Tattoo

‘Until I find you’ by John Irving introduced me to the world of tattoo artists, and since then, I have been totally fascinated by tattoos. I think I read the book when it was published, back in 2006, I think. It is not often that I remember when I read a specific book, but I remember buying this book at the airport, on my way to India. I had a BA flight and changed at Heathrow. But all this is quite besides the point – the point is that since I read that book, I have wanted a tattoo.

It took me a very long time to make up my mind. After all, a tattoo is a lifelong affair, rather like marriage or having a child. A quite important decision, really. Quite different from coloring your hair, piercing your ears or nose or getting a tan. A tattoo is there to stay. All your life, whether you grow tired of it or not.

I have had long discussions this. With my friends, acquaintances & even strangers. I have heard all sorts of arguments, for and against. I have toyed with the concept, become enthusiastic and then chickened out. But I have not been able to get rid of the idea. No, not ever.

I have a dear friend who has two tattoos and wants to have more. She got them done when she was younger, and I think they still look beautiful on her. She is the one who often incites me to do wild things. And this time she actually made me go to our local tattoo parlor here and pay an advance for getting an appointment. Today was the day.

I almost cancelled the appointment today, ready to forego the advance I had paid. A lot of my friends had seemed dubious about the idea. Some said that I would not be able stand the pain. Others thought that I was becoming senile – it was all right for youngsters, truck drivers, punks, artists and the assorted weirdos to resort to such exhibitionism. It is ill suited for staid middle aged women coming from my type of background.

Well, true. Probably. While I mulled over everything I heard, in a perverse way I became more determined, quite unconsciously, to go ahead with my project. Throughout my life I have tried to do what I wanted, sometimes with disastrous results. I have suffered from my choices, learnt from my mistakes and plodded on. Since I had no one to blame when things went wrong, it was easier to get over them, in a way – no time spent moping or planning revenge or any negative emotions. So as the day progressed, I was quite sure that I would be at the parlor at the appointed time.

Strangely, what was furthest from my mind was the anticipation of pain. I knew it would hurt, but did not have any real idea of how much. I naively believed what my friend told me – that it would hurt for a first few minutes, and then things would be hunky dory. I was more bothered about whether the pattern I had chosen would look good on me. Such is the vanity of a woman.

Anyway, there I was, in the smart clean parlor dot on time. The gentle faced receptionist took me to a room at the back that looked like an operation theater rather than a tattoo parlor. A big guy with a knotted beard and tattoos covering every inch of visible flesh other than the face greeted me with an equally big smile. He asked me what I wanted & I showed him the picture I had on my phone. He took a cursory glance & asked me to sit down on a comfortable chair.

‘Which foot do you want?’ he asked.

‘Left’ I muttered.

‘Why not the right?’ he asked me.

Immediately I felt flustered. I know nothing about the rules of tattooing – who knows, may be the foot you have your tattoo on makes a particular statement to all and sundry.

‘Oh, I can have it on the right one too’, I say hastily. ‘I don’t really mind’ I stammer.

He shouts with laughter. ‘You’re going to have this all your life & you don’t care? That’s kinda strange, no? You sure you’ve thought about this carefully, Mademoiselle?’

(A quick aside – I feel elated every time I am addressed as ‘Mademoiselle’. Vanity, once more! Though I could see that he was not French – actually he is Polish, as I found out later. But more about that later).

‘Yes, I have. But then, you are the expert’, I say timidly. ‘If you think the pattern would look better on the right foot, then so be it’. I say.

This time his laugh really booms out in the small courtyard. ‘Hey, it is just because I have to turn this effing chair around. If you had said right foot, I wouldn’t have had to do it’.

I watch in trepidation as he starts taking out his tools of trade. Nasty looking things, if you ask me. Drills with sharp points, an assortment of surgical looking bottles, loads of wet wipes. No stencils, just two felt tip pens, black & red. I thought that tattooists always used stencils. I hesitantly ask him whether he was going to use one.

‘Of course not! The design is in my head. I draw it on your skin’.

Oh well. I shut up while he talks to himself in his native language. A series of deep guttural sounds as he puts everything on the little table. I pretend to be nonchalant while I curse myself silently for embarking on this adventure.

‘So, young lady (big grin on my face) let me tell you how this is going to happen. I have to tell you that this is going to hurt. In fact, this is going to hurt a lot. I need you to stay perfectly still. No sudden movements, or you pattern will look like an ECG. You will lie on your back first & then on your stomach. That is how I will do the back of your heel. You are allowed to scream, but just don’t f…..g move, OK?’

‘How bad is the pain going to be?’ I ask in a trembling voice.

‘Are you a mother?’ he asks me. I nod. ‘Did you have a normal delivery? Unassisted by epidural’?

‘Yes’, I breathe, though it is not entirely true. I did ask for an epidural when the pain had got unbearable.

‘Well then, you’ll be able to take it’ he declares.

I attempt a feeble jest. ‘How would you know? You never gave birth, after all’.

His intense blue eyes bore into mine. No trace of humor. ‘I shared the pain with my wife; believe me, every second of it.’

I decide not to pursue the conversation. I follow his instructions and lie down on the leather couch.

‘What kind music do you want? I have no Indian music (by this time I had told him that I was from India and he said he was from Poland). Do you like Punk Rock? That is my most popular CD’. I shudder and shake my head. ‘OK, I have rock & roll, country, some soul. What do you want?’

I settle for Rock & Roll, and settle down with ‘Sharp Dressed Man’ playing in the background. I close my eyes, unable to look at the ugly pointed instrument in the hands of my tattooist….

Since the purpose of the note is not to reproduce the various processes of torture perfected over centuries, I shall not describe the half an hour that followed. I would rather show you the final result.

Welcome, my friend for life! 

TO MEND THE MIND

What do you do when you're feeling blue? Some read, some listen to the music, some get drunk, and yet others go out and seek solace in a crowd. None of these quite work for me. I have a perfect remedy - I go and get my hair done.

I love going to my hair dresser. Its a tiny place, tucked away in a private parking, in the centre of the town. Yet, you won't find your way there, unless you know where to go. Mario, originally from Syria, owns the place. A slim good looking man with a bad back, Mario can be mistaken for a gay - he has that sort of looks. Surrounded by a bevy of equally slim and good looking girls, he welcomes me with his bright white smile. Pauline, the bubbly blonde,  his first assistant, cries out cheery 'Bonjour'. Marion, the stunning brunette with sparkling studs on her eyebrows and ears, smiles her diffident welcome. Emilie and Camiille, the apprentices, the babies of the team, hover around to take my coat and bag, put on the loose robe designed to protect my clothes.

They install me upstairs, in a posh leather chair. They press buttons, and the chair reclines, the foot rest goes up, the massaging device is activated. They offer me a drink - tea, coffee, orange juice or just plain water, which I decline. I watch the other people in the salon while Camille starts washing my hair - the young mousy blonde, unsure of what she wants, just wanting to look good. The confident hard faced woman, totally sure of herself, spelling out her own terms of reference. The diffident young lad struggling to look at these gorgeous girls, trying to mumble out what he needs. The old woman hobbling in with her crutches, swearing at the rainy weather and what it does to her joints. The dignified matron, dressed in her twin set and pearls, there for her weekly blue rinse....

I listen to the babble of voices, rising and falling in the constant drone of hair dryers. The place smells of shampoo, of hair dye, of amonia. The people around me look like specimens from another galaxy. Multi colored pins and curlers under a cling film turban, dazzling white strips in the form of a surreal helmet, the skull showing through the wet hair. I smell decay in the old lady in the chair next to me. I see hope in her brightly painted nails, defying age, defying time.  Emilie helps the lady with the crutches up the five steps, firmly holding on to her elbow, chattering brightly to take her mind off the climb.

I feel the expert fingers massaging my scalp. 'Oh, you're really tense today', murmurs Camille. 'Relax, Madame, let me take care of you' she says. And I close my eyes and relax. Her fingers bring back the memory of childhood, of tender soothing fingers driving back the demons brought on by a high fever. She sighs, content. 'Ah, thats much better - I can feel the knots melting away'. I open my eyes and smile at her.'You're an angel, Camille. Thank you. I feel great.'

Mario takes over now. I start telling him what I want, and end up recounting what I don't want. He smiles.

'Looks like you'll have to trust me here, don't you think? I hope I've understood'..

A moment of panic grips me. 'Er, Mario, let us stick to the regular stuff'....I mumble. He grins.

'Eh bien, Madame, no pains no gains. So what do you say? Trust old Mario?'

His laugh is infectious. I laugh too. 'Okay, let's go for it. But  Mario, be sure I'm going to kill you if I don't look good', I say.

And while he fusses with my hair, I watch the young blonde girl sailing out of the parlour, her hair flowing glamorously in the wind, her head held high. Her eyes sparkle, there is a spring in her step - I feel sure that in her head she's walking the catwalk. The hard faced woman smiles at herself in the mirror and tweaks a strand of hair, a lovely self absorbed smile. The young lad, his hair sticking up with gel, escapes gratefully, flashing a cheeky grin at the girls.  The posh lady compliments Pauline - her rinse is just perfect, she says. The lady with the crutch hobbles downstairs, her hair done in a graceful pile, a diamond pin glistening on the top. She shall attend her grand daughter's wedding reception this evening.

'Dear dear, I look like a young girl' she simpers.

Mario and her crew beam at her. 'No, Madame, you look just lovely' he says, bowing over her hand in a very very old world gesture.

I walk out of the warm steamy parlour, into the driving wind and rain. But I can't help smiling to myself on my way to the car. The pedestrians huddled under their umbrellas and raincoats smile back at me.

[APARAJITA]

NA HANYATE

NA HANYATE

(It does not die)

Last Sunday I came across Marguerite after a very long time. It was a blustery morning; torn clouds chasing across a slate grey sky, a strong wind whistling through the entire city. Rain came down in sudden bursts, drenching the hapless buyers & sellers of our little Sunday market. Marguerite was struggling with the bright pink hood of her anorak that she has been wearing for at least last 10 years. That is what I remember. Maybe she’s had it for even longer. She stood tall and straight behind her flimsy stall, now the hood firmly ties around her strong chin.  

I looked at her in amazement – she did not seem to have aged at all. Those cornflower blue eyes were as sharp as ever, taking in everything, giving nothing away, framed by crisscrossing laughter lines. Her figure stout, feet firmly planted to the ground. Her slender hands strong and supple as she arranged eggs & cheese & other wares behind the counter to protect them from the invading wind & rain. Bending down and standing up, pirouetting like a woman one-third her age. As I looked at her, I had to tell myself over & over again that Marguerite was at least 80 years old! 

I have known Marguerite for a  long time now. We met for the first time when I was attending a sort of ‘Citizen’s Forum’ on organic farming, way back in the late nineties, when it was a relatively new concept in this area of France, where mechanized agriculture with GMO was the rule rather than exception. The vast landholders couldn’t care less about what they considered to be airy fairy ideas touted by ex-hippies turned green. But the ecologists here were persistent. They sought and obtained some financial help from the local government for organizing the very first forum in Caen. I was sent along as a representative of the Regional Council. 

Marguerite owns a (relatively) small farm in a very remote village. Her family has owned the farm forever, she told us during the conference. The only child to survive, she had inherited the farm decades back, and had taken over from her father who suffered from constant ill health. And they have been into organic farming, long before it became a catch word in the fashionable circles in Paris. The yield was just enough to keep the family in relative comfort. ‘I’ve never made any profits in all my life’, she declared proudly ‘all that I earn goes to feed and clothe the family & my animals’. Unlike their neighbors, Marguerite’s family never produced any cereals – they specialized in fruits, vegetables and salads. They raised goats & chicken for cheese and eggs. They had a few milk cows. They were beekeepers too – their verdant orchards guaranteed an excellent quality of honey. Marguerite is a natural story teller – as she spoke I could see that remote farm in front of my eyes – the goats & chickens ranging freely, the fragrance of the fruit orchard, the rancid smell of goat’s cheese, the wet smell of the hay on the mangers of the cowshed.  

The Quesnay family (that’s her maiden name, the one she has always used) had another god given gift – they were all excellent bakers. And they specialized in all types of breads and cookies and biscuits and shortcakes, which they made from home made butter and honey. They sold it to the local bakeries, and often in the open markets of the neighboring villages. In fact, Marguerite’s little stall in our Sunday market is famous for the bread and cookies. She bakes her bread with all types of seeds - sunflower, flax, poppy and sesame seeds that cohabit in perfect harmony with raisins, figs or chocolate chips. She sells small uneven roundels of goat’s cheese wrapped in oak leaves, organic eggs that come in all sizes. No fancy boxes, no calibration. She uses paper bags made from recycled paper, sturdy cardboard boxes for her eggs. Marguerite is a living representation of the green earth. At least that’s what I thought when I first met her. 

I had gone up to talk to her at the end of the conference, all those years ago. Partly from duty, but mostly because I was fascinated by her. And that acquaintance became a kind of friendship, erratic but totally durable. I was a regular visitor of the Sunday market at that time, and made it a point to go to her stall. She was not always there – her son had willingly taken over the arduous task of doing the rounds in the open markets. He was often there with his own family – his wife & two young daughters, all of them lovely. But I was overjoyed every time Marguerite was there. It gave us a chance to have a quiet chat while the younger generation took over the responsibility of selling. Sometimes I met her at other places – she was often invited to share her organic farming experience in forums organized in different places.  

I loved talking to Marguerite. She was a mine of fascinating stories about all sorts of things. I loved listening to her anecdotes about occupied France, the brave young men who left to join the French resistance movement and never came back to the village. About the deep anguish following the D-Day landing on 6th June, 1944 while the allied forces struggled inland, and whining planes flew over her little village to bomb the German fortifications along the coast; about how the entire French society changed in the few years following the end of the second world war, the winds of change sweeping the entire country, right up to the remote village school where she was studying. She left her rural cocoon for long years, leaving everything behind to go to the University in Caen. A very long journey for someone from her background, she assured me. A journey not measurable by time or distance….

Those were exciting days, Marguerite told me. It was the ‘Glorious Thirties’ in France, and everything seemed possible. Marguerite belonged to that new generation, not the ‘bright young things’ of London, but a determined lot that wanted things to change. Women’s rights, mainly, to live as they wished, without the shackles of birth, religion, the social rules - words used by her which I am faithfully quoting from memory. A whole generation of women who recognized their innermost strengths and desires, and fought hard to make them real. At home and at work, in the fields, factories, offices. They made a life for themselves, and lived by their own rules. A ‘city girl’ by now, Marguerite lived her life as she wanted - a free & independent spirit. She participated in the nationwide movement for making abortion legal, to the horror of her own family, who threatened to disown her. She even went to Paris once to participate in a gigantic rally, she told me proudly, following the publication of the ‘343 Manifest’ penned by Simone de Beauvoir and signed by 343 women, known and unknown, who declared having an abortion in the appalling condition prevalent in those days. For those historically inclined, abortion was legalized in France in 1971. 

All this did not prevent Marguerite from getting married at the ripe old age (her words, again) of 30 and starting her own family. And the subsequent return to her father’s farm, leaving behind the city lights. She ‘journeyed back to her roots’, as she likes to say, and has stayed there ever since, toiling the soil, raising her own family & her animals, proud as an Amazon. Her children are well educated – her daughter a nurse turned social worker, her son an agronomist who prefers making the old family farm prosper rather than working for companies like Monsanto. Marguerite is proud of her children, for, as she puts it ‘I managed to make them dream my own dreams’. 

At the age of 80, Marguerite still stands straight and proud, sure and serene, proud of what she has done. She does not lament the modern society like so many of her contemporaries; she still takes on the challenges headlong. Marguerite is a fighter, a survivor, a dreamer, an achiever. She does not brag, she does not flaunt. She stands there, imperturbable, rock solid, tranquil; she lives.  

I wanted to write this eulogy to celebrate the likes of Marguerite, the quiet fighters who permit us to be what we are today – citizens with equal rights and responsibilities. To salute the generation of Marguerite who fought for what they believed in. Quite different from a lot of women I know with ill digested ideas, who think that every conflict is finally a gender issue. Women like me, really, who have hardly ever had to fight for their rights, for their mere existence, for living life by their rules. Compared to the likes of Marguerite, incarnations of Gaea, we are just dwarves. Maybe one day we shall actually be able to acknowledge it. 

APARAJITA

(19 June 2012 at 05:31)

RAZE THE PRISON TO THE GROUND

RAZE THE PRISONS TO THE GROUND

I am not from Jadavpur University – I am a pure Calcutta University product. Yet my relationship with JU runs deep.  My grandfather, who I never knew, was an engineer from JU. Neither my father nor my uncles went to Jadavpur. My brother did, and a lot of my very close friends.

 I know JU in general and the student politics as it was in the 1980s like the back of my hand. I want to tell you some of the stories of that time, from the point of view of a sister who lived through those tumultuous days. My brother was an early initiate into student politics – he became a member of the FETSU probably in the first few weeks he joined the university. Between 1979 and 1982, he was first the AGS and then GS of the FETSU. He later became the Vice Chairman of the same union and between 1983 & 1984 was the elected student member to court.

 Our home was like an open hostel those days. People came and went, stayed the night, ate the frugal meals my mother prepared. My brother and his comrades (yes, I shall use the word, because it is true) held their study circles in our house. I was mobilized to make tea and serve them snacks while they debated and argued behind closed doors. I was in Presidency College at the time - ruled by the then Chatra Parishad, there was no opposition to speak of. Students steered clear of the ‘Chaap’ members, and that was that. An apolitical student organization raised its timid head, the ‘Steering Committee’ but that was a very token protest…. In short, I was not part of student politics like my brother was.

 This tale is about what happened in 1983 in Jadavpur. I was out of university at that time, working in Reserve Bank of India. I think it was around the month of September that trouble erupted at JU. The then rulers, the CPI(M) were unable to get a toehold in the FETSU, and what resulted should be a black chapter in student politics in West Bengal. I don’t know the inside story, but one day my brother did not come home from the university. We got a phone call that the FETSU members were being hounded by the police and the goons alike. No one knew where they were The campus was closed off, and there were protracted battles between students and the ‘outsiders’. Yes, the outsiders were there even then, with or without political etiquettes..

 Now, I come from a family populated by members who would rush in anywhere and everywhere in any given situation – without much concern about consequences. So my father and my uncle set off in search of my brother in Jadavpur, determined to bring him back to safety. Never ever sparing a thought about their own safety, or how it may put my brother in an impossible situation.

 I don’t have the full details of what happened that day. I only know that when my father and my uncle landed up in front of the closed gates of JU, quite a few of my brother’s comrades had to risk their own lives to escort them back to safety. I know that my brother did not come home either that night or the next day, busy as he was organizing the protest movement.

 In yet another instance, the JU students were protesting against the brutal and unprovoked police firing in Durgapur which resulted in the death of two students of the Regional Engineering College – Arnab and Tarachand. A massive protest erupted in JU, and the students took to the streets. On the day when the students were marching to the Jadavpur Police Station to mark their protest, my brother was in the very front row. I know that while the windows of the police station shattered and a chance missile hit the OC who was standing in front of the station and he started bleeding, he took the safety catch off his revolver. I know that my brother who was right in front told him ‘you shoot me first, and then the rest.’ It was a different epoch – the OC never pulled the trigger. It may have been different today.

 I am telling you this story because maybe a lot of you do not know what happened in your University before, when those like you risked not only their careers but their lives to protest, to ask for justice. To let you know that your university has always had this culture, that the students did not back out fearing individual harm. These guys are still around, they are behind you. They will support your movement, because you protest, not because of any party color.

 I had a very long chat with my brother last night. He and his friends are no longer in organized politics – in fact, they have, as a group, become resigned to the bleak student politics in general. They had lost hope. But no more. You who braved the inclement weather to participate in the protest rally, you who made sure that there was not ONE untoward incident that could have tarred your protest, you who replied with songs and hope against oppression, you who proved once again, and after a very long time that a protest can cut across petty party lines and lead to the mobilization of the normally faceless individual student– you have earned their respect, the respect of these hard boiled activists who braved every storm.

They are behind you, as individuals, just like I am, just like a lot of my friends and acquaintances. We who believe that no one should touch the students - our children, our future, our hope. Do not give up your sense of justice, do not give in to fear, do not give in to political manipulations. The whole country is watching you, maybe the whole world. Fight, dear students and see if you can end the reign of mediocrity, of injustice, of oppression, of fear.

Long live your protest. Long live the revolution.

 I could not resist from quoting a poem by Bertolt Brecht, read long long back, which came to my mind all of a sudden as I was watching the developments unfurl in JU. The context is entirely different, yet there is a thread that connects this movement to Brecht’s poem:

During the war

In a cell of the Italian prison in San Carlo

Full of imprisoned soldiers, drunks and thieves

A socialist soldier, with an indelible pencil, scratched on the wall:

Long live Lenin!

High above, in the semi-dark cell, hardly visible, but

Written in large letters.

As the warders saw it, they sent for a painter with a bucket of lime.

And with a long stemmed brush he whitewashed the threatening inscription. 

Since, however, with his lime, he painted over the letters only

Stood above in the cell, now in chalk:

Long live Lenin!

Next another painter daubed over the whole stretch with a broad brush

So that for hours it disappeared, but towards morning

As the lime dried, the inscription underneath was again conspicuous:

Long live Lenin!

Then dispatched the warder a bricklayer with a chisel against the inscription

And he scratched out letter by letter, one hour long

And as he was done, now colourless, but up above in the wall

But deeply carved, stood the unconquerable inscription:

Long live Lenin!

Now, said the soldier, get rid of the wall!

#hokkolorob

26 September 2014 at 18:51

HOKKOLOROB

Let us make some noise (HOK KOLOROB)

We start this editorial wishing a very happy festive season to our members and readers all over the world. During this period the Indian subcontinent celebrates different festivals that were religious to start with, but has become social events for a long time now. While one can question the incredible extravagance of many such festivals, it is impossible to deny the overall enthusiasm which enables people to forget their daily trials and tribulations and look at the world with renewed hope.

However, the month of September was marked by a series of events all over the world that do not call for rejoicing but for serious reflection. In Kolkata and in Hong Kong students started protest movements against the powers that be – justice for the students of Kolkata, democracy for the students in Hong Kong. I would like to dedicate this editorial to the student community all over the world who still fights with conviction about what they perceive to be right or wrong.

The state of West Bengal in India is governed by a party called Trino Mool Congress (TMC), a breakaway faction of the Indian National Congress. Its founder Ms. Mamata Banerjee is the Chief Minister of West Bengal. The party was voted in with massively by the electorate of West Bengal in 2011, disillusioned with three decades of governance by the Communist Party of India (Marxist). Ms. Banerjee’s style of governance is at best undemocratic and at worst, dictatorial. Several incidents in the recent past have proved it. The other members of her government are merely her puppets with no independent opinions.

This is the overall context in which the movement by the students of Jadavpur University, a prime educational institution in Kolkata started, following the attitude of the university authorities, particularly the Vice Chancellor, when a female student was molested on the university campus. On 16^th September 2014, peaceful demonstrations by students took place in front of the administrative building of the University, demanding an investigation into the incident. Following several unsuccessful attempts at dialogue with the authorities, the students gheraoed some personnel of the University authority, including the Vice-Chancellor. The Vice-Chancellor then called the police. The subsequent police brutality unleashed upon the students in the early hours of 17^th September triggered a wave of protests by students and teachers, demanding the resignation of the Vice Chancellor. Demonstrations showing solidarity with the students started in Kolkata and across India, and slowly spread abroad as the ex-students of the University across the world organized demonstrations to protest against the incidents taking place in faraway Kolkata. Protest marches in Kolkata had progressively increasing turnout, culminating in a rally on 20^th September with a massive turnout of more than 30 000 participants: the civil society marched with the students in heavy rain, under a menacing monsoon sky.

To contain the growing unrest in the university campus, police pickets were placed outside the university gates while students continued their peaceful protest armed with guitars, singing songs and boycotting classes. Well, there were slogans too, coined by students, sung rather than shouted. They have named their movement ‘Hok Kolorob’ (let us make some noise) and they are making noise, not only out on the streets but on the social media – for the first time in India these tech savvy kids are making Internet one of their major allies. The teaching community has joined the protests too, and the different Teachers’ Associations from universities all over West Bengal issued formal statements condemning the action of the Vice Chancellor and demanding his resignation.

Alas, the demonstrations could not have started at a worse time. The University closed end September for the annual Puja vacations. As the festive season started in earnest and the students left the campus, the Vice-Chancellor, who was on a temporary tenure till the end of September, was confirmed in his post - ratified, as required, by the Governor of West Bengal. The so called ‘educationalist’, who doesn’t hesitate to beat up his own students will have umpteen more opportunities to do the same, maybe every time there is a dissent.

Will the movement take shape again as the students return to their university at the end of the vacations? It is difficult to say. The student movement in Hong Kong that mobilized the entire population and gave a generally peace-loving people the urge and the courage to demonstrate and brave the tear gas shells and other weapons is showing signs of flagging as residents grow more concerned about their own comfort and safety and impatient with the disruptions. It is difficult to keep a student movement alive for long.

Unless, of course, the civil society as a whole is behind them and take their movement to a different level. Will it happen in West Bengal? I have my doubts.

KISS AND REBEL

KISS AND REBEL

We had written about the student movement in Kolkata a couple of months back. While a lot of us had come to the conclusion that the movement was over and would come to nothing, the student community has proved us wrong once again. The movement goes on, only now it has become a clarion call against everything that is wrong in the Indian society, taking it well beyond the simple issue of asking for the resignation of an incompetent Vice Chancellor, a stooge to the powers that be in West Bengal. 

This weekend Kolkata, a city full of contradictions, witnessed something never ever seen before on its streets. A group of young people made a human chain in front of the police station close to the university. They did not shout slogans, they did not sing songs. They just kissed each other. A kiss of comradeship, a kiss of protest. While the hapless police force stood around not knowing what to do and pedestrians gawked or snickered or looked away, the participants just concentrated on giving the kiss of life, of derision, of anger and above all protest, to a patriarchal and hypocritical society. A society where molestation and rape are daily incidents, where women are harassed physically and verbally as a matter of course, where unspeakable acts take place behind barred windows in posh and respectable localities. 

Yes, this is an unprecedented protest movement that is attempting to strike a blow against the very fundamentals of the Indian society. A society that proscribes everything that is fundamental to human nature and condones everything that is abnormal. There can be no public demonstration of love in the Indian society – that needs to take place behind closed doors. The Minister for Education of West Bengal declared that if young people really have ‘impulses’, they need to ‘indulge’ in them in the privacy of their homes. Impulses? Indulgence? For something that is as natural as the sun rising and setting? As seasons following each other? As the love between a man and a woman? Well yes, that is what the Indian society is like. Where the police makes regular raids in the few secluded places in the city, arresting couples for ‘indecent public exposure’. Their crime – holding hands or kissing or sitting with their arms entwined around each other. For believe me, you can’t go beyond that in the city with a thousand eyes and ears. Lovers condemned to snatching a few moments of intimacy braving the roving eyes and the patrols of the moralist police or the vigilante gangs constantly on the prowl – not to prevent serious assault and rape, but to harass those who seek some privacy and intimacy against all odds.

So back to the Kiss and Rebel movement that sort of fits seamlessly with the earlier movement by the students that was titled ‘hok kolorob’ – let there be noise. Yes, they are hell bent on making noise, these young students, and their voices are being heard, far and wide, all over the world. They are apolitical, these protestors, that make them unique. They are technologically savvy, using the social media and the internet to make their protest heard in real time, also unique. This is probably the first time in the history of student movement in India that the causes of a relatively small student community are taken up all over the world. They have moved ahead, only as students can, of narrow local interests and made the movement universal. They are protesting against established social order, against the fundaments of an incredibly reactionary society that curbs, sanctions and punishes what is natural in man. 

The worldwide student movements that swept the entire Western world in 1968 changed a lot of things – mainly the concept of freedom of individuals. The freedom to live and love, the freedom to give voice to protest, the freedom to choose. Those movements had only a very marginal impact on India, if at all. The kiss and rebel movement is homegrown, and may bring in important changes in the society. If it is followed, if it is supported by the youth in India. And by others. 

A kiss is the ultimate form of pure love, whatever the nature of the relationship. A kiss seals a moment of unadulterated love, of understanding, of sharing. A kiss cannot be considered as carnal, as vulgar, as wanton. Those who condemn the act of kissing are not human. They need to be stamped out. So make your kiss an act of protest, an act of love, an act of friendship and do it publicly. Let us raze the prisons to the ground. 

VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN

VIOLENCE AGAINST  WOMEN – TOLERATE  AND PERPETUATE?

APARAJITA SEN

In 1995, 189 governments came together in Beijing to adopt a Platform for Action that spelled out key strategies to end violence against women, empower women, and achieve gender equality. The United Nations General Assembly designated 25^th November as the International Day for the Elimination of Violence Against Women (VAW). The main objective was to raise awareness of the fact that women around the world are subject to rape, domestic violence and other forms of violence –perpetrated over centuries all over the world and rarely spoken about openly. The horror and the scale of violence against women across countries and continents are appalling. According to a 2013 global review of available data, 35 per cent of women worldwide have experienced either physical and/or sexual intimate partner violence or non-partner sexual violence. Around 120 million girls worldwide (slightly more than 1 in 10) have experienced forced intercourse or other forced sexual acts at some point in their lives. Women and girls represent 55 per cent of the estimated 20.9 million victims of forced labour worldwide, and 98 per cent of the estimated 4.5 million forced into sexual exploitation (Source UN Women report ‘Facts and Figures: Ending Violence against Women’). Yet VAW is not perceived to be a major social and economic problem even today in most countries. By earmarking a day in the year, the UN, along with the vast majority of countries in the world, strived to make this a universal issue.

Twenty years down the line, the day continues to have its relevance, and strangely, seems more apt today than it was in 1995. The world continues to be horrified by the few stories that make the headlines in the media across the world. Violence against women is ubiquitous, independent of the level of development, wealth or progress in societies. The root cause seems to be the same everywhere- gender inequality and discrimination, influenced by the historical and structural power imbalances between women and men which exist in varying degrees across all societies in the world.

In this context, it is important to understand the real meaning & implications of gender discrimination: it is not about biological differences and features but about the stereotyped roles attributed to men and women by society. Whatever the level of economic & social development, the roles are distinct and largely similar across cultures. Violence against women is deliberate use of power to enforce the prevalent gender norms that takes different forms in different countries.

Over the last couple of years, India has the pride of place for violence against women, with macabre stories. Young girls hanging from a tree, women raped and murdered, brides burnt for dowries, women victims of acid attacks, honor killings – these are the news items that the Indian newspapers serve up every day. A few incidents make the headlines for a day or two till the next juicy piece of news comes up. As far as the Indian society is concerned, these stories of violence have become commonplace – there is hardly any protest or concern over these atrocities. A woman is a victim in all situations – be it economic, social or political. Torturing and killing women have become the chosen tool whenever there is a power struggle – between individuals, families, groups, political parties or armies.

The picture is not rosy in other countries of the world either. In the so called developed countries, domestic and partner violence tops the list of violence against women, in spite of the numerous help lines and widespread support system. In the countries at war, women are systematically raped and tortured by the victorious armies. In some countries mutilation of the girl child is ordained by the unwritten social laws and continues unabated. Not to talk about indirect violence that kills the female foetus or ignores the health concerns of girl children or refuses them the right to education.

On 25^th November 1960, the Mirabal sisters were assassinated in the Dominican Republic, ordered by the dictator Rafael Trujillo. They were political activists, opposing the dictatorship in their country. It is a significant date in the history of feminist resistance, now institutionalized by the UN. But half a century later, it seems that as far as women are concerned, society has gone backwards, with ever diminishing justice for women. The issue of violence against women remains one of the most pervasive forms of human rights violations worldwide.

Will the picture ever change? I have my doubts. What scares me is the level of tolerance and apathy as far as violence against women is concerned. Other than a limited number of activists and care givers, the vast majority of the people seem immune to the magnitude of the problem. There is little or no effort to change the social norms and customs that victimize women systematically, and in this case, both men and women are equally responsible. In fact, in many cases, it seems that the societies are going backwards and bringing back customs & rituals designed to enslave women. As a gut reaction to the success of a small percentage of the worldwide female population? Those few who made it to the top in different fields and therefore posed a challenge to those in power? Women who threatened to change the balance of power in different societies?

Social scientists have probably answered all these questions using different theories to analyze cause & effect. But that has not changed the mindset of the average person – the man who beats his wife, the parents who neglect their girls, the women who take revenge on other women by perpetuating customs and rituals at home. We are all guilty, we are all responsible. When shall we accept that and do something to end this?