Wednesday, November 26, 2014

Unjust actions, the world in ferguson

Let us all stand tall and walk with silence,honor all who are silent,forced by the times, by moments that arrest voice--  stand up against injustices, be it in Ferguson, Missouri, Florida, Palastine, pakistan, Borno or anywhere else in the world... The world is ferguson, it is every place ...  Let us stand up against injustice, united; to be louder in our moments of silence, in solidarity with all who are silenced-to protest , with honor , with dignity and valor ... Let us  with quiet  dignity , stand together, come together across all divisions, and fracture the unjust institutions, shake them to their core..Never by chaos,not by destruction, but by a strength that pulse from our depth, from our integrity, for cowards with their unjust modes, can all but crumble, thus...

Monday, November 24, 2014

Stolen childhoods

I turned on BBC news, and arrived at switzerland's stolen child hoods. My eyes avert itself from the screen, as I try to  focus on my cup of tea. I stir the cup of tea and it spills onto the table. Even as I push the swiss childrens' plight to my minds back screen, I tear up ... from the dredges of a past that I cannot out run or throw out, comes a name- 'selvam'... I cannot recall any image, just his distress..
I am at a place and time ,a child...yes I was just a child , walking ,  the coordination required for maneuvering doors  still alien.Today I am crying silently as I sip the tasteless tea, for 'selvam'. I cannot remove the innate empathy of those days, nor the reality that because of that compassion I caused suffering....
Selvam was also a child, sent by his poor and hungry parents to this big house, all to labour away his right to a childhood...on hopes he will be fed, and some cash would flow into their burdened lives for his labours..
There are child labourers all over this world even as I write this.Nothing has changed much for the children, just new facades and new names for the exploitations of children. Some think it is justified to cheat another of their time, their rights trod over,-  willfully negated in front of their own children..but to what end....
I still remember that day when the sun's slanting  rays cast its orange glow , stretched lines on the wooden floor . In an upstairs room slanted shadow of a window grew long on the floor. I slid a peice of bread through the space at the bottom of the uneven door to Selvam's room.I cried with selvam, who was beaten that day. I could  not think of my parents as bad or especially cruel then, yet I stuggle to forgive them of what cannot be forgotten, cannot be undone.... I can understand that  they too were the products of their time.
Now even as their memories fade, at times I feel the urge to force them to remember, but they will not remember anything anymore, only  the memory of that day breaks in me in sadness and shame, a sadness that envelops me in thick oppressive guilt...Yet, I cannot be held guilty, instead it should be my parents , and the society at large... they should embrace the weight of the shame, they should  wear this cloak of guilt suffused sadness.
I wonder about Selvam....what became of him? Did he make it in the world okay.....Did his burdened days rob him of all that we call 'life value" for ever? I know that I will never have answers
Every child soldier, every child who labour, be it in the tobacco farms in the vastness of american south, be it in the brick kilns in India, or cocoa farms of Africa... every child is another Selvam... 
There is also your child who  lives with the  heaviness of guilt... carrying the burden of stained lives. stained by the suffering of the selvams all over the world.
Changing shapes, or the color or the label  will not remove the disparities , the injustices that divide us,...all of us those with or without  will continue to struggle  for the tainted  childhoods... washing away the stains  unto the  unto the end....

Sunday, October 12, 2014

Through a distorted lens,viewing ebola

As the Ebola  outbreak continues unabated, the sad plight of nations bearing the burden is mostly pushed aside in our scramble in the west, to contain it from touching us, consuming us. ..
I for a moment wonder if this is how in some unforgotten past an ancient culture brought about cremation , in its effort to curb some catastrophic disease. Did the nidus for caste evolve thus, as a communal effort at isolation, but  like all efforts that grow rigid and at times deadly with time, they did too, just  to become a vehicle for suffering, sans any reasoning...
Are all the screening and possible isolation measures going the same way, with time we will know ,-how much divisive attitudes it will drum up, how the suffering of  communities will be increased by rigid distancing and over-played biases , the cause for more suffering overall.
An offshoot thought, wouldn't it reduce the risk for all the people involved in the burial of  those who died with the disease, if they could be cremated in a safe space.If  faced with new challenges we can, all of us, can change our rigid beliefs and practices. As it was possible to move away from ritual bathing of the dead ,I am certain other practices can be changed in time, especially in dire circumstances.
     Some other old beliefs come to mind,eg. 'when did turmeric become an all protective  object in various parts of India'. Did it come out of some viral-bactireal killing property and such use ...reasons that  got lost in time, just to remain as a cast off shell of an original active use, post catastrophy through generations, losing all the original rationale....
Looking through distortions ,some of past practices now take on a different hue.

Friday, August 29, 2014


Anxiety is fears without any clear  resolution,
fears that leave a  trail of  shadows in its wake

Tuesday, August 19, 2014

SPRKS IN CSF: Unjust actions

SPRKS IN CSF: Unjust actions: Let us stand in silence  for a minute  @ at Noon on this day and every day  to stand against injustice, be it in Missouri, Florida, Palasti...

Monday, June 2, 2014

gender voilence- an old but new epidemic

Gender violence is one of the world’s most common human rights abuses. Women worldwide ages 15 through 44 are more likely to die or be maimed because of male violence than because of cancer, malaria, war and traffic accidents combined. The World Health Organization has found that domestic and sexual violence affects 30 to 60 percent of women in most countries.

In a column in The Hindustan Times, Sagarika Ghose, an author and commentator, wrote, “A profound fear and a deep, almost pathological, hatred of the woman who aspires to be anything more than mother and wife is justified on the grounds of tradition.”
The official explanation for many of the deaths of “missing women” is that they died from accidents or injuries, but there is little reason to believe that Indians are especially clumsy or accident-prone, the researchers said.
Rape and domestic violence are words that once removed from the immediacy of the event , wether by time or  a mind set in emotional distance, just becomes just too clinical, almost devoid of all that went with it , attached to it. Hence it becomes mere words at some point and yet  at other times unreal. The Indian student's death sparked an outcry, and it quieted down.Now something is again awakened ever so breifly in the rape and death of someone else. All those who are harrassed, go through the spacing , almost ritualistically, pushing it out  with time. You are lucky if you have done something in a retaliatory fashion , however small, because that alone gives you a certain sense of wholeness.
How-ever, when it is repeated violence , at home,or what surround you,nay follow you in society,  then  the fabric of self gets worn...gradually shredding your identity. Thus you are no more a whole,but only peices, as if they are all different in someways, and  the person that is you become some flyaway bits you are always gathering up.
Sometimes pushing back can be more damaging, so you wait for a chance and selectively defend parts of your integral self. Some just push it all into a sac that grows wearisome with time, then gets scarred over and your soul gets a little bit darker, as you go through life, never again conciously touching that scarred over foreignness...just barely knowing it , just barely being.
Then, some thing stirs and you remember, your wholeness, almost with the uncertainity of a dream... The memory of a whole follow you , a shadow that evolve, as the scars scale up and fall in trail through like with the shadow a constant companion, even as you seek that elusive wholeness...

Saturday, February 22, 2014



Wispy tendrils of yesterdays
Rise from the snow,
leaning, lifting up,
To hug the air, yet again.