy was A Little Boy. There was Heidi, which was being read to me initially because it was a fat book with a small font.

Even at home, I remained bedridden for some months. So, a TV set was allowed into the house. Mainly because mom felt guilty, and there was no way of helping me pass the time if mom had to hold down a job as well. There was only Doordarshan yet, and though I did end up watching a lot of programs – including Chaupal and Krishi Darshan – there wasn’t enough to keep me hooked. Books were more fun.

It took me nearly nine months to get back on my feet. But those nine months changed my personality completely. I was a firm ‘reader’, and I read quickly, almost indiscriminately. So hungry was I for reading material that I read my older brother’s text-books (only the Hindi and English literature ones). I didn’t understand a lot of what I read. At ten, I was on Charles Dickens. At thirteen, I was attempting Victor Hugo (and failing), at fourteen James Joyce and Virginia Woolf (and failing). It frustrated me to have to give up, but I did return to these books when I was older and in the meantime, I went around swallowing anything else I could borrow from anywhere. I was reading almost every waking minute. Except when I was watching TV.

TV was controlled for a long time in the house. After cable TV arrived, I was only allowed to watch about an hour a day, and I could choose what to watch. I preferred Hindi shows (such as Banegi Apni Baat) and films to American soaps (like Santa Barbara), but I saw anything and everything if given a chance. On Sundays, we could watch cartoons and animated He-Man type of shows in the morning, and a movie in the evening.

As restrictions fell away, as I graduated and then found a job, I could have returned to TV. I still do watch TV occasionally – in hotel rooms when I travel alone – but I have given up a cable connection at home. Not because I disapprove but because it is an easy distraction that clogs up the imagination if you don’t take regular breaks from the visual bombardment. I often wonder if people who only watch (TV or films) and do not read end up re-creating rather than creating.

Perhaps, I am wrong. Perhaps, my imagination is not really expanded but circumscribed by my reading. I don’t know. But I do wonder what would have become of me if my leg had not been broken, and then messed up for such a long time. What would have happened to me if that hospital room had a TV set and 24 hour programming on 200 channels?

I cannot say. But I do think that I wouldn’t have become a writer, not a very good one anyway.

Heartwards ho!

"Love Stories # 1 to 14... enters this terrain with such assured grace and insight, the reader is completely absorbed in the experience of the characters, scouring the depths of loneliness that come with being in love, and without it...  The tone here is always compassionate and the feeling you get at the end of the book is uplifting."

From a brief review-cum-interview with Sakaal Times.

And this interview, also for Sakal, was done with Smriti Ravindra for "The Good Indian Girl".

Trauma on the stand – when do we stop putting rape victims on trial?

Had done this piece for Femina magazine in 2010. Posting it here now because it is still relevant.

It isn’t hard to picture – a raped woman seeks justice but is humiliated and harangued further as her ‘virtue’ is called into question. It sounds like a tacky 1980s Bollywood film plot, doesn’t it? The great tragedy is that if they didn’t get anything else right, in this one respect, filmmakers did stay close to the truth. Despite theoretically sound laws and a string of empowering judgments from the highest courts in the land, a rape trial in India remains a deeply traumatic experience for Indian women and their families. An Indian rape survivor continues to be examined by misinformed doctors. Her past relationships, real or alleged, continue to be dragged into courtrooms. She continues to face threats of further violence.

Unscientific, unusable, unnecessary.

Starting from the moment a rape survivor picks herself up and goes to a hospital, her trauma multiplies if she is made to undergo a ‘finger test’, which is supposed to assess whether the victim is a virgin or ‘habituated to sexual intercourse’.

Describing it as ‘unscientific, inhuman and degrading’, a recent Human Rights Watch report titled ‘Dignity on Trial’ points out that the finger test has no forensic value. It is also legally irrelevant since the Supreme Court has ruled that a woman’s ‘habituation to sexual intercourse’ is immaterial. Yet, earlier this year, the Delhi and Maharashtra governments introduced a new forensic examination template for rape survivors which seek details about ‘hymenal orifice size’.

The report found at least three government hospitals in Mumbai, “including one where more than a thousand rape survivors are examined every year” continue to conduct the test. As if that wasn’t enough, they found that survivors make “grueling trips from one hospital or ward to another, and receive multiple examinations at each stop. Medical workers frequently collect evidence inadequately or insensitively, and it may then be lost, poorly stored, or subject to processing delays, rendering it unusable.”

While the ‘finger test’ is technically irrelevant, it does impact trials. Courts do make comments about the victim’s character. In a 2009 rape case, the Supreme Court made remarks like: “the prosecutrix appears to be a lady used to sexual intercourse and a dissolute lady.”

Veena Gowda, a women’s rights lawyer, points out that law is a subjective field since it manned by people, usually men. “Look at the whole thing of getting a rapist to marry his victim,” she says. “It is a patriarchal society’s way of morally resolving the issue. It still looks at rape as a violation of a woman’s ‘purity’ instead of violence done to her.”

V for Violation, V for Violence

India’s popping economic muscles have not done much to curb violence against women. Between 1990 and 2008, rape statistics showed an increase of 112 percent. According to the National Crime Records Bureau, 21,467 rapes were reported in 2008, but most researchers believe the figures are much higher since most women don’t go the police. Of the limited number of cases where the trial is completed, the conviction rate is only 26%.

Against this constant dissection of her morals, it takes a woman almost super-human courage to trust the judicial system and get the rapists punished. Monica Sakhrani, a criminal lawyer and a teacher, believes that the construction of rape law is slightly problematic since it hinges on a women’s consent. “It puts the woman in the dock. You start looking at who she is, where she comes from. Her relationship with the rapist is questioned. But the man’s behaviour is rarely in the dock unless the victim is a child, or the man is from a lower class.”

Defense lawyers often imply that familiarity with a man automatically translates into consent. Even police statistics say that in 91% of rape cases, the victims knew the accused. Monica illustrates what an impossible situation this creates for women by referring to the infamous Jalgaon case of the 90s. “In 2000, the Bombay High Court acquitted a man in a case where the girl was 17, since she had gone to the man’s house. The assumption is: ‘What do you expect when you go to the man’s house alone?’ So if you can only expect sex, then they assume consent was given.”

The New Guard for a Newer Generation

Despite current problems, Monica doesn’t despair. There have been progressive judgments and the women’s movement had its successes. Since 2005, a woman’s sexual history is no longer admissible in court as evidence in rape cases. A survivor can also hire lawyers to assist the public prosecutor. This is a huge step forward since prosecutors are underpaid, overworked and rarely trained to deal with gender violence. Besides, they might have prejudices about what kind of woman gets raped. A ‘watching advocate’ allows the victim a voice.

Women’s collectives are helping the government draft a new definition of sexual violence. Currently, the assumption is that the worst kind of violence is penetrative. Rape laws are restricted to penile-vaginal penetration. Sections 354 and 509 of the IPC deal with anything ranging from ‘obscene’ singing to fondling of breasts – everything encompassed by ‘outraging a woman’s modesty’.

Aruna Kashyap, who researched and authored ‘Dignity on Trial’, says defining the law in terms of modesty is very problematic for it presumes women are modest. “Ideas of good girl and bad girl need to be challenged. The law should protect women’s rights. You also need doctors, police, prosecutors and judges to be trained to grow aware of these rights.”

Sadly, even minor girls aren’t spared the moral posturing as was shamefully evident after a nine-year-old Russian girl was raped in Goa. The state’s Deputy Director of Tourism, Pamela Mascarenhas went on record to say: “walking on the beaches half-naked is bound to titillate the senses.”

There have also been instances of the finger test being performed on girls as young as six. Maharukh Adenwalla, who has often worked as a watching advocate for minors, says children face court procedures they don’t always understand. Many children don’t yet have the language to explain what happened. She recalls a cases where a 10 year old was raped. “She testified when she was 13. There were three men accused and each had his own lawyer. Each lawyer cross-examined the girl. She was in the witness box for six days and just couldn’t understand why they were making her out to be a liar.”

Truth and Trauma

Any woman would be shattered by the allegation that she is lying about the brutality she suffered, but defense lawyers often badger even children. Anuja Gupta of RAHI, an organisation that works with survivors of child abuse, has heard horror stories about children being made to stand on benches to give testimony, like they were being punished.

The law has little understanding of trauma, according to Anuja. “Victims cannot retell the story in a clear, sequential manner. The story might change. That is the nature of trauma. It doesn’t mean it didn’t happen. But judges aren’t trained to deal with trauma.”

RAHI is part of a collective that sent suggestions for criminal law amendments to the home ministry. The collective wants rape laws to include ‘persons other than women’ so adult men and transgendered people can seek justice too. It also wants the children’s section to be gender-neutral.

In the meantime, a first progressive step forward would be to do away with the finger test. CEHAT (Centre for Enquiry into Health and Allied Themes) has come up with a rape toolkit called SAFE to collect forensic evidence and conduct medical examinations.

Padma Deosthali, a senior researcher at CEHAT, says their chief concern is treatment and evidence collection. “We intervene in rape cases reported in three hospitals in Mumbai. More than 50% cases are of non-penetrative assault. The other issue is that hospitals ask for police intervention. Their primary job is to provide treatment and follow-up care. The victim’s injuries may show up later and are an important part of the evidence.”

Another major gap is our lack of a witness protection regime. Padma says she was horrified while visiting a six year old victim in hospital. “The mother of the accused came into the ward and threatened the victim’s mother, saying ‘if your girl hasn’t been raped yet, we will ensure she is raped later’. In India, most rapists have easy access to victims and parents.”

The law needs to protect and assist people who report violence. Finally, it also needs to address sexual violence within marriage and amongst sex workers. In both instances, consent is taken for granted. But even here, change can be wrought.

Meena Seshu, who works with commercial sex workers through SANGRAM, remembers, “When I began work with the sex workers, even murder was not reported. If they tried to report violence, the police wouldn’t even put it in the diary. They’d take money from both parties and call it a ‘negotiation’. Now sex workers are organised, and violence does get reported.”

Marital rape is almost never reported though. Married women might talk of husbands ‘using force’ or ‘not listening’ but they don’t go to the police.

It might take years before India finds a way of investigating marital rape. For now, Veerappa Moily must answer the activists who wrote to him saying: “Change in the structure of humiliation which typifies rape trials is not possible unless medical jurisprudence textbooks and procedures are changed.”

Indeed, Mr Law Minister. If you cannot prevent rape, stop the public humiliation of women and children. You owe the nation that much.

BOX:

Things to remember about rape law and investigative procedures:

- Courts have held the finger test ‘obsolete’ and ‘violative’ of your fundamental rights.

- Victim’s sexual history is inadmissible as evidence.

- Women cannot be taken into custody after sunset and before sunrise.

- When women are arrested or interrogated, a policewoman must be present.

- There are legal precedents allowing a delay in reporting the crime.

- In cases of statutory rape, there are legal precedents for hearings in a judge’s chamber, or for a screen to be placed between the victim and the accused.

- If a child is involved, the law has provisions for the defense lawyer to put questions through the judge, who will address the victim in a non-threatening way.

- A rape survivor can hire her own lawyer to assist the prosecution

Homeless, again and again

There's a petition going around, from 'Shaheena' who could not write her exams recently. Her mother couldn't pay the school fees, because her mother couldn't find a new job after their house was demolished. This was in Bangalore, where a slum was demolished and several thousand people rendered homeless to make way for a new shopping mall. The kids are either in makeshift tents or on the footpath.

There's been another such demolition in Mumbai recently. Some homes in Golibar, Khar (east) were demolished illegally. Illegally, yes. At stake are over a hundred acres of land on prime property (near the domestic airport), and the Golibar slum rehabilitation project. Some private land was reportedly acquired by the builder. But the consent letters, according to the residents of Gurukripa Society, are fraudulent. Signatures were forged; dead people's names were used. And according to the Comptroller and Auditor General (CAG), no objection certificates were not obtained even from the defence ministry or the central excise department. However, the local police did not file an FIR until the court ordered it.

Some residents and activists had asked the Union housing minister Ajay Maken to intervene. Maken wrote to chief minister Prithviraj Chavan, asking that residents not be evicted until the question of permissions and rights was resolved.

But Chavan ensured no such thing. Activist Medha Patkar had been on a hunger strike for nine days before he decided to visit and offer some assurances. But looking at what happened in 2011 and then again in December 2012, it is hard to feel reassured.

After the 2011 demolitions in Golibar, there were reports about a young girl, Tejashree Mistry who scored 93.64% in her Secondary School Certificate (SSC) exam despite having had to study 'surrounded by debris and discord'. I wonder about Tejashree now. Does she live somewhere safe? Is she going to college?

Observers believe that several schoolchildren from Golibar whose homes were demolished are traumatized. Some appeared for their final exams but left their answer sheets blank. I wonder what's going on in their heads. Do they already see the deep fissures in our society and are they already disenchanted?

In Mumbai, slum clearances and rehabilitiations are hotly debated. People who can afford non-slum apartments believe that slum-dwellers do not deserve 'free' housing, for they resell the flats at a profit before moving back into a slum.

The truth is that often, people move back into slums because the 'rehabilitation' buildings are not habitable. They cannot afford the maintaince. There's no water, no elevator. Besides, they have to try and live near their place of work because they can't afford long commutes.

People will migrate for work. Or they might be forced out by famine and war. If they cannot afford to rent a place, they will live on the streets. They will try and get a brick wall instead of a piece of plastic. And none of us has any moral right to tell them to leave.

Housing will remain a prickly issue, until the population stabilizes and every single individual has a house of her/his own. That is a goal worth aspiring to, but meanwhile, we cannot punish those who had very little to start with.

Before there were laws to govern the sale of houses and the separation of land into public and private, all we had was access to the earth. Everybody picked a corner and began to build a life. It is grossly unjust to tell someone that just because she/he was born too late, they have no right to a safe corner of this earth.

First published here

The rare theatre review

Which makes it just a wee bit more special. Also, it helps that it's generous.

"Zaidi's writing is as fluent and unfussy as ever, as she takes on slapstick and dramatic intensity with equal ease. So Many Socks is just another day at the office, then, for one of our most versatile writers. Be it fiction (the recent Love Stories #1-14), reportage (the superb, hard-hitting Known Turf) or poetry (Crush), Zaidi's style is pliant and yet immediately recognizable. On the night, the cast, too, was impeccable, with Bhavna Pani delivering a memorable performance as Tashi's mother. In a priceless moment early on in the play, we get to see how Tashi's parents met."

http://www.sunday-guardian.com/artbeat/zaidis-impeccable-portrait-of-delhis-tibetans-in-exile

The other corruption

Anna Hazare is on a 'jantantra' (democracy) yatra these days. A nationwide tour that intends to last 18 months and aims to overthrow the current government. And I'm wondering what this really means. What will blow in after the UPA blows out? Anyway, I agree with Hazare on one point. He talks of a mass movement as the only solution to the rot in our system.

I agree, because part of the corruption is rooted in the masses. Besides, there are two kinds of corruption. One is the sort that gets protested, usually linked to the government – loot of public money and/or natural resources.

The other is the corruption of silence – watching someone else fight but refusing to do anything to help him.

One reason I'm thinking this is TA Rajendran. I hadn’t heard of him until after his death. Rajendran had started a newspaper called 'Nawab', where he exposed all kinds of corruption, until he began to be called 'Nawab Rajendran'. But he was arrested, beaten up, and eventually had to shut down the paper. All his life, he fought against corruption, filing Public Interest Ligitation cases (this was before the RTI act), including some against the former Chief Minister, K. Karunakaran.

And yet, he did not even have a home or a fixed address. It seems that people would write letters to him, with the Kochi court as his address. For all his 'popularity' Rajendran died poor, in 2003. And he was powerless to revive or sustain an independent newspaper.

I bring this up now since there's an ongoing debate about media ethics. The Election Commission of India has made moves towards controlling ‘paid news’ through a Media Certification and Monitoring Committee (MCMC). It is supposed to work at both state and district levels, at least during the next polls in Karnataka. Similar committees have been formed in Haryana and Gujarat.

The problem is that corruption is built into our media systems. TV channels and newspapers depend on advertising from governments and private businesses. This ensures profits, small or large, but it also means they cannot survive without advertisements.

The alternative is that citizens pay enough for news editors and journalists to remain independent. I don’t know how many people see news as necessary to the functioning of our society but most Indians don't pay enough for news. Subsidies on newsprint and real estate don't cover the cost of news gathering and distribution. One or two or five rupees does not cover it.

That's why independent papers and websites shut down. People who run them have to pay rent, eat, sleep, commute, send kids to school. It is too much to ask that they work towards truth when society doesn’t seem to value it.

Sometimes I think, corruption is like bullying. A bully hits someone. He (or she) gets away with it. He does it again. Others notice. They also start bullying the smaller kids. Teachers could interfere, but the bullying kids are possibly rich; their fees enable salaries. The victims' parents don’t interfere for fear their child might be penalized or ostracized. So the bullying continues.

One way to fix this is, a large number of parents start protesting. But they must also follow this up by supporting teachers who do intervene, those who stand up for justice. This means putting your money where your mouth is and paying their salaries, if needed.

The same principle applies to media. We cannot have real democracy if people like Nawab Rajendran suffer violence, trying to exposing corruption, while the rest of us subscribe to newspapers filled with advertisements, devoting ourselves to the private lives of film actors.

An edited version was published here.

The first blow

Heard about the six year old in Punjab? Daddy used to burn him with cigarette butts. The parents were trying to get divorced and Daddy had custody of the child.

I'm thinking of that kid, wondering what would have happened if he had not described the torture to the court? What the violence have escalated? What if the kid had decided to run away? What if he could not find his mother and, like millions of other children, ended up begging. Or scavenging at garbage dumps. Or working at food stalls.

He would have survived perhaps. Amin Sheikh did survive, though he must have suffered more than he cares to put into words. His book, 'Bombay Mumbai. Life is Life. I am because of You', is a memoir of growing up on the streets and railway stations in Mumbai, is a surprisingly generous, optimistic one. He mentions the 'bad things' that happened to him, and loomed darkly over his little sister. But he chooses to dwell mostly on the fun he had with the other kids, and the people who helped him along, in small ways and big. Those who fed him, or taught him a new skill, showed him ways to stay alive, took him in and prodded him further.

Sheikh now runs a travel company called Sneha, after 'Snehasadan', a home for rescued street children. He managed to get a little bit of schooling, found a series of jobs – as a shoe-shine boy, a newspaper vendor, a chauffuer, an errands boy, and eventually was placed in a household where he was treated more like a family member than an employee. He picked up some English, expressed his desire to travel and acquire taxis so he could go up in the world. He saved hard, and eventually did make enough to support his family in ways that he says he hadn't imagined.

Of all the events that shaped Sheikh's life, one fact sticks in my head. The violence he first experienced was at home. It's not like he could not find his way home, or that he did not try to return after he ran away the first time. But the violence continued.

Hunger, sexual abuse, loneliness, disease – that little child was willing to brave it all but he did not want to take beatings from his mother or step-father, or abuse from his employers and their customers. His younger sister too felt the same way.

It is easy to dismiss feelings by saying things like 'children don't even understand...' but surveys supported by our own government show that the majority of children between 5-12 are physically and verbally abused.

When a child puts up with violence at home and the pressure to bring in money for the family, she/he must also feel emotionally betrayed. From strangers, you expect so little protection or loyalty. And once you leave the family home, at the very least, you are free to suffer your own choices. The illusion of a safe home, the fig leaf of 'parents always have the child's best interests at heart' takes away even this smallest of freedoms. So of course, kids run.

There are no recent surveys but older data suggests the number of street kids in Indian cities is over 4,00,000. It could be as high as 8,00,000 too (Unicef estimates run into millions). And lakhs of kids are going to keep running unless we can start building a nation where violence within the household is not tolerated and every family can afford to feed itself without forcing the kids into jobs.

First published here

If you want to buy Amin Sheikh's book, the ebook is available on Amazon 

His blog: http://aminbombay.blogspot.in/