Every life is a collection of precious tidbits; of beautifully
sweet memories interwoven with tragic loss, of tender caresses lost amidst
miserable vengeance and often of joyous tears mingling with the dread of
anguished cries. Every moment is infinitely precious; every second is a new
beginning. And none understands it better than a woman. She is the very epitome
of life; she can heal with the warmth of her soul and drive away all sadness
with her luminous smile. So in a place like India, where Goddesses are
worshipped with such grandeur and showered with so much love, you expect women
will be revered, cherished, loved and esteemed by all.
Yet sometimes a new
born girl is still drowned in milk in rural India, a young woman is taunted in
the city streets, female fetuses are aborted in hospitals, a bride is
humiliated for dowry and old mothers are left abandoned at old age homes. It
was the brutal loss of a young girl in Delhi that jolted us awake. Can we now
hope for change? A never hoped for revolt uniting the youth in its firm resolve
to do justice emerged after the Delhi gang rape. It was time not for sympathies
and consolation but the time for action. Young India marched on ignorant to
turbulent waves.
And as the whole world watched astounded the tragedy that
struck Delhi, my own world tilted upside down on that very morning- the 17th
of December. It was not the stories in the news channels that mirrored through
my eyes, it was the fear of a granddaughter whose 80 year old grandmother had
walked out on her family alone in the chilly morning and had not returned. We
shall never know the answer as to what instigated her to walk out on her son,
but what struck me was the struggle that she still waged on-had waged on since
her husband died 50 years ago leaving her destitute with four children to raise
on a meager pension. To look back proudly and say that only a woman could raise
such established and well-to-do kids amidst such struggle would be an
understatement. How could I worry about the rest of the world when my own world
was in such upheaval? After 10 frantic days of searching, we had lost all hope.
In the meantime The Indian Brave heart struggled in Singapore to survive. As
the news of her death struck the morning news the very next day, I felt a
strange loss well up within me. It was the last day of my search for my
grandmother after which I would give up. And incredibly she was found that very
day. A young woman of meager means had provided her shelter and had returned
her to the safety of her brother’s house. It should have been a joyous moment
but I felt nothing-all I felt was a sadness and anger mingled with relief.
Flashes of the morning news kept coming back to me, the drawn tired face of my
grandmother devoid of hope kept coming back to me.
So all you can do then is shed silent tears. When will the
struggle end? When will India be truly independent? Yes I am a woman; I call a
man my father, I call a man my brother, I call the one I love my husband, I
call my own blood my son. I live amidst strangers some of whom I call my
relatives and some of whom I call my friends. I am never safe because sometimes
honor to some men means nothing. I am taught to fear all men since childhood be
it my father or son. I fear lonely roads, I fear crowded buses, I fear the
touch of a stranger, I fear the touch of
men I know, I rush by men who subject me to humiliating stares, I fear
the loud songs of men on roads who cannot resist to know their feelings known.
I am left abandoned on the roads when I am of no use to my son. But it is time
for me to be brave, to learn to defend my honor against all odds because I
shall not give up without a fight. I am a Woman and change will come through
me. For men must learn that physical strength doesn’t make one strong; it is
faith that does. A promising young India stands by my side and we shall not let
injustice reign.
