From one step to another….

After my graduation, I was all ready to study journalism in Delhi. Being the only daughter, my father was hesitant about me moving to Delhi on my own and wanted me to complete my master degree. Well, after the clash of opinions regarding choice of the education path, I ended up getting married to the man I was dating for a year or so in 1998. I started my professional journey after 2/3 years of my marriage. My first job was that of an office assistant in a healthcare company. I worked there for about 2 years. Then I got an offer to join a start-up web development company which was a wing of an established finance organization. That was the first turning point of my professional life as I was blessed with an amazing human being as my boss – who was also my friend, philosopher and guide. All along my journey in the organization, I learned so many important things that build me up as a better professional person and human being. Discipline, co-operation, team work, handling pressure, solving issues, being organized – well, it taught me all. During my job in this organization I also later pursued a diploma in Mass Communication and Journalism. After the course completed, I took due permission from my boss and moved on to make a start in the world of journalism. It was definitely not a cake-walk. I initially started freelancing with Magazines and Newspapers as a feature reporter. I then did an internship with a newspaper house and worked as a feature reporter there. I also worked for advertising agencies as a copy writer for a couple of years. Then I came to The Telegraph as a freelancer in the year 2007. For two years I freelanced with them on various projects, developing and writing content for the same. In 2009, I got into the payrolls and joined The Telegraph, Metro as a sub-editor. I also got a promotion a couple of years back and became the Senior Sub Editor. After working here for almost 9 years, in 2016 December, I took a decision to move on with my professional life and accepted an offer for a job in a different industry with a different job profile.

My journey in ABP, The Telegraph was an amazing one all over. The workplace, the seniors, the collegues, my bosses – everything was a wonderful package. In some special workplaces, the people are more than just colleagues, they are people whom you've enjoyed seeing every day, and whom you will miss when you go. There are many wonderful people here, both past and present, who have made my journey here truly enjoyable and memorable. Working as a team, handling pressure during various assignments, solving issues, sharing, partying, laughing, debating, having personal and professional discussion – we have all done it together.

I feel that we have been through all of the highs and lows together and it is not often that you want to come back to work to spend time with a group of friends. They were all special moments.

Professionally, it is rare to actually discover something new, and it was my privilege to be associated with various teams and projects that enhanced me grow, learn and explore my potentials. From day one, I was provided with various opportunities offered by the organization for professional and personal development.

Each and every one supported me to remain organized and do the real work. I have made great friends and met wonderful colleagues around. Special bonding and friendship developed over the years makes my heart heavy while saying goodbye.

But there is more to the 9 year old journey than just the workplace and the job. The roads and lanes of Chandni Chowk, the aroma of food coming from the nearby food stalls, the adda(chat) sessions that I used to have with my collegues, the friends I made – on the floor, in the tea stall in front of the office, in the ladies washroom, the debates & discussions we had, the smoke I started taking up more frequently, the tea – milk, or black - served in the earthen pots from Mahadev da’s tea stall (tea was one thing I never have at home or outside, the only place I had tea regularly was at this tea stall), the juice man standing on the corner of the Chandni Metro Station, the little girl Pooja who lives in the pavements of Chandni near to our office always waved and smiled at me, an uncle from a automobile shop who used to always talk to me and ask me to quit smoking – there is so more to a place than just brick and motors. The corner of my desk in office, the mementoes I kept on it, the postcards sent to me by my friend from Slovenia, the money plant tree I had taken from the desk of another person who left 6 years back, everything has a story to tell of its own. And today, I will be carrying the stories with me, the relationships with me, just the place and time will change.

Life moves on, we move on, the memories will be etched deep in my heart forever. 

Touched at 6…

It took me a while to finally gather up the courage to write this and finally decide to share the experience of sexual abuse that I faced during my childhood.

In our times, there was no sex education at school, and discussing sex across the table with peers was a taboo. Till some extent I feel it still is, till a great extent despite all the liberation.

In the house where I was born and brought up, we often had relatives visiting us when I was a child. When I was 6, my maternal uncle’s son, touched my body for the first time. I was not in a state to understand what happened, but somehow that memory remains etched in my brain forever. My mother was busy cooking, and he was sitting next to me on the bed and talking to me. Suddenly his hand reached under my pants and I felt his touch for the first time. It lasted for a few minutes and then he told me that this is something I should never share with anyone. And I kept quiet, only because I had no clue to what was happening. He came over to our house again and again, and this is something that continued for quite some time. Somehow, after a certain period of time, it was over and before I could understand, there was a hidden box of mixed feelings that grew inside me as I grew up. Something I could not explain to myself for a very long period of time.

However, after this incident the experiences did not stop. The sexual abuses continued, as there were two other relatives, one my cousin and the other my brother-in-law, who abused me for each time they paid a visit to our house. Touching me, playing with my body, kissing me forcefully, grabbing me, fingering me, and making me touch them. And just not relatives, there were one or two neighbours who attempted and abused me. All that they had to say after each of their sexual exploitation was, ‘hush, hush!’ And maybe by then, I had got into the habit of keeping silent about these events, and no one, including myself, ever maybe thought that something like this could happen to a child, and therefore there was no conversation on this, ever.

At 11, when I started menstruating, my mother gradually became protective about me. Thankfully for her protectiveness, the sexual abuses stopped, but yet I was not able to open up to anyone. After a while, through school and being involved in LTS (A leadership training service), I met someone senior who treated me as his younger sister. He was the first person with whom I was able to gradually share these experiences and incidents and open up to him, trying to deal with the scars. It was he who helped me understand what had happened and enabled me to face myself. Looking back at those faces, moments, experiences only made things worse for me, because they not only harmed me mentally but also affected my physical development. He kept on talking to me, encouraging me to overcome the dark shadows that surrounded me and he also wanted to talk to my parents, but I don’t know why I stopped him that time. I tried many times to speak it out to my parents by myself later, but I was unable to do so. The moments haunted me for long, making my teen phase, much more complicated than it should have usually been.

Those dark moments left me scared, lonely, deserted, scattered, confused, abused and hurt with a sense of overpowering inferiority about myself engulfing me. It took years for me to come out of my shell, to finally break out of those lingering painful moments, moving out of those terrorizing shadows that shrouded my body and mind. However, when I was older and I saw those people eye to eye, it used to give me a kick that they always turned away their face from me. They thought they will break and finish me, and when they saw the bolder side of me, they were unable to face me.

 During my teens, I crossed a phase when I started looking at men as sexual objects. I started feeling proud of my body and thought that I can conquer men with the same. I thought that’s all that they needed, and even today some spineless men behave in that manner, expressing their demoralized sexuality by the thought that they can overpower women by being a male gender.

But I overcame that thought with time, with true strong men as my true friends, their support and conviction and also from strong, powerful female friends who understood the scars left on my soul and accepted me for who I am. And through this process and over times, I enabled myself to be bold enough to say NO to men for sexual pleasure when only they want to have it. Women have the power and the guts to move ahead in a positive way for sex when they want to, and yes, they prove it right.

Come to think of it today, I feel proud of my body and my mind. I feel sexually and mentally empowered, having been able to overpower those dark lone moments of my childhood. Its long I overcame those moments, the weakened soul that I felt because some people touched my body and soul without my permission - turned around to a stronger self. . Maybe it was because of those incidents and experiences; I overpowered the thought process of certain men at a certain point of time, by creating a comfort zone for them and get into their skin and sink in – not to give their demands a priority but to tell them in untold words, Yes, I am a powerful woman, respect me, appreciate me and be a true man if you can. 

Balcony...

A mid-way to a staircase and a common balcony of an almost 70 year old Kolkata building on the main juncture of Park Circus – a place lighted up with the sunshine in the morning and by the evening, turning partially dark with no direct electricity but with rays of light falling on the place from street lights and from other ends that gave it some light. A place I choose to be myself and get into my own skin as I grew up. 

Now no longer a place I used to dwell in, that little place has vast memories associated with it, and became a significant factor of my growing up phase. As a child playing with my childhood mates who lived in the same building, hiding in the corner - crying after getting a scolding from my mother or playing hide and seek with her, as a teenager often standing alone just looking out of the balcony - taking a glance of the busy roads of Kolkata, chatting up with mum or dad about various things on earth or yap across the balcony with the twin sisters living in the opposite building or ever excited to take a one moment glance at the handsome guy passing by the lane of the building - that corner of the building became my place with the passage of time.

The first crush, the first secret smoke during the restless days of my father’s prolonged illness, my first drag of grass, my first sip from a glass of beer and even my first kiss – they all happened in that secret corner of the building, I called my own.

At one point of time, that was the only corner, where I could be myself, with a silent, vacant, lone, dim lighted ambiance, worth it – with no-one to invade into my privacy. After a long day, the moment I used to step into the 3rd floor of the Park Circus house, the first thing I used to do was take a shower, change my dress, take my packet of cigarettes and head one step up to that corner. The peace, the freedom touched me instantly, the moment I stood alone by the balcony for some time, then sit on the vacated staircase at ease – the best moments of my day whenever I visited that house. 

Ya, people might feel what’s special about an old Kolkata building and a stairway corner like this apart from the nostalgia associated with the city! The only reason I choose to share this with my friends and why I feel it’s special, is because of the way that place enabled me to unwind, evolve, analyze and discover the deep dark hidden secrets of my life. Apart from the secret booze, the smoke, the place also became a secret corner for my rendezvous with myself.

The Tandoori Chicken from Zeeshan, the old newspapers rolled out on the stairs, the glass and the bottles kept in the shade, two or three of my friends and myself have sat there and chatted on for hours, deep into the midnight. Day time chat sessions existed too, without the booze of course. The chat sessions, not always were relaxing moments, at times getting serious and philosophical, and varying from my age between 13-40. Debates, serious fights, loud voices have also been raised there. The exchange of love letters when I was a teenager, either given to myself or my friends giving to each other, me being the via media, counselling and being there for friends, apart from myself of course, all of it has happened in that little corner of that house. Thus etching a permanent mark on my soul forever.

That was one place I was nobody’s daughter, nobody’s wife, but just myself. Yes, I did connect with my friends who shared moments with me there chatting up, but mostly I would look forward to the instant my-time, I got being there. Though the intensity of emotions associated with that corner grew with my loneliness after I lost dad, it was also a place where I would rush to reach to overcome the same. My mother was always aware that I was up there and all that she used to say was either “don’t smoke much like your dad” or “don’t wake too late into the night”.  My connection continued with that place after my mother’s death too, it was like I just wanted to be left alone and just shut out from the world outside me. Not for depressing moments, but for a deeper insight.

Whether I felt like crying, smiling, laughing, venting out my anger, falling in love -  that place allowed me to emote without any inhibitions. But eventually practicality hit emotions, and I had to surrender the house to the landlord about a year back, that corner no longer remaining I could rush to. But a house is more than bricks and motors, it is the voices and the memories and the experiences that remains much after the ruins.

Death Unveiled

"Do not cry over my death bed, instead celebrate my life" .... This was something my parents always used to explain to me from my teenage days. Maybe because my parents had a very late marriage, they wanted me to grow up with that philosophy, so that later, when they are no more, I am able to actually face and live life bravely and be proud of who I am. A philosophy I strongly grew to believe in and stand by, over the period of time in my life, experiencing death up-close and near. 

My first memory and experience with death was when I was four or five years old. My father's eldest brother, my paternal uncle, passed away. My uncle was very fond of me and I have very faint memories associated with him due to my age. The day he passed away, I accompanied my parents to the hospital - that's all that I remember. I was asked by my relatives to cry, as I was explained that the pain of losing someone should be expressed through tears - it helps the departed soul release from the human attachments and it helps a person facing the death of a near one to overcome the loss. Not understanding a word of all that philosophy back then, I never remembered whether I actually cried or not. 

Time moved on and with time, death came to near and dear ones. However, death did not leave the message it should have back then, and I realized the bare nude reality of it much later when I saw my father suffering in dead bed for almost over a year. 

That was the first time in my life, about 11 years back, that death came up to me and slapped me hard on the face. Kind of actually told me, yes, this is it, take it. 

When I was handed over the bowl of ashes after my father's funeral, I almost blacked out for a few seconds. But that's what happens to a child, like me, who was nurtured with protection and devotion all through, suddenly is placed with a bowl of ashes after lighting the funeral pyre of the man she doted on all through her life and told in many unsaid words - Yes, this is what life is all about in actuality. The hunger & pain, joy & despair, bindings & bonding, ecstasy, hopes & fear, aspirations, education, career, bank balance, property, belongings – one cannot take any of it with them when they depart from this life. One just has to leave behind everything and go. Death is just that - it is just about going, giving back to life whatever one had acquired during their stay in this one journey. 

When dad was in dead bed, I had discussed with my family physician to opt for euthanasia for my father, but the doctor told me it is banned in our country. I wanted my father to go in peace, but at the same time, I wanted to see him – that was being extremely selfish though. I wanted him to go because of the pain he was in, but I failed to realize that death was something no human being can have a hold over. And during those last moments of his life, I still wanted to see him because I was in fear of never seeing his physical presence ever again, never being able to hold him or talk to him. There was pain, agony, fear, tears – which I felt each day and something which mostly dad experienced during his last days, but the moment of his death however, went in absolute silence and peace. It was drizzling, and I was out to the local nursing home to arrange for oxygen for my dad, reaching home a few seconds after he departed.

The loss of my father transformed me from a carefree careless girl to a matured woman, though I was already married then. But more than marriage, it was death that helped me evolve. His death gave me the strength to face life just as his presence always did, also giving me the capability of taking the new responsibility of looking after my mother, who started to live life alone, with the support of her maid.

In 2014, my mother passed away, after a fatal fall that caused her death. On one scorching summer morning, my mother fell down from the stairs, losing her balance and fainted. I had spoken to her ten minutes before that. I got a call from Rabia, my mother’s nurse, telling me that mom fell and was unconscious. I rushed, but mom had passed away due to an internal hemorrhage within a few moments after the fall. The proceedings followed according to Hindu rituals and again, I was handed over a bowl of ashes in my hand. Again, looking into the bowl, I saw how the physical presence of her being - the life she lived got transformed into ashes within a few minutes. It takes a person years to live a lifetime and when death knocks the door, it takes just a minute for the breath to stop.

My Mom’s death, I always believed would remain a mystery for me. After her death it took me over an year to actually accept the fact that she died because of an accident. Questions like what happened, how she fell etc clogged my mental state for long. She went without a notice, perhaps not even aware of it herself, with a thud and some blood under her head. As I gradually started to accept her absence, with time, I started believing that one just needs an alibi to leave the physical presence and transcend into the oblivion. 

Many more deaths to follow - of relatives & people I knew; the fear of loosing a physical presence, somehow stopped existing in me. In fact, I was, since then, ready to face death head-on, glare into it's eyes, and tell it that I believe in letting go of the physical presence and I have overcome the fear it causes to people around.Tears are natural - they will fall, facing the fact that one will never again see or feel the physical presence of another person causes pain, but memories associated to life will remain forever.

No words, no sound, no actions could ever take away the vacuum caused in my soul, holding the bowl of ashes in my hands, ever. Be it parents, relatives or friends - death each time came with its bare ultimate reality - to release the soul trapped inside one's body into the unknown.

Apart from the many other deaths that I faced - up-close and near - it was the death of my parents which were two extreme opposite realities that I faced - one was expecting death to arrive every moment at my doorstep, amidst all the attempts taken to make dad live on for some more time. The other, with mom, came tiptoed, without any intimation, taken her away in minutes.

Death, I realized was that - it comes in it's own course of time, not waiting, not informing, not telling you the moment of it's arrival. Death has super-human powers and it proves it's domination through the passage of time. However, one has to overcome it's dominance with the passage of time. Death is just a door to pass through from this life to the eternal. I have limited knowledge of rebirth and thus choose to believe, and was taught to believe that this life that we have IS IT – that is all we have for now, for one time. Death is not painful; it is only a mirror to reflect the actual meaning of life. From the moment of our birth to the last moment of this life and only this alone, all that we do, is travel, experience, feel, explore, learn and much more. Death only takes away the physical presence of a human being, and because from birth we are habituated to the physical touch, we feel the pain, the loss and the pangs. Look deep into the grave, or the pyre – all that one finds is the ashes of near and dear ones, or even people one never knew for life. That is the stark naked reality. The memories never leave you; nothing does, except the physical presence.

Death is not fearful, in fact, it is fearless; it is not to stop breathing, but learning to let go of the breaths we withhold in the journey of life. It is to stop believing in the fear associated with death. The physical presence has to go, that’s the law of nature. But to really learn to celebrate life till the last day of our life is a hard job to be done. Embrace death, the void, the darkness and the fear will leave. Let death evolve, look into the eyes of death and it will tell you, it is not taking away anything, it is giving you instead. Salute the courage to live, to bare, to overpower anything that comes in the way of your life. Death is only followed by life, the desire and urge to live each moment in your own little way. 

In fact, the lines with which I started writing this blog, "Do not cry over my death bed, instead celebrate my life" is something I started believing in after experiencing death up-close & real, because that made accepting death honestly and remaining strong and trusting life, believing in it and living it - appreciating each moment. 

Easier said than done, but do it.

Masks of Me, as a Woman

When I wrote about masks as a integral part of our system last evening, my brother shared some of his views with me. In fact it was a picture of his masked face that raised the topic and he asked me to start writing on this.

After a much prolonged exchange of views on this subject, I thought there was more to masks than just what I wrote initially.

A deep insight into our own selves will enable us to realize why we had a fancy for a physical mask as children...something that we never realized back then. It was fun and exciting to cover our physical face with the multi-coloured, multi-shaped, multi-character masks we got. To look like something else, to feel and sink into that self, to feel the super human power of another being for a few moments.

But each moment added up as we grew to wear a mask and veil our real selves for the major part of our lives. We evolved to become someone we often did not recognize. We started living our characters in our own way, as and when decided by situations, moments and experiences.

My parents always wanted a girl child and they gave me the best they could. But as I grew up, I realized that there are numerous invisible masks I have to wear always.
When I was 10, my mother told me that once I reach puberty there are a lot of things I should not do as a girl. I obeyed her religiously. My father told me that I can talk to boys, but not standing on the roads. My relatives, my neighbours, my childhood friends, my school, the roads that led to my house – every possible element around me, had a piece of advice for me to follow, even if I did not want to. There were and still are so many dictums I have to follow being a woman, living in this century, in times of women liberation, rights, power etc. But with each rule popping up from the rule book of the society, there was an invincible mask that I put up doing things that should be done to live in this society.

The phases : Remain a calm, sober, decent girl when I start menstruating, not to mix with boys – with no sex education/ discussion back then from parents or school or friends. Not to step up for a prayer to the holy God, as I am stained and unholy. Not to engage in a routine life, not to play, not to touch kitchen utensils, no-no-no for so many things just because i was bleeding.With each month, I practiced wearing the stained mask.

 When my parents started looking out for my marriage, I was again given a mask to wear. To present a docile, talented, refined self - again put up a facade of being someone I was not.

When I had my first romantic relationship, there was a riot in the family, and much to their happiness that relationship ended very soon. My next relationship was with the man I ended up marrying after completing graduation in 1998. Again a facade, a mask was worn by me, this time on my own decision, to let go of my days as a spinster. I stepped into a new family, a new house, a new environment and taking over new responsibilities. Suddenly, i become someone’s wife from a daughter. Gifted a new mask to carry on through life, having to let go of a life i lived so long, step into a new life and to change priorities overnight. To present myself as a perfect virgin lady to the man I choose to marry and live my life with. 

My first baby after my registered wedding had to be aborted because of social acceptance and because we both were jobless, unsettled then. I was still living with my parents after the registry and people though aware of my wedding, had not witnessed the social wedding party. My husband and i cried for hours, but then again it was all a hush hush affair and only my mother knew. The mask, again sank into my presence, for after killing my own baby, I had to go through a social wedding to satisfy the society and carry on with life. I never experienced motherhood after that. 

How many times till now I have had to pay the price for being a girl child, a woman, a daughter, a wife, a childless woman, as an employee, as a girlfriend or as someone who is 42 today? 

Even today, when I am standing on the crossroads of an unknown life, I have to wear several masks in varied situations. As a woman, I am still expected to remain silent when there is a volcano erupting in my life – personal and professional. I am expected not to smoke publicly, not drink publicly, not to hug any male friend publicly, no-no-no....to so so many things. Wear masks all the while, be a woman of perfection in all walks of life. Well, if that is the revelation, then today, I am ready to tear the mask off my face and be who I want to be, what I am. Yet feel the super human powers. Yet be confident. Yet dare to feel the varied shades of the masks sink into myself and evolve as a new me.  

Masked...

As a child, one thing I would insist on having, was buying a mask from the fairs held during various festive times. Well, everyone would agree here, that the multi-coloured, multi-shaped, multi-character masks were an attractive item, all would want as a child. 

As I grew, the magical mystery of masks started falling upon myself, as a shadow inherent to my being. Wearing an invisible mask at various moments, through time, became a part of my character.
With age, I came across the varied masked people existing in the society. Not the Donald Ducks, Mickey Mouse, Clowns, Ghosts, Tigers, Monkeys etc - no, not the physical existence of the mask - but the invincible masks worn by each and every individual walking on the path of life. 
During many such moments in my life, I came across the variety of masks women in our society wear. The masks I wear. It was just not about putting up a happy face when I was sad, it was much more deeper than it actually seemed to be. Being responsible for who I am not and for who I am - is a tussle that exists deep within myself and always will till the last day of my life. 
It is a continuous walk down an unkown, untreated road - a mysterious journey where I am mostly acting on my impulse, presence of mind or emotions. The mask, has grown to become a part of my being and existence, unseen, veiled, hiding my soul, deeply tucked away in a world of its own. It has made me smile when I am not happy, be brave when I am falling apart, be a role model for my friends – cry or laugh with them, romance with my boyfriend, play the role of a devoting wife - committed and honest, a perfect daughter in law taking care of my in-laws, performing household activities, being responsible for the well-being of my parents - always having to be perfect in everything I do. 
Mostly, it's not that I never wanted to run away from being what I am, but while playing these various roles through various phases of my life, to each it's own, I have often had to be someone I never was, and in that process, my real self, like an old rusted dusty element, lay un-cared for, unattended and deprived.
I am sure, each and every person reading this, will agree to the fact that they wear a mask over their souls, their existence in each and every moment or phase of their life. The mask is just like a second soul. One cannot do without it, and at the same time, cannot reveal that they are actually wearing one. The childhood memories of the mask, takes an absolute new dimension, turn over a new leaf, as we grow and finally when we reach adulthood.
Many people may say, just like I often do, I am myself. But the naked truth is I am myself wearing a mask. But there has to be exceptions. A few places, a few relationships does not need to be masked. Imagine me wearing a physical colourful mask at this point of time, walking out on the streets. 

But the invisible mask that I wear for most part of the day, does not include the fun of childhood, I guess.

Fatima - the abandoned girl child

After almost a year after my mother passed away, I thought of going over to our old house in Park Circus and staying there for 2/3 days. I asked Rabia to come over and stay with me. Rabia, as I have mentioned before, is the girl who stayed with my mother as a helping hand for years. Rabia, who is about 20 years old now, used to live with her family in the footpaths of Park Circus about a year back. After her father expired, Rabia and her family shifted to the slums of Subhash Gram. 
Rabia joined me that evening, with a small child in her arms, about 8 months old then. Of course, my first question was, 'who is this?' The answer I got was something that awakened me, again, like many other awakenings and experiences associated with Rabia and her family.
The baby, named Fatima otherwise also known as Sabeena, had been discarded by her parents when she was just a month old. Doomed to death, Fatima’s parents gave her away to another poor family because she was born a girl child. Her parents already had a daughter earlier and when Fatima was born, it was a curse for her parents. Fatima’s father used to come home drunk every night abusing and cursing the baby for being a girl. This continued for days. Fatima's mother, who worked as a nurse to look after patients, was also not interested in raising the baby as she wanted a boy child.
Rabia and her family took up the initiative to raise Fatima with the hope to give her a life. When Rabia’s family came upon Fatima in the neighbourhood of Subhash Gram, their heart melted. Rabia and her family became a blessing in disguise for Fatima, amidst the darkness and uncertainty inherent to their lives.
At a time when much awareness is created on protecting or saving the girl child, Fatima's case is a striking example. There are numerous and uncountable cases like the one of Fatima – who fade away in the oblivion of the society. Though there are many organizations and concerns constantly in the pursuit for the rights of the girl child, we are yet miles away from what we want to achieve.
When I was hearing out Rabia that evening, I was awakened by the bold move she had taken by adopting the child. Where again, the so called educated people of the society, have numerous laws for such cases, Rabia was fearless of accepting Fatima as a part of her family, not bowing down to any laws of the society.
No-one knows what Fatima has in store for her in the future. But as of now, Rabia and her family have adopted the child, taking care of her. Sharing their day to day living with her, raising her in the way they have been raised.
Six months back Fatima's mother committed suicide and ended her life. Fatima’s father remarried. Rabia is now pregnant and about to have her delivery in a day or two.

Amidst Clouds, Hills and More

(c)upalparnadey

My first encounter with the hills was when I was barely 5 or 6 years old. The hills were something that enchanted my father, and probably, genetically, it was passed on to me.

My father, before marriage, often used to move out on his own, heading towards the mountains. He used to sit near them, writing and molding himself, just the way it molded me. The stories continued flowing after his marriage and my birth too. With time, he tagged me along, to share his experience and carry them for the rest of my life. 

The entire ambiance surrounding the mountains, standing tall for centuries, had so much to tell. Many stories, many experiences – so much alive in itself.

During each of my visits to the hills, I always felt that I am carried into a world of trance - thrown into a mysterious world, yet so familiar and known.

As I grew older, my visits to the hills increased. As a child with my parents, as a student with my university mates, as a woman with friends and family. Yet, the hills never made me feel worn out or tired.

With time, I started talking to the hills, or most of the times, just looking at them, their mystic beauty amazing me time and again. Apart from the beauty, what also enriched me is the life of the people living in the hills, the little children walking miles to reach school, the lamas – young and old, the wrinkled old man or lady smoking a cigarette – and more.

In fact, my encounter with the hills opened up paths for self-realization and self-analysis, enabling me to find inner peace and enjoy my solitude. I never felt lonely when the hills surrounded me from all corners, my pain or agony disappearing with the fogs – in such a voiceless way – enabling me to inhale them into my system and emerge out of it.

I am sharing a few photographs of various parts of Sikkim, which I visited twice a couple of years before.

The photographs were taken by me, with a Nikon Coolpix camera. Photography, again being something, passed on to me by my father, about which I will share in the future blogs.

For Rabia - the slum girl

Watching, experiencing and travelling through the little moments of life has always intrigued me.

A homeless family member Rabia, used to stay with my mother, helping her to carry on in her lonely life after my father passed away. I used to visit my mother regularly, but Rabia, held on to mom. They became support systems for each other and I watched their relationship develop silently. They stood by each other, supported each other, gossiped, went out for walks, fought and made up. Rabia was hardly 13 then and Mummy was around 65.

An experience of watching and supporting the entire family, who like thousands of others know pavements as their home, my journey with Rabia, the girl who used to stay with my mother, and her family, was a box full of mixed emotions.

All aspects related to poverty was prominent in their day to day life. They cried, complained and at times gave up hope - but they always say "Never Say Never." They smiled amidst the trials, they lived for the moment, yes they really did.

But apart from all this, I learnt, through them, and some others I met during my journey in life till now, that their expectations were limited and their possession of knowledge was their real life experience.

When I, or people like me, who belong to a middle class family, get from our parents the basic needs of life, like education, fooding, clothing etc - did something go missing? Rabia and her family had much to loose but were the ones never to give up.

The question as to What we are, What we want, Where we are heading, remains unanswered for the major part of our lives.

But girls like Rabia, living a life amidst uncertainty and insecurity, have actually opened up varied meanings of how to just glide along the journey, having just what they have, and just going on.

Questions need not be answered all the time, hopes may not take shape, but that is what it is all about.

Fear overcomes them, nudity bares open upfront on their face, and that, in all my years I was involved with her and the family in more ways than one, is something I learnt through them.

For just being bold enough to live alive, my salute to Rabia and girls like her.

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Believe in your dreams. Believe in today. Believe that you are loved. Believe that you make a difference. Believe we can build a better world. Believe when others might not. Believe there's a light at the end of the tunnel. Believe that you might be that light for someone else. Believe that the best is yet to be. Believe in each other. Believe in yourself.
I believe in you.

Kobi Yamada