Of Rape, Protest and Our Selfishness

‘Mard bano aurat ki izzat karo (Be a man, respect women)’, read a poster at a protest against harassment of women. An incident of gang-rape of a young woman working at a bar triggered a lot of anger and protests in Gurgaon, by the people of Gurgaon… or so they claimed. The incident was horrific. I completely stand by the woman. The perpetrators of this heinous crime must be punished… all seven of them. The irresponsible cops, who were informed immediately but instead of acting on the information took a dig at the girl for working late at a bar, must not be let off the hook for this massive dereliction of duty that allowed a rape, that could have been prevented, to happen. I am not sure who angers me more - the seven boys who raped the girl or the three policemen did not prevent it from happening.

Then began a series of protests. Various groups, various places… everyone venting out their anger… and rightfully so. The demand is to make Gurgaon safe for women. Now that is ridiculous - something as basic as safety has to be demanded? Should it not be provided proactively? We have the police, the government and departments and hundreds of officers and a whole paraphernalia to handle everything. Yet we have to struggle and fight for something as basic as safety? How is it possible that even when authorities are being paid to run a state (even the country, for that matter), people keep suffering from a lack of basic necessities - food, shelter and safety? What are those, supposedly running the system, doing and getting paid for? That answer isn’t that difficult to guess. The more difficult question is ‘WHY’. Why is it that things don’t work in this system? Why is it that people are discriminated against, and most remain poor and helpless, while a few keep getting richer and more powerful? The answer is not too difficult to guess but pretty difficult to digest.

In the façade of being civilized and educated, we ourselves are responsible for the way things are. Discrimination begins right here. The power (in)equations are supported by us with a smile as we bow down to please those whom we fear.

We have it all ingrained and drilled into our head. We remain incapable of thinking beyond what is fed and of looking inside our own horrible heads. For example, and coming back to Gurgaon, we love to believe that we, who live in the high rises are ‘the’ people of Gurgaon. Are we really? What about those who actually owned these farmlands and grew crops here for ages till laws were bent and the land was bought over. Where are those people today? What was their culture? Do they have any place in this circus of beautiful words and apparent display of wealth, modesty and altruism?

Read the opening words again and think for a moment what is our own understanding of this system where patriarchal and economic concepts of disparity fuel most inequalities. ‘Mard bano aurat ki izzat karo (Be a man, respect women)’. Does this not follow that very patriarchal concept of being a ‘man’ that makes us believe that a woman is a ‘possession’ or a ‘property’ and thus lesser than man? Should it not have read, ‘human’ instead?

And this was just ONE such poster among various other things. Why do we miss out on the fundamental issues that lead to the problems… be it of safety or women or children or poor or whoever? What prevents us from analyzing our own thoughts and looking deep within? To top it all, one could even smell a silent race (of being on the top with more media coverage and headcounts) among some groups protesting for the issue.

We may believe we have evolved, but in the end we remain little selfish creatures who completely miss the point of understanding both life and humility. To sum up in the words of one of my favorite film makers, Charlie Chaplin, “I am at peace with God. My conflict is with Man.”

Parvez
Dated: March 20, 2012

This one's for dad.

When my father passed away last week, my younger sister was with him. The hospital formalities required filling up various forms. A column for the death certificate requires the religion of the deceased. My sister did not hesitate even for a moment to scribble ‘Humanity’. The hospital staff was confused but she insisted and they had to accept it. My other siblings and I loved her for that for that's what dad would have wanted. As a little child of six, quizzed at school about religion, I asked him what it is and which is mine. All other children knew theirs and had mocked me for my ignorance. He patiently sat down and explained the concept and then went on to say 'you can choose whichever you like when you are 18'. My sister and I were super thrilled at having a choice over something which all other kids were burdened with. Thus we grew up without a religion in a small town where other children, and sometime even adults, would tease us for being rootless without a religion. But the power of being able to choose after having understood our choices, was way bigger than their petty jokes. By the time I was eighteen I realized that I do not need to choose any religion... in fact all are mine. I did not cram up verses from Koran, Bible, Gurugranth Sahib or any such book, but we had access to whichever we wanted to read and understand. Dad questioned the institutionalization of religion as we see it today. The comparison of 'mine better than yours' irked him for he had read them well and could discuss any religion with anyone for hours, straight from the books along with the context of the lives of the initiators of each religion. No wonder then that I grew up often playing with a beautiful white idol of Gautam Buddha in our house. It was a simple sculpture which I loved without even knowing who or what it was. Much later I learnt that dad wanted to name me Siddartha, as he was reading Buddhism around the time I was born. His burial later, which was done according to Muslim tradition as mom chose that, we called all his friends, acquaintances and neighbors to our house to share his memories. Our invite read, this is 'not to mourn his death, but to celebrate the life he lived'. We were surprised to see the number of people who came in spite of their own health, age and distances. But before that, I must share a most beautiful thing that mom did as we lifted dad's body to head for the cemetery. Amidst her sobs she whispered her last words to him softly as both my sisters hugged her, 'Pardon me if you did not like it this way but I did what I thought was best to offer you my respect'. At the gathering at home, people shared their memories. Srivastav uncle, a neighbor who had recently moved to another house quite far from dad's but never broke his contact, shared an incident about dad which we had no clue about. 'I landed up in the colony at 3.30 am in the night with a truck and laborers to move in' he said. 'I knew no one here then. But within minutes a light came on in a house and a man walked out with a bottle of water and glasses to welcome me with the ease of a friend and said, "you must be very tired, have some water and anything else you need... my house is right here". I was amazed that in this concrete jungle there is at least one person with a heart who can step out to embrace a stranger' he smiled. No wonder then that when dad was unwell, Srivastav uncle and many others, including the children from the colony whom he used to teach, kept visiting him regularly and offering us any and every help we may need. What else could one write in the religion column then, but ‘humanity’ for this man, if at all such a column must exist? 

 Parvez