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