बुलबुला: Kadambari Sarita

Photograph by the author.

तो बस अभी.. हाँ बस अभी अभी.. कुछ तो हुआ.. कुछ जादूभरा...

हाथों में थे जूठे बर्तन और नारंगी स्क्रब और उस स्क्रब पर लगा झाग...

तभी उस झाग के चंगुल से खुद को छुड़ाकर एक नन्हा सा बुलबुला कुछ ऊपर उठा और उठता चला गया...

और वो उड़ता ही चला गया उस दरवाज़े की ओर जोकि गुसलखाने की तरफ खुलता था...

फिर वो नन्हा सा बुलबुला कुछ नीचे को आया, और हमारे दिल में एक धक्क सी हुई के अब ये न बचेगा...

और वो नीचे की ओर तैरता चला गया, ना जाने क्या था उसके अन्दर...

फिर ऊपर उठा थोड़ा यहाँ-वहाँ मटका और हौले-हौले वापस नीचे बड़े प्यार से नारंगी टाइल पर आकर उसकी दरार में घुल गया...

जाते जाते हमारे मन की बात को और पक्का कर गया कि यह जीवन चाहे एक पल का हो पर उसका सफ़र कैसा रहा यही मायने रखता है...

Kadambari is a second year student in the MA in Social Work programme at TISS, Mumbai.

The Bravest Man I Know: Aditya Prakash

 

Image source: http://developingdemocracies.wordpress.com/2012/06/26/support-victims-of-torture/

The Incident
On the night of 28^th October 1991, the 2^nd Dogra Regiment of the Indian Army was conducting interrogations in Palhallan. Palhallan is a large village in the Baramulla district of Jammu and Kashmir.

People suspected of having links with terrorists were interrogated. The women and men were asked to come out of their homes. The women were asked to gather at the local dargah (shrine) and the men were lined up in the village school.

A major from the 2^nd Dogra handpicked Manzoor Ahmed Naiko to step forward. Others were also short listed for interrogation. Manzoor was taken inside the school and forced to strip. He was made to sit on a chair. His hands were fastened to his back.

‘Taaki main kuch na kar sakoon’

He was completely immobilized. The army personnel then asked him for his gun. Manzoor Ahmed said he had no gun. He tried to convince them that he was a shopkeeper and never owned a gun.

‘Main siyasati aadmi nahi hoon. Tab bhi nahi tha. Ab bhi nahi hoon. Bas Kashmir mein yeh zulm band hona chahiye’

The army personnel then tied a cloth drenched in oil around his penis and lit it on fire. The interrogation party watched behind their balaclavas as Manzoor shuffled in his seat in inexplicable pain.

‘Unhonen mere penis pe kapda bandh diya aur tel dalkar aag laga di. Unke chehre nahi dikh rahe the’

His shrieks did not find an audience. His voice was muffled by the cloth that ran tight through his mouth, gagging him. After this they asked him again,
“Where is your gun? Give us your gun and we’ll let you go”

Manzoor was searing with pain. He said, “My answer is still the same. I have no gun please let me go.”

The patrol made him get up and escorted him to a house. They tied his hands and legs and Manzoor noticed that he was in his own house. He knew the place. But the moments of comfort were few.  The army personnel tied his hands and legs again. Then they dunked him face first into the water. A rod was shoved in and out of his anus.

‘Woh andar bahar andar bahar karte rahe aur meri bleeding shuru ho gayi’

Manzoor Ahmed lay bleeding. The army’s interrogation was still incomplete. He was then laid down flat on the floor. Electrodes were placed all over his body.

The officer asked him, “Where is your gun?”

Manzoor channeled the little energy he had and as his voice was finding words, the officer slammed his boot on Manzoor’s wind pipe. He was then electrocuted several times. Every time he was asked and tried to reply, he was choked by the officer with his boot. The electrocutions were also interspersed with beatings. The army personnel battered his chest with their helmet of issue.

‘Meri sehat bahut acchi thi. Koi aur hota to mar jaata. Mere saath ek school teacher bhi tha jiske saath us din ye zulm hua. Usne vahin dum tod diya.’
 (I was very strong. That is why my body could bear the torture and see me through alive. There was a school teacher who also faced a similar torturous interrogation. He didn’t make it through)

The interrogated men were then collected and their hands were tied together. This file was then asked to walk out naked out of the school.

‘Mere pet mein swelling a gayi thi. Andar mera rectum phat chuka tha. Yeh swelling internal bleeding ki vajah se thi’

Manzoor was made to stand up and walk. His stomach has swelled because of the internal hemorrhaging. He collapsed after a few steps.

Someone said, ‘The army doesn’t need another death. He’ll die if he faces more. Leave him.’

The next day Manzoor Ahmed discovered that the 4000 rupees in his house had been robbed. His watch was gone. So were his 20 chicken and tempo.

The Injustice

This ordeal lasted an entire night with Manzoor Ahmed. The morning of the 29^th of October, Manzoor arranged himself to go to the SMHS (Sri Maharaja Hari Singh) hospital in Srinagar. This is the government hospital and the one Manzoor could afford. He was taken into their emergency ward.

Manzoor’s rectum was devastated. A colostomy was performed. A colostomy is a surgical procedure in which a stoma is formed by drawing the healthy end of the large intestine or colon through an incision in the anterior abdominal wall and suturing it into place. This opening, in conjunction with the attached stoma appliance, provides an alternative channel for feces to leave the body. [Source: Wikipedia]

He spent 10 days in hospital. But a few months later, the stitches opened. The puss that leaked collected to form a painful abscess. Manzoor sought correction at the same hospital. He was refused by the surgeon.

‘Government hospital mein jo doctor tha, usne mera operation karne se inkaar kar diya. Usne kaha ki sirf 15% chance hai recovery ka. Uska sochna tha ki agar operation nakaam hua to zindagi bhar iski baddua lagegi mujhe’ 

(The surgeon did not want to put his medical career at risk by performing a dubious surgery. The surgery had a thin 15% chance of success. Further, he was superstitious that Manzoor would curse him if the surgery went wrong)

Manzoor Ahmed then went to Delhi on his meager income to get treated at AIIMS (All India Institute of Medical Sciences). AIIMS is India’s leading government hospital. He traveled 900 km from his village for treatment. The way was mountainous as ever. He travelled in excruciating pain. All the while his feces were leaking from his side outlet.

When he reached they asked him his details on a form and once they learned he was a Kashmiri interrogation victim,  AIIMS shunned him. Manzoor had traveled for nothing.

The World Red Cross approached Manzoor Ahmed later and offered to treat him. The Medical Board in Srinagar refuses to give them the go ahead.

Twenty years hence in 2012, Manzoor Ahmed Naiko still suffers from leaking feces. This has restricted his life. He can no longer go to social gatherings for long for fear of soiling himself.

He knows medical terminology precisely, having learnt it the tough way.

The Person

Manzoor is a medium built man of 52. He looks young; like he is in his thirties. He claims his hair has just started graying.

A little boy of 5 is holding Manzoor Ahmed’s hand. All through this interview his sparkling green eyes have worn a blank expression. He has been patient. He tugs Manzoor’s kurta a few times letting him know this was not his scene.

‘He doesn’t speak Hindi does he?’, I ask.

‘No’, says Manzoor.

I am relieved.

Manzoor is an affectionate uncle. The child loves him likewise. He likes loitering about town with his uncle.

‘Yeh mujhe Daddy kehta hai aur apne baap ko Papa’, says Manzoor, ‘Aap ise mera beta, bhanja, pota, jo chahe keh lo’

The boy lives with him and Manzoor and his wife dress him up for school. They have three children of their own:

A daughter, Masrat Manzoor, 28, unmarried
A son, Naseer Ahmed, 26, MA in Urdu, unemployed
Another son, Javed Ahmed, 24, unemployed

Employment opportunities are so low that his sons have tried to get a job with the army and the police as well. That paradox belongs in hell. It is unnerving to see this vicious cycle of poverty.

They were refused because Manzoor was their father.

After everything, Manzoor has kept his quiet simplicity.

A morning in the life of Manzoor Ahmed Naikoo:

4:15 am Wake
4:55 am Pray (the morning Namaz)
6:00 Feed his cows
7:00 Tea
The rest of his day is as drab and normal as this morning.

Manzoor is still a believer. He shakes his head gently and disapproves when I suggest that God has been unkind to him. He says God tests his followers. This was his test.

‘Khuda ki aazmaish hoti hai bande par’

He laments that even as recently as 2010, 10 people were killed in his village as terrorist suspects. He says they were innocent.

He concludes by saying he is not a political person and likes to lead a quiet life. He says India judges Kashmiris and its other citizens by different standards.

‘Hindustan mein do aaine hain. Ek saare Hindustan ke liye aur ek Kashmir ke liye’

 The Questions

After Manzoor shared his hardship with me, I am awe-struck. His courage is palpable in the silence. It was inherent and not advertised. All I find apt to do is to give him an opportunity to cross question me. He had been frank and I want to be frank as well.

He asks me what I do for a living. He also asks me if I am Muslim. I say my parents are Hindu. He says he had nothing more to ask. He ends our interview with a smile and points me in the direction of my lodge at Dal-Gate.

Courage. Silent and Stoic.

All excerpts are what Manzoor Ahmed Naikoo told Adi Prakash in Hindi/ Urdu.


Aditya is a second year student of Development Studies at TISS, Mumbai. This interview was conducted as part of the fieldwork for his MA dissertation.

This piece was originally posted on Aditya's blog.

A Critique of the Eco-Feminist View of Science: Nilabh Kumar

Vandana Shiva, keeping it real?
Source: http://palabrademujer.files.wordpress.com/2012/02/shivabarcelona083atf5.jpg

Vandana Shiva criticizes science and scientific knowledge as the basis of ''maldevelopment'' and calls it a source of “violence”. According to her science is reductionist and inherently violent. Its purpose is uniformity, centralization and control. Development thus becomes scientific agriculture, scientific animal husbandry, scientific water management and so on. She says that all these processes are violent to both women and ecology. So this modern reductionist science is a patriarchal project aimed at displacing women as experts and bringing in fragmentation and reductionism in place of holism and complexity. She believes modern science has displaced all other beliefs and knowledge systems by its claim to universality and value neutrality on the basis of a logical method to know nature. She accuses western white males and particularly Francis Bacon, to have created this patriarchal, “masculine project” called science which subjugates both nature and women, saying it was created to bind nature to the service of man. It creates a dichotomy between “rational and emotional”, “objective and subjective”, “mind and matter”, “male and female” and so on. She says it was not neutral, objective, or scientific, but a masculine mode of aggression against nature and subjugation of women.

Here the author seems to have gone too far, in the sense that one can't do away with science completely. Its presence in our lives, and everywhere is all pervasive. She needs to create a new science, which would replace the old. That is a project that is not really forthcoming in her work. Shiva doesn't indicate how and where is this new science that will solve our problems. Today, some people believe, and as also articulated so well by Sam Pitroda in his lecture, that we can not wish away science. Criticizing from outside without contributing to the creation or construction of the “new” is very easy, but it is very difficult to show the way or create the alternative. Shiva fails to show the way in what will replace this ''patriarchal, violent science''. She goes on to say, ''Both nature and enquiry appear conceptualized in ways modelled on rape and torture. '' Further she says, ''Nature came to be seen more like a woman to be raped, gender too was recreated.'' Science destroys eco-systems and knowledge systems by claiming to be the “expert”, the “knower”, even in the matters of daily lives where the traditional, indigenous knowledge systems existed and prospered in their own way.

She calls this reductionist science weak and inadequate to understand nature or women. Its a sweeping statement, that even all feminists won't agree to. These sweeping statements weaken the force of the argument and seem stereotypical. Shiva's book Staying Alive paints a picture that depicts traditional systems as perfect and unproblematic. It constructs a romantic traditional culture and depicts modern cultures as filthy and abominable. She does not answer or consider the high infant mortality rates, the low average life expectancy among “traditional” groups, the innumerable diseases and problems in “traditional” cultures which even they would be happy to get rid of. She has shown only one part of the picture. Vilifying science and progress summarily cannot lead anywhere. In my opinion, not everyone of us would like to go back to the ''romanticized past'' where everything is misleadingly shown as perfect.

She fails to recognize the violence in the local and traditional cultures where a woman who is taken by a ''ghost'' is cured by beating her and subjecting her to tortures. She has not looked at this aspect of traditional cultures. She fails to see that in the traditional cultures it's extremely difficult to add new knowledge to the existing set/collection of “knowledge” that is considered sacrosanct. It is here that traditional knowledge fails to be flexible and democratic and to stop inflicting pains and subjugating those who dissent. She writes "science resorts to suppression and falsification of facts and commits violence against itself." She deliberately does not acknowledge the fact that in science and other modern knowledge systems, there is at least a willingness to be democratic, and it is open to criticism, generally. This is why its body of knowledge keeps growing. She goes for an all out attack on science saying that science has this ''fact- value'' dichotomy. She calls science a ''perverse knowledge system''. This is a very radical stance that makes sweeping generalizations about women, men, science and nature. This stance has a lot of problems even within Feminism as liberal or other Feminist voices may not agree with this stance taken by the author.

She later contradicts herself saying that this science is not science but politics. And the politics can not be called scientific knowledge. Very true, if that is so, she is contradicting herself. she claims the laws of mechanics are not 'laws of nature' but value-judgements. This statement falsifies all knowledge acquired by mankind, scientific or traditional. Vandana Shiva should have devoted a few lines to explain this as even a “traditional” knower says the knowledge acquired has a “justification” that can be “verified”. Since even the traditional knowledge follow loosely the prescription of verification and justification, this would mean that all traditional knowledge are value-judgements too. Herein lies the self-contradiction of her statement.

Everyone today, including those who criticize science, use in their everyday lives the modern gadgets, technologies, and everything that science has brought into our lives. The ''critics of science'' do not go to the traditional systems of knowledge for treating diseases, for the hundreds of amenities from clothes to car, from plane to computer, from mobile to hair drier, from torch to CFL, from fast trains to clothes, from entertainment to watches, from in-vitro fertilization to artificial limbs, and the list can go on indefinitely. We can not imagine a world without the modern services of science that is so deeply entrenched in our everyday lives. She refuses to see the babas and sadhus who cheat and dupe people in the name of traditional knowledge systems. If the writer/activist has a heart attack or an ailment, she will rush to a most modern hospital, and not to an ayurvedic vaidya or a sadhu baba or a “traditional” healer. The criticism of science without showing a viable alternative is like destroying the bridge without an idea of how to make a new one.

Nilabh is a first year student in the MA in Women's Studies programme at TISS, Mumbai.

These are the personal opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions of the fieldnotes editorial team.

Remembering Steve Biko, Thirty Six Years After His Murder: Vikrant Dadawala

Steve Biko

Image: In his coffin

I think the central theme about black society is that it has got elements of a defeated society, people often look like they have given up the struggle. Like the man who was telling me that he now lives to work, he has given himself to the idea. Now this sense of defeat is basically what we are fighting against; people must not give in to the hardship of life, people must develop a hope, people must develop form of security to be together to look at their problems, and people must in this way build up their humanity. This is the point about conscientisation and Black Conciousness.

-from Steve Biko’s defence testimony to an apartheid court, published in I Write What I Like

Steve Biko was a anti-apartheid activist and student leader who was murdered while in the custody of the South African police on 12th September 1977. Biko was from a generation of South Africans inspired by the Black Power movement in the United States. The generation of the Soweto uprisings, a generation that grew up and came to political maturity at a time when all the erstwhile leaders of the South African freedom struggle were in jail in Robben Island or in exile.

Biko - “No 46”- was the 46th anti-apartheid activist to die in police custody. In February 1999, South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission refused amnesty to the police officials involved in Biko’s murder. This was a somewhat unusual move on the Commission’s part which had made clear its preference for amnesty as a precondition for reconciliation. For the “reconciled” South Africa then, his killing has come to be seen as more than a political murder - an act of cruelty in excess of politics.

Image: It Left Him Cold - The Death of Steve Biko (1990) by Sam Nhlengetha

Sam Nhlengetha uses actual photographs of Biko’s corpse to recreate the abjection and the losses of the apartheid era to disquieting effect. The name of his artwork refers to the the then South African Minister of Police’s remarks on Biko’s death: “I am not glad and I am not sorry about Mr. Biko. It leaves me cold (Afrikaans: Dit laat my koud). I can say nothing to you… Any person who dies… I shall also be sorry if I die.” (Why does this remind me of puppies and motorcars?)

Biko remains a resonant figure in South Afircan popular culture - in tshirts, music, graffiti - perhaps even more so today than ever before. Outside of South Africa, his influence is more fragmented. A few statements/quotable quotes by Biko have come to metonymically stand in for the entire Black Consciousness movement.  Such as this one: 

At the heart of this kind of thinking is the realization by blacks that most potent weapon in the hand of the oppressor in the mind of the oppressed.

Today, it requires conscious effort on our parts to see Steve Biko as a specifically third world figure. Biko and his comrades saw their struggle as part of a long war with the so-called first and second worlds. The figures who influenced Biko’s movement (all of them male) were a mix of third world leaders and American activists - Kenneth Kuanda, Sekou Toure, Frantz Fanon, Aime Cesaire, Stokey Carmichel, James Cone etc.

Biko and his comrades were also highly affected by Paulo Friere’s work on education, and this made them make heavy emotional investments in ideas of “listening to the people”, even though as community organizers, they may have tended to slip up on this count as they grew more confident of their popularity. They saw alienation and self hatred in black society to be the result of living conditions, insecurity of life and livelihood, an education that crippled selfhood, poverty, and above all, the cultural domination of white values. Cockyness and “manliness” were to be their main weapons in a society where they were living as “perpetual under-16s”. They saw the police as "the vanguard of white society", and they were desperate to themselves be the vanguard of black society.

Those opposed to South Africa’s current economic policies are fond of quoting from Biko in order to argue that what South Africa has today is a “false” integration:

                       

 ...And this is one country where it would be possible to create a capitalist black society. If whites were intelligent. If the Nationalists were intelligent. And that capitalist black society, black middle-class, would be very effective at an important stage. Primarily because a hell of a lot of blacks here have got a bit of education—I’m talking comparatively speaking—to the so-called rest of Africa, and a hell of a lot them could compete favorably with whites in the fields of industry, commerce, and professions. And South Africa could succeed to put across to the world a pretty convincing, integrated picture, with still 70 percent of the population being underdogs.

-Steve Biko, in an interview with a foreign journalist

But Biko’s political or economic thoughts were largely derivative and not very original. His heroism,such as it was, is tied up with his times and with his life.  Nowhere can we see this better than in the records of his trial by a South African court (prior to his murder). The judge crudely attempts to establish the “whiteness” of democracy (remember this is 1970). The court blanks out testimonies in “bantu languages”. Against these dehumanising systems, Biko is an inspiring, defiant figure: “Not only have they kicked the black but they have also told him how to react to the kick”.

The anniversary of his murder is a good day to remeber all those who have refused to react to kicks the way they were supposed to!

Image: The famous photograph of Hector Pieterson's body being carried by his sister and friend after the brutal police repression of the Soweto protestors

Edit: On reading again, this is much more of an endorsement of vanguardist politics than I meant it to be. Such is life. Jai Hind...

Vikrant is a second year student of the MA in Development Studies programme at TISS, Mumbai.

Crisis of the Male "Development" Worker

This is a piece on fieldwork experience by a TISS alumnus who prefers to remain anonymous. 

Having worked for over a few years in the ever-so-booming “development” sector (believe me, I have been the heavy-hearted bearer of the following fact elucidated by one of my colleagues for too long now, I hereby lighten my heart by divulging it: “Man! The next most promising sector in India, after ofcourse the IT sector, is the DEVELOPMENT sector!”), I endeavor to present an array of oh-so-subtle phenomena occurring consciously/mostly subconsciously among the male entrants into the hallowed space:

i.                    The fear of one’s own silence: Needing to be party to one of those intellectual discussions/talks/debates – by choice or by circumstances – as part of our personal and professional development, i have often sensed this gnawing restlessness in some of my male colleagues to not be tagged by some invisible observer as the only one who didn't say a thing (and personally i don’t equate saying something with contributing something). This might lead to disastrous effects, for instance, queries that are so convoluted and seemingly never-ending that they lose their “question-effect”, statements that bear no association with the point being discussed – as if just to mark one’s presence in the forum OR sometimes (if you are really lucky, that is) even distasteful exhibition of one’s artistic pursuits such as couplets and shers.

ii.                  The corner-of-the-eye-glance syndrome: In really important meetings with the top-shots (the definition of which can itself be very subjective) of the field beaming their presence, there is this innocuous glance that is thrown by some of my male colleagues towards the chief personality present - out of the corner of the eye - after almost every sentence of one’s presentation/turn to speak – as if marking with one’s mental recorder each and every twitch in the muscle of the concerned authority, considering it as the reaction to one’s just expressed opinions.

iii.                The forced personal example phenomena: This is the most commonly and consistently observed occurring in most male colleagues – even seniors at times. “You see, when I(bold and italics added deliberately for the effect) did so-and-so. . . in so-and-so year. . .so-and-so happened” -  although enlightening is so out of place and needless at times that one starts wondering what was the point of so-and-so at such-and-such time.

iv.                The nebulousness of the unknowable “other”: The most amazing phenomena happens when a group of budding ‘developmentalists’ (yes, I coined that or so i believe) discussing passionately about PRA methods/such likes and the most effective/participative medium of getting a wholesome idea of the problems/issues of a village/urban slum – stare at each other in complete silence when they hit the roadblock of “women’s issues” – as if these issues are an unfathomable addendum to the main issue and not part of the main issue itself. This is either quietly and, in a miraculous way, sometimes unanimously brushed to the sidelines or delegated to lower field officials/specially summoned female colleagues – as an afterthought.

v.                  The burden of the last word: Sometimes meetings/discussions aimed at planning or pre-planning can extend beyond the thinkable limit, what with “to this I would like to add” and “one more addition to this is” as also “my experience in this field says”, as if the clash of titans for Medusa’s head - that is in this case the last word.

vi.                The sealing-with-a-handshake delusion: Most times I have noticed my male colleagues surreptitiously slipping out of post-meeting/conference discussions to steal a word or even better a handshake or sometimes just a glance of the “most influential” person according to them on the panel, mostly for some imaginary future prospects.                       

(This list, although inexhaustive, does sum up honest asides scribbled on my personal FIELDNOTES – therefore the inspiration to share it on this particular forum). I exclude some of the seasoned “man for a cause” activists from the purview of these observations. And ofcourse the writer’s privilege of overgeneralization cannot be shared by the reader who doesn't have a similar concession – since exceptions always exist. But a trend is certainly observable.   

Even at the risk of sounding too simplistic, one of the plausible explanations for the observed phenomena could be stereotypes. “Development” sector being considered less defined, managerial or scientific for most men’s comfort lead to it being touted as predominantly female dominated, thereby pressurizing the male development workers to justify somehow their rightful existence by culling out an “expert” stature for oneself or by associating with the “right kind of” people.      

This in my opinion is also a classic Sonderkommandos(SK) complex. Let me explain: since the German Nazi Party wanted to further the stereotype of Jews being so lowly a race that they could bow to any level of humiliation – even destroy themselves, they hatched the devilish plan to create a ‘special squad’ of Jews – namely the Sonderkommandos – who would be in-charge of running the various human crematoria hence leading their fellow Jews to death. Propagators of the myth of a “useful stereotype” – coined as the SK complex (by me ofcourse) – would  say that such an enrollment would atleast gain the ‘Special Squad’ Jews a few more extra days/months to live – disregarding how hollow and torturous those few extra days might actually have been.

Some argue – using the same SK complex – that the case of the “development” sector stereotype could be one of those few “useful stereotypes” benefiting the stereotyped – in this case the female development workers – again disregarding how short-lived and hollow such benefits might be. I argue that a useful stereotype is an oxymoron.

And if you point out that what i have just presented might also be an exercise in stereotyping, i would disagree and say that, instead, it is a value-neutral effort at describing a fairly regular sociological phenomena as also an attempt to understand the psychological root of it.   

I have chosen to keep my name anonymous so that it doesn't by default give away my gender identity, thereby making this post spiral into a verbal slugfest between “o you biased ranting feminist” and “o me – the unknowing victim of a patriarchal upbringing” – which would so often be the unfortunate fate of the Gender and Society classes of FC: Understanding Society. I would rather maintain this ambiguity about my gender (because hey guys can be feminists too!) to direct the discussions, if any, to the real point. Which is: that we “experts” who aim to objectively deal with the social conundrum are not divorced of the stereotypes and norms that we so passionately seek to dissolve. If we do not acknowledge and confront them upfront, at least at our own personal levels, we do injustice to ourselves and our erudition.         

Say Cheese: Neerad Pandharipande

The other day, I found myself in the middle of an impromptu group photo session in my college. As I stood there, a random thought entered my mind with the simplistic audacity of a pesky child. Why do I smile like that for a photograph? Do I want the world to think that I always have that expression on my face? Or perhaps, do I want myself to think that way, when I stumble upon this photo some time in the future?

Why do I smile like that for a photograph? If only in a nonverbal sense, am I being truthful or am I lying in that moment? Or is that expression a kind of average value of all the expressions that my face has ever contorted itself into?

As far as facial expressions go, the camera- induced smile is in a league of its own. It is not a grin, or a guffaw, or even a smirk. It is a smile, and is meant to convey polite happiness and measured contentment. Neither exhilaration nor despondency. The camera- induced smile has no context, it has no story leading up to it, and it has no news peg.

A candid admission would be in order here. An expressive face is the last thing most people would associate me with. In one instance, some friends at my former office were so convinced of my utter lack of expressions that they challenged me to make an angry face. I picked up the gauntlet. I drew a mental picture with all the essential constituents of an angry face. Let me see now... Teeth clenched - check. Facial muscles stretched - check. Eyes narrowed - check. Apparently, I still did not look angry. Constipated maybe, but not angry.

Some time after the impromptu group photo session, I looked at photos of my nine- month old niece and I envied her. When I see her, I can tell for sure whether in the moments before the snapshot was taken, something made her happy, or irritated, or curious, or excited. I don't just see a mathematical aggregation of wide eyes and upturned lips and a partially open mouth. I see joy personified. Then I look at myself, and I see that I personify nothing.

A picture speaks a thousand words, you will always be told. How much of it is fact, and how much of it is fiction, you will never know.

Neerad is a first year student of the M.A. in Social Work - Criminology & Justice programme at TISS, Mumbai.

When the clock stopped ticking..: Reetika Subramanian

This article was originally posted on UltraViolet: Indian feminists unplugged.

A red coloured Maruti van parked 100 metres away.

Four hefty men with bulging eyes.

Stark silence, dreaded darkness.

No familiar faces in sight.

The time was past midnight.

… a shiver ran down my spine.

—–

Amidst the chaos and clutter of charred bodies being wheeled in with families breaking down, little did I conceive an event that even today, gives me Goosebumps, every time I read a news story of a woman being sexually violated, and her body, mysteriously dumped in an isolated place.

As a trainee journalist then, covering an event as catastrophic as the serial bomb blast that shook the city of Mumbai in July 2011 was challenging at several levels.

Identifying that one aggrieved family member, who could narrate the whereabouts of their loved one before he/she reached the spot of the blast, sending real-time updates to the editor, maintaining my composure in such an emotionally-charged setup besides answering phone calls from my mother, who wanted to know if I was safe and had eaten my dinner, was a strenuous exercise, both, professionally and emotionally.

—–

It was past midnight on the clock. Even as shutters of shops in the neighbourhood were pulled down and people on the streets had returned to the safe confines of their homes, the situation at the hospital only got more heart-breaking with every tick of the clock. More bodies were being wheeled in and the police personnel gheraod certain areas to keep the journalists at bay.

Since it was the first time, I was working in such a high-pressure situation I was accompanied by a senior journalist from my own publication. I had to ensure that I was on my toes, keeping her in the know of everything that I found.

—

It was at this moment, when I was with a group of journalists, who were busy listing out the names of the identified victims, an unknown man, standing a few feet away, called out to me. Bogged down with the pressure of finding any relevant information that could make it to the next morning’s paper, I didn’t think twice before responding to him.

“Madam, hospital ke back gate ke bahar, ek family hai jinke bete ka death hua hai. Mein aapki baat-cheet unke saath karwa sakta hoon.” (Madam, I will introduce you to the family of a victim, who died in the blast. They are waiting near the back gate of the hospital.)

Now, finding a family, which could talk to the press at such a time was a real challenge. Thus, when the man offered to help, I actually felt relieved.

After informing my senior in hushed whispers- hoping that no other newspaper reporter could hear- that I would be back in a moment after speaking to the family, I followed the man.

—

Unthinkingly, I walked along with the man, asking him questions about the deceased and which member of the family might be in a more composed state to talk to me. He insisted that the victim’s father was around and even assured me an exclusive interview with him. I believed him.

A minute into this conversation, the unfamiliar corridors through which he was directing me through struck me like a thunderbolt. It was just the two of us, away from the public and police glare, in the middle of the night. Moreover, the cemented walls in the large hospital ensured that there was either low or absolutely no mobile network for me to contact anyone. It was then that I started questioning my decision and this man’s intentions.

Suddenly, his genuine tone sounded pretentious. His eyes looked puffier than what I had first noticed, his story fragmented and fake with every word he uttered.

What would he get by promising me an ‘exclusive’ story?

Why would he take me through these unfamiliar corridors, when there is a direct road from outside the main gate to the morgue?

There were many more “Why” and “What” questions that sprung up in my mind. None had a convincing answer.

—

It was too late to turn back and move. We had crossed three long corridors and hastily turning back and running seemed like an implausible option. So, I decided to maintain my cool, go along with him, while hoping that some familiar face would suddenly appear to help me out of there. All this while, I continued to expect the worst and prayed to some divine unknown for deliverance.

Finally, after walking through several empty corridors that were towards the end, dimly lit, an exit door was visible. Three men, whom I immediately noticed were brawny and looked woozy, waited near a red coloured Maruti van that was parked a few metres from the gate.

My heart skipped a beat. A shiver ran down my spine. I felt numb.

“Gaadi ke peeche woh victim ka daddy khada hai. Chalo, aap mere saath aa jao.” (The victim’s father is waiting behind the car. Come along.) My feet refused to move. I didn’t find any escape route. There was no “daddy” visible through the faint light in the dark. Just the van and three men, staring at and into me.

I stood still for a few seconds.

—

What followed surpassed my imagination.

A senior journalist from a rival newspaper called out to me from behind, “Reetika, what the hell are you doing there? Just come here. Soon.” Who would have imagined that in following me to find out what story I was pursuing, she would in fact end up safeguarding me from a fate that could have been difficult to make peace with.

I ran. Ran towards her with tears rolling down my cheeks.

The man in the background suddenly disappeared into the darkness and was later seen, only in the nightmares that I had in the following few nights.

Reetika is a first year student of the MA in Media and Culture Studies programme at TISS, Mumbai.

The Court of Small Causes: Aditya Prakash

The horns are always loud in Srinagar. The locals, if they have their way will claim that it’s a government conspiracy to drown the gunshots. Conspiracies abound too, so they may not be amiss. But anyhow, the horns are loud as hell.

Now I get a helicopter shot of a crying kid. It’s silent and helicopter like cause I’m about two feet taller than him. I’m 5’9”. He’s Indian, though he mumbles in Kashmiri. The bystanders, two autovallahs, take note. I walk on but something about his helplessness draws me back. I’ve got the time.

‘Why is he crying?’, I ask the autovalla. ‘Another kid took his money’, he replies. I shake my head and walk back. There’s no way beggars can sue each other. There’s no way anyone can bring anyone to justice when there’s nothing written down.

I got fleeced at Heemal, one of two alcohol shops in Srinagar I’m told. Chap charged me 1900 for a bottle of Black Dog that costs 1400. I was testy with him. Told him he couldn’t charge me more than the MRP. That’s the law I had said. He told me to move aside and let the other customers buy their liquor at his prices without further delay. As I walked away, having paid him a third more than I should have, I felt dissatisfied. The smooth wrought whiskey was violin on the taste buds. But it was too expensive. Too bloody expensive.

And now there is this kid who has no one to go to. I feel a little bit like the kid. We are both helpless in the larger scheme of things. I let the feeling pass, in the fleeting of a second. Sure we both got robbed, but I am stronger and surer than a 10 year old beggar. Now I feel better at his expense.

I am now at the entrance to my hotel. I turn to go in and my eyes fall on something starkly contrasting. There is another kid as dirty and about the same age as the first. He is sitting on the low parapet next to the gate. His head is bent down but I can guess a wide smile from his protruding cheekbones. He is dressed in a dirty red shirt and grey shorts. He looks lovingly at a stash of rupee coins in his cupped hands. And as the situation makes itself obvious in my head, I see his happiness transformed into beastly Golum-esque glee. Of course, this is the thief.

I ask my friend to wait and catch the boy if he tries to run. I walk back and the other boy is still aimlessly dejected.

“The boy who stole your money, was he wearing a red shirt?” I ask

“Yes!” he replies emphatically

“Come with me”, I say

We walk around the bend. And sure enough as their eyes meet, the wronged roars a war cry and the thief makes a run for it.

I look at my friend and ask why he didn’t stop him. He shrugs and tells me not to be a hero. Life goes on even as one beggar is richer than the other.

Aditya Prakash is a second year student of the MA in Development Studies programme at TISS, Mumbai.