Archive for the ‘survival’ Category

This illustration is taken from Saikat Sarkar’s page

“For the last couple of days I have been noticing you are reading books on World War I. Why is that?” Lalmohan babu asked Feluda.

He was sprawled on the settee in Feluda’s drawing room, his head resting on the cushion placed on one hand-rest and his feet up on the other. Two days prior to the lockdown, Lalmohan babu’s manservant had left for his village and that’s when Feluda had insisted that his friend shift to his home at Rajani Sen Road, at Ballygunge.

“At this age you don’t have to fend for yourself all alone. If you are staying with us, I will feel more assured,” Feluda had said, flashing his rare smile.

What was meant to be a lockdown of 15 days had extended to 40 days now and Lalmohan babu, as always, marveled at Feluda’s prudence.

“I am not exactly reading about the World War I, I am rather reading about the Spanish Flu pandemic that took over the world when the war ended in 1918. Then also schools, religious institutions and business centres were closed, people were asked to wear masks, stay at home and practice social distancing,” said Feluda.

He did not look up from his book.

Ki bolcchen moshai, taai naki? (What are you saying? Really?)”

Lalmohan babu had sat up, alert.

Researchers are now trying to use the lessons learnt during the Spanish Flu to contain this coronavirus pandemic. At that time 500 million people were infected and almost 50 million died, but there was no chance of developing medicines or vaccines then. So, before you start hyperventilating and coming up with Doomsday predictions, let me say it’s not that bad a situation now.”

Feluda’s face was still expressionless, but he looked at his friend fleetingly with reassuring eyes.

“You have your online Literary Meet in half an hour. Have you prepared?” asked Topshe as he entered the room after finishing his online classes.

Lalmohan babu looked perplexed. He kept looking at the Kindle tab he was holding in his hand, his expression a trifle dejected.

“My books are on this machine and now literary meets are online. I can’t cope with this Tapesh.”

Topshe worried that Lalmohan babu would start crying. He hadn’t been in the best mental state in the last few days.

“I will help you out. Let’s create a structure of what you will talk about,” said Topshe quickly.

“Idea! Idea!” shouted Lalmohan.

He was literally jumping up and down clappping his hands and Topshe stepped back.

“Like I write under the pseudo name Jatayu, I can have a lit meet as a pseudo person. Tapesh you will be Jatayu in this online meet. You will do this for me right? Won’t you?”

Now it was Topshe’s turn to look aghast.

Then it suddenly happened. Lalmohan babu sneezed. Another one followed quickly.

He breathlessly ran to the window, peeped through the curtain.

“Nobody around thankfully,” he heaved a sigh of relief looking at the deserted road.

Feluda was watching all these histrionics quietly.

“Your phone is ringing,” he told Lalmohan babu.

*

Feluda reached for his cigarettes. The packet was not where it was always placed. Forgetful was the last thing you could call Feluda, but smoking was a very old habit and the hands went for the packet spontaneously. Then his brain got into action and reminded him he had just kicked the butt.

He had been planning to give up smoking for a long time and the lockdown gave him the right pretext. Cigarettes weren’t an “essential” he was going to go out for he had decided.

Lalmohan babu was back to his old position on the settee. The call that had come in the morning had pushed him into immense grief. His niece had contracted the dreaded coronavirus and died in the morning, he was informed.

“Even yesterday morning she had sent me a greeting video on WhatsApp. She never said she was unwell or anything.” Lalmohan babu was murmuring.

“In the last few days she never told you about a fever or cough or anything?” asked Feluda.

Na moshai! Even a couple of days back she had cooked chicken kasha and paratha and uploaded on Facebook. I can’t believe she is no more.”

Lalmohan babu wiped his tears with a white handkerchief.

“Who told you she had Covid 19?”

“Her husband. He told me he had asked all relatives not to turn up since he had quarantined himself.”

“Did he call the concerned authorities to take your niece to the crematorium?”

“No, he said he had called the family doctor, who gave the death certificate. He had called the hearse and taken the body to the crematorium. After that he went into self quarantine.”

Milcchey naa! Hisheb milcchey naa. (It’s not adding up) ”                                                    

Feluda looked out of the window at the blooming chrysanthemum tree, a furrow clouding his forehead.

“Do you have any of her recent photos?” he asked suddenly.

“Many! She sent her selfies frequently with her morning greeting.”

Feluda peered at the photos after magnifying those in the smartphone.

“I am sure you never noticed the marks,” he said after returning the phone to his friend.

“Marks! What marks?”

“She was abused frequently. The nicks and cuts are all over her face. She used to hide it with make-up.”

“Abused! You think so? She was such a happy girl. She never told me anything about abuse.”

“Very few talk about it Lalmohan babu. Do you know their family doctor who gave her death certificate?”

“Yes I know him. I have his number even. I had gone to him once when my house physician was out of town.”

Feluda called the doctor. He had thought he would be a tough nut to crack, but the opposite happened.

“Prodosh babu please help me,” the doctor pleaded.

The man came to my house with a gun at midnight. Took me to his place. He had shoved his wife down the stairs. She had died on the spot. She had a weak heart. I wrote heart attack in the death certificate. I didn’t want to do this. Please can you help?”

“So she didn’t have Covid 19?” asked Feluda.

“Covid! Who said Covid?”

“Now it’s crystal clear. The husband is saying it’s Covid, so that no one would go to his place and he wouldn’t have to give any explanation. If he is in self quarantine people would stay miles away from him.”

Feluda’s next call went to the Police Commissioner.

*

“I can’t imagine you solved a case in one day and that too sitting at home,” said Lalmohan babu.

“This is the new way. Work from home or WFH,” said Feluda.

They were at lunch. Piping hot khichudi was being served.

“I have been seeing you are wasting your time sulking at home Lalmohan babu. You could have very much finished your next mystery novel during this time. I even have the title chalked out – Covider Kobole (In the grip of Covid).”

Lalmohan babu was sprinkling pepper on the khichudi. His eyes widened and his lips broke out into an effervescent smile.

Then it happened. A sneeze came. A resounding one.

– By Amrita Mukherjee

Disclaimer: On Satyajit Ray’s birthday today May 2,2020 this story is written as a tribute to his Feluda. In no way this is an attempt to plagiarise the characters he created.

If you want to read on Ray’s mother Suprabha Ray click here.

Picture taken from the Internet

7 am. The doorbell rang. It took her a bit of time to get out of bed. The young man at the door knew that. So he waited patiently.

“No bread today?” she asked him.

“No supply. But I got cream rolls and cakes,” he said.

Devika Roy liked the idea. At 75, her breakfast had suddenly turned from the usual butter and bread to cream rolls and cake. Apart from the sweet swirl the cream rolls produced in her mouth, she liked the fact that it meant one job less of putting the bread in the toaster and applying butter.

“Did you wash the milk?” The daughter-in-law emerged from the bedroom. She was wearing a frown, the urgency in her voice, disturbing.

“Wash the milk….?” Devika couldn’t quite understand what that meant.

“It’s been a month now and I still have to check. If I don’t check I know you will not do it,” she said gruffly.

Without a word, Devika put the packets of milk under the tap.

“With soap…wash it with soap.” The daughter-in-law commanded.

Devika found her intolerable. Even a month back she was the one taking all the decisions at home. Her daughter-in-law would leave for work, return late in the evening, look after the boy’s homework and retire to bed. Milk packets and groceries were never her thing.

Now she would stand at the kitchen all day like a slave master with a whip and one slip and there was no escape from her fury. All packets brought from outside were cleaned with Dettol, all veggies washed immediately in warm water, she would keep telling everyone to wash their hands, she wouldn’t allow the kid to even go to the terrace, because other residents were going there as well and, she let go of the maids, even the full-time maid. When she wanted to go to her village pre-lockdown, her daughter-in-law just agreed without discussing it with Devika. She found that unacceptable.

Had it been some other time, Devika was sure that her daughter-in-law would have been sent to an asylum, but now her son was beaming and lauding her constantly for keeping the family “safe”.

Mad paranoia, that is what it should be called, thought Devika with a smirk. To someone who had survived diphtheria and cholera as a child, four bouts of malaria in her youth, typhoid in her middle age and dengue in her old age, how could some vague virus really matter?

She even shouted like a mad woman at Devika a few days back when she opened the door to the building security guard, who had come to tell them that he wouldn’t be reporting to duty since he was burning with fever.

“He was saying he had fever and you were talking to him? You even told him to wait and you would get the medicines? Are you crazy?” she shouted.

Crazy, she had called her crazy!! The tears had clouded the corner of her eyes, but her daughter-in-law had completely ignored it. Her son had come to her room and told her to take a break from dish washing for a few days instead.

“I will do it Ma. You rest,” he said.

“You? Your father never did it. I have never seen any man do it in our family,” said Devika.

“It’s okay. Times have changed Ma. You just take rest,” he said.

Devika had stayed in her room since then. Just taking the morning milk remained her job. She didn’t go out much anyway. It was the street below her bedroom window that had always kept her entertained. The street had suddenly died like her daughter-in-law’s emotions.

Her son called her to lunch. She expected the usual boiled potatoes and dal. Her son wasn’t going out to get fish. Her daughter-in-law wouldn’t allow him to go to the bazaar. For the first time in her life, Devika had lived without fish for a month.

Devika sat at the table with a straight face. She didn’t want to get into any conversation on cleaning, sanitizing and the rising number of Corona cases. It nauseated her.

There was rui maccher jhol (rohu fish curry) laid out on the table.

“We got a guy to deliver fish. I know it’s been hard for you,” said the daughter-in-law.

Devika noticed her face had softened, probably for the first time since lockdown.

The overpowering smell of Dettol came from the surface of the table. Devika usually puckered her nose and went through the staid reality called lunch. But now the smell of freshly-cooked fish transcended the pungent odour. Transcended everything.

– By Amrita Mukherjee 

Jeeja Ghosh with her daughter Hiya (Picture from the internet)

Jeeja Ghosh is the Brand Ambassador for the 2019 Lok Sabha elections appointed by the Election Commission of India, which wants the forthcoming elections to be the most inclusive one.

“The EC has organized camps to enroll voters with disability. Initiatives are being taken to make the polling booths accessible. I am happy to help in every way I can,” said Jeeja, who has been an inspiration to many.

She shared with me that she has helped in the creation of Cards to educate the disabled on the voting modalities and procedures.

Jeeja Ghosh needs no introduction. Born with cerebral palsy (a condition caused by lack of oxygen in the brain either during pregnancy or birth) and an indomitable spirit, she has overcome many a hurdle to tread into uncharted territory.

A graduate in sociology from Presidency College (now Presidency University), Jeeja did her post-graduation from Delhi University. Most would have stopped at that. But Jeeja went on to do a second masters in Disability Studies from Leeds University, UK. Back home, she became the head of Advocacy and Disability Studies at the Indian Institute of Cerebral Palsy.

She gave up the job last September because she intended to challenge herself further. She, along with partners Chandra Sen Gupta and Sayomdeb Mukherjee, co-founded non-profit organisation ‘Inclusion Infinite Foundation’ as well as limited liability partnership firm Ebullience Advisors. Both are startups breaking new ground in the sector and replace the charity-based model with a rights-based one. The idea behind two companies is that one will be able to support the activities of the other.

At a very personal level, Jeeja had pierced yet another glass ceiling when she and her husband Bappaditya Nag adopted a baby girl, Hiya. In doing so, she became the first Indian woman with celebral palsy to adopt a child. Now, 11 months later, she is relishing the new role even as she confronts new challenges that motherhood entails.

“Motherhood is extremely rewarding and enjoyable. But it is also challenging,” she said candidly.

The biggest challenge, Jeeja said, has been to find a nanny for Hiya. The realisation that she needed help was very early. “Looking after a toddler can be demanding. Hiya is a very ebullient child. She runs all around the house. I need someone to run after her,” she explained. But these challenges pale in comparison to the joy that Jeeja and her husband are experiencing. “Watching her grow every day is a wonder. The twinkle in her expressive eyes, the dimple in her cheeks when she smiles… she never ceases to charm us,” said Jeeja.

Hiya, Bappaditya and Jeeja (Picture from the internet)

Bappaditya, who met Jeeja in 2008 and fell in love soon afterwards, tied the knot in 2013. That his father was orthopedically disabled and mother was blind in one eye meant he had some idea about disability. But he learned about cerebral palsy only after meeting Jeeja. “I fell in love with her naughtiness, her humour. She is also my mental strength and support,” he said.

Realising pregnancy could be risky for Jeeja, the couple decided to go for adoption and applied to Central Adoption Resource Authority (CARA) in 2016. The road to motherhood was not smooth as the couple struggled to convince the adoption committee that she was capable of motherhood. They met the child in Keonjhar, Odisha, where she was abandoned at a hospital by her biological mother after her birth in January 2018. They instantly fell in love with her.

But it took several trips to Keonjhar, mails to various authorities and furnishing documents to get the nod. On the way, humiliating questions were thrown at her. The district child protection officer described cerebral palsy as a ‘mental disease’ and expressed apprehensions about Jeeja’s communication skills. Finally, in June 2018, the authorities handed the five-month-old baby to the couple.

In December, Jeeja lost her octogenarian mother, a dementia patient, who lived with her. “My mother never gave up on me. She faced a lot of challenges during my childhood. I am now ready to face the challenges that Hiya throws at me,” said Jeeja, chin-up and ready to rock the world.

(This article is written by Aloke Kumar, who shared this first on his Facebook wall)

For more on Jeeja read here.

Those who have been following my blog will know that I believe in challenging perceptions with every post I upload. This International Women’s Day I am very happy to narrate another story that shatters all ingrained perceptions about women.

When you ask a carpenter to come over to your house to make a wardrobe or fix a broken bed or a table, you would not expect a woman to walk in. But the time has come when you should not be surprised if a woman does this work for you. There are no gender stereotypes anymore. Literally!

Recently, some women were invited to an art gallery, where various objects were displayed inside a wardrobe. They were asked a simple question: Which of the things they saw were made by women? As each of the women inspected the objects, all guesses gravitated towards the objects, like clothes, jewellery, art etc. Not one participant thought that the wardrobe itself could have been made by women.

They were then introduced to India’s first all-women carpentry team trained by the NGO Archana Women’s Centre. Greenply, in association with this Kerala-based organization, that works towards empowering women has done, what till now, was unthinkable in India.

(This video is directed by a woman too, Anandi Ghose.)

Breaking stereotypes

When it comes to training women to earn a living most NGOs focus on teaching them sewing, embroidery, organic farming or making dairy products. No one thought women could work with wood and make a wardrobe from scratch. Archana Women’s Centre has been empowering women with skills that include unconventional trades like building technology, carpentry, ferro-cement technology (making of thin but strong structures for buildings), bamboo technology and production of concrete bricks.

The fact that Greenply has come forward to collaborate with women carpenters, trained in the centre, is a big step forward.

The website of Archana Women’s centre says: Archana Women Centre moved into its own office magnificently constructed by a women masons group in the year 2006. It was erected to challenge the conventional male centered concept of development by empowering the marginalized and under privileged women in the society and arm them with the weapon of self reliance and dignity. AWC is determined not to follow the traditional jobs which keep women low paid, low in status and low in self image. Instead, AWC tries to initiate more and more women especially from the construction sector, who are destined to stay as helper for all their life, to the dignified and highly paid jobs of masonry, carpentry, ferro- cement technology, bamboo technology etc.  Our goal is to dismantle the barriers of gender discrimination prevailing in the technical employment sector, by means of training, empowerment and continued motivational support to women.

Our goal is to dismantle the barriers of gender discrimination prevailing in the technical employment sector

On the other hand women play a definitive role in Greenply’s business enterprises. Their plant in Tizit, Nagaland, employs over 130 women – nearly a third of the workforce. It also works with a network of over 550 female architects across the country. At every stage, they strive to find ways to empower and include women in their ecosystem, where they can drive the industry forward with their enterprise.

With this initiative, Greenply turns those efforts towards the one discipline which, despite being so closely tied to their industry, has so long been a man’s domain – carpentry. And they make just one appeal to all – stop saying women can’t.

Today happens to be my blog’s Seventh Anniversary. It has been an eye-opening and fulfilling journey so far.

HAPPY WOMEN’S DAY!

 

Sukumar Ray and Suprabha Ray

By Tumpa Mukherjee

On October 3 this year it was the 125th birth anniversary of Suprabha Ray. The present generation has hardly heard her name and perhaps the world knows her just by one line – wife of Sukumar Ray and mother of Satyajit Ray.

But her existence and identity was much more than this one line. I am privileged to be born in a family, which knew her very closely. My dadu (my maternal grandmother’s own brother) Dr Surit Mukherjee, was her physician. But she treated dadu like her own son till the last day of her life.

Dadu was popularly known in his time as Noshu babu and I called him Chini dadu. It is unfortunate that Chini dadu is no more with us but everyone, who had ever interacted with dadu, still speak about him with fondness and respect.
In my family my mamas, mashis called Suprabha Ray Tulu mashi. They still speak about Tulu mashi. She was a very strong and dignified lady. After the untimely death of Sukumar Ray and the failure of their family printing business, she moved with her three-year-old son to her brother’s place. But she was never a burden on him.

As a young widow she traveled everyday by bus during 1930s and 1940s from South Calcutta to North Calcutta where she worked as the Superintendent of the handicraft department at Vidyasagar Bani Bhawan”

As a young widow she traveled everyday by bus during 1930s and 1940s from South Calcutta to North Calcutta where she worked as the Superintendent of the handicraft department at Vidyasagar Bani Bhawan founded by Abala Bose. I have heard stories from my mom and mashis that she used to tell my grandmother that nobody knows how she struggled and brought up Manik (Satyajit Ray) single handedly.

She was excellent in knitting and stitching especially Kashmiri stitch. In fact Kashmiri wallahs (people coming from Kashmir to sell products in Calcutta) would be stunned seeing her Kashmiri stitch. She was a brilliant cook and excelled in both vegetarian and non-vegetarian dishes. She made excellent payesh and she would keep it for my Baromama (mother’s elder brother) because he was very fond of payesh.

She had made a sweater for Manik using two strings and by making knots with the strings, but later on gave it to Baromama. He told me that whenever he would wear the sweater, people would ask him who made it.
It was Chini dadu who convinced Suprabha Ray to accept Manik’s (Satyajit Ray) decision to marry Moinku (Bijoya Das). She was initially not sure because they were first cousins.

Later when Satyajit Ray, after his marriage went abroad, Chini dadu and his family, comprising my dida (Joytirmoyee) and their daughter Krishna and son Bachu, went and stayed with them.

Krishna mashi called Suprabha Ray Didimoni. She told me every morning she would wake up and sing Brahmo upasana sangeet in front of Sukumar Ray’s photograph. She was a very good singer. She had recorded a song with HMV in Calcutta. She used to teach Krishna mashi and tell her stories of Brahmo Samaj, Sukumar Ray and other things that interested her. She would draw two lines and then would make different types of floral designs. She was a perfectionist in everything. from cooking to knitting.

Every afternoon she would sit with my dida and other women and would teach them different types of stitches, different types of cutting, making shameej (a blouse worn mostly as undergarment by women of late nineteenth and early twentieth century), katha. She used to make panjabi, pyjama for her sons which included my dadu.

She was a good sculptor too. With the help of norol (traditional nail cutter) she would draw on a slate. 

She was a good sculptor too. With the help of norol (traditional nail cutter) she would draw on a slate.  In fact she had made a lovely bust of Gautama Buddha which I saw occupying pride of place in Ray’s Bishop Lefroy Road home.

In fact, during Krishna mashi’s wedding it was Manik (Satyajit Ray) who had drawn her biyer piri (flat wooden desk type where traditionally Bengali brides sit for marriage).

Suprabha Ray breathed her last on November 27, 1960. It was Chini dadu who performed the last rites. Since Manik was heartbroken and refused to light the funeral pyre, Chini dadu performed the last rites.

I am told she was very down-to-earth, simple, but a strict disciplinarian. It is very sad that very few people know about her talents and potentials. I think she got completely overshadowed by her genius husband and internationally renowned film maker son. I think she was a woman who suffered happiness and sadness simultaneously. After seven years of her marriage her son Manik was born and at that time Sukumar Ray fell ill and subsequently died of Kalazar. From the age of 2 years 4 months she brought up Manik alone .

Satyajit Ray is a renowned name, in fact, a cult figure in Bengal. He enjoys a demi-god status among Bengalis. But he never inherited the creative instincts of his family through direct interaction with his paternal side. Upendrakishore Ray Chowdhury died six years before his birth. Sukumar Ray died when Satyajit was two years 4 months old. But it was his mother who brought him up, taught him, looked after him, cared for him, communicated their creative, literary legacy to him. But it is an irony of patriarchal society that Satyajit Ray is referred mostly as grandson of Upendrakishore Ray Chowdhury and son of Sukumar Ray. Suprabha Ray has faded into oblivion.
But she has always remained with me ever since my childhood through oral narratives of my family members.

Tumpa Mukherjee is working as Assistant Professor in the Department of Sociology , Women’s Christian College, Kolkata and is researching for a book on Suprabha Ray.

The Bengali version of Birangana was Published in the August issue of Femina Bangla

Nisha’s shift always ended at 3 am. Others at the call centre switched between early and late shifts, but Nisha preferred the late shift because she gave tuitions in the evening. At 23, she was juggling a job at a call centre and teaching a dozen school children just to pay the medical bills for her mother, who had been suffering from a rare bone disease for the last 5 years. Since her father’s demise two years back, it was just the two of them.

Nisha had lived in this lane in Bhowanipore since her birth. Theirs’ was a sprawling old mansion that had seen good days but now that there were only two women living in it, they had to be doubly careful about bolting all the doors to the balconies and the terrace carefully from the inside. Her mother was more scared of thieves and intruders, although she wasn’t. She felt pretty safe in her home, cocooned from the outside world in the locality she lived in, because here everyone knew everyone else. While going to work she would wave at the para (locality) boys steeped in concentration over the carom board. One of them would invariably say, “Sabdhane jash. Taratari phirish.”

While getting back home, usually one of her male colleagues would be there in the car and they would wait till Nisha unlocked the front gate, went inside and locked it again. Sometimes there was the concerned colleague who would disembark the car and wait till she went inside and sometimes there was also the selfish colleague who would insist on being dropped off first.

That night Nisha was travelling with a selfish colleague who also lived in Bhowanipure, but he insisted that he got dropped off first. Nisha was the last person to tell him that this was the most boorish thing to do. She dropped him off and proceeded towards her home.

As she was opening the lock of her gate, she realised the driver also didn’t have the patience to wait. He just screeched off. Nisha thought after a long day at work it was probably unfair to expect chivalry from a driver at 4 am, who was anyway driving through half-closed eyes.

Then it happened. Nisha felt someone was holding her by the waist from behind and the next moment she felt someone thrusting something inside her mouth and the scream got stifled in her throat. Now she could see clearly in the moonlight.

There were five men, one of whom she knew from the locality. They were now trying to push her into the waiting Maruti van. Nisha gathered all her strength to push them away, but they were too powerful. Then she saw a blinding light.

The light came from the headlights of three bikes that had stopped. The next moment the men were shrieking in pain. They had been hit by something. She was now free. While one man was lying on the floor, the other four managed to get into the car and scoot.

“Are you alright?” a woman asked Nisha.

Her head was still reeling. The lady held her and she steadied a bit. She was in a black short kurta and black leggings. Her hair was long and she would be around 30. She was wearing black sneakers.

“Do you know him?” she asked pointing at the man lying on the footpath.

“Yes, he lives in the locality,” I replied.

“He will be a good example then,” she said.

The other two ladies were similarly dressed and now stood beside them. They both were carrying some kind of gun which Nisha later came to know were taser guns.

“Who are you?” Nisha asked.

“We call ourselves Birangana.”

Nisha wasn’t quite ready for what the Biranganas did the next day. They came back in their black clothes and black bikes and paraded the man all around the locality saying he had been caught last night assaulting a woman.

“If a man is trying to take away a woman’s honour, it is his shame. And it is our mission to ensure that any man who tries to assault a woman feels ashamed. Terribly ashamed,” they said on the loudspeaker.

Nisha had thought that people would retaliate, they would criticize this action. Instead the women clapped and jeered and many men slapped and kicked the offender supporting the action of the Biranganas.

The story in Femina Bangla

*

The college lecture hall was packed with at least 200 young women. Nisha sat in the front row.

The lady at the mic was saying, “During the Bangladesh Liberation War of 1971 when the Bengali Nationalists wanted a separate state and clashed with the Pakistani Army, rape was used as a weapon of war. The Pakistanis tied up hundreds and thousands of women and gang raped them and most were dumped in mass graves. Those who survived, to give them dignity, the newly established state of Bangladesh called them Birangana. But this led to their further social ostracization and these women still live in the shadows in Bangladesh and Pakistan. We believe a woman should not only be called a Birangana because she survived rape, but she should be a Birangana because she put a stop to the culture of rape.”

There was pin-drop silence. Everyone was listening in rapt attention.

“We believe that rape is a weapon of power that is used over women to subjugate them, to take away their freedom and honour. Our society has progressed leaps and bounds, but rape continues to be the scourge of our society. Each and every woman lives in the fear of sexual assault. At home, in the workplace, on the street, in public transport – are they ever completely safe?”

Nisha’s mind trailed off to that night when the three Biranganas saved her. It has been two years since then and much has changed.

The Biranganas had started a women’s movement in Kolkata demanding safety of women. Women joined the movement in hordes and they quickly spread their wings to the rural areas as well. They were all over the state on their bikes in groups of threes, especially after dark, patrolling the streets. They had been able to bring down the crime rate against women in the state of West Bengal from 17 per cent to 2 per cent in one year.

Nisha’s association with the Biranganas changed her life entirely. She no longer needed a male colleague to drop her late at night, she did not feel the cold sweat when she turned the key in her lock at 4 am.

Achieving this state of mind meant back-breaking training in the Birangana training centres, but she took it without complain. She toughened her body and mind and became an expert in self defense.

Nisha could hear her name being called. She was to speak now.

“I survived an abduction and rape attempt, but I decided never to live in fear. A woman is truly independent when she doesn’t have to look over her shoulders when she is walking down the streets. I don’t anymore. It is a very liberating feeling,” she said.

Nisha came out of the lecture hall with a smug smile sitting on her face. She was in a black kurta and leggings and black sneakers. She took her black bike off the stand. It vroomed into life.

She had to report to patrolling duty. She was a Birangana now.

  • BY AMRITA MUKHERJEE

You can check out my collection of 13 soul-stirring short stories Museum of Memories here

 

 

 

 

I had started to write this post in a certain way. A visit to Facebook changed it completely though. And I am glad it did because this post is undeniably about Facebook and social media.

I chanced upon this picture of this lady in a golden gown, looking like she would pop any moment. There was her husband kneeling down and kissing her bulging tummy. The picture had been clicked by a professional photographer whose credit was also given there.

I should have gone, “Aww, how cute!” but I cringed instead. I somehow felt this was the most private moment of an expectant couple that they had not left any stones unturned to turn public. But that is what social media is all about isn’t it? Making the private public and ensuring the public desire that private.

For the complete article click here