deviousways

Two times now, I've seen it happen. Twice, I've seen men, ordinary-looking chaps, verbally and physically abuse the women with them. While people around them did nothing. One man was young, he had an identity tag. He wore formal pants, nice stout shoes. I saw him kick the young woman with him, straight in the gut, with those shoes. His companion was in burkha but she seemed young.  The other man was older. He harangued the woman with him loudly and crudely. He spat at her, followed her when she tried to walk away. Shook her by the shoulders, repeatedly. Both men did this at a public park, in full view of dozens of people milling around. Walkers walked, joggers jogged, various men lounged about, sat around. The onlookers watched the two men do these terrible things. And they did nothing. I am not a brave person. In my heart I was terribly afraid--that if I confront them, they could hurt me, find out where I live, hurt my family. But I was ashamed to stand by and watch. S...

The man had been spewing abuse for over 30 minutes.  He ranted, he raved. She stood there, head bowed. Who was he, I don't know. Who she was, I don't care.  Let's be honest, they were simply a nuisance. People walked, jogged past them Carefully navigating around that angry, shouting man. I understand Tamil but not what he shouted at her. Words so crude, so cruel, they felt like stones. My friend and I were at the park too. We ignored the couple for as long as we could. Why did she keep standing there, I asked myself. Why didn't she just walk away? Then he spat on her, and she let his spittle rain on her. Finally, she took a few steps away, walking slowly, head bent Eyes down, she avoided all the curious faces turning to her. He stood there too looking after her. He was angry, you see, that she was actually walking away. So, he followed her on his bike. He forced her to turn to him, shook her hard. Still she said nothing, did nothing. I saw the park ...

There I was feeling phenomenal, thinking of Maya Angelou Striding along, I'd forgotten about the human zoo People staring, standing or just hanging around But that's the norm when you're at the park ground Why oh why do they stare so? Stripping me up and down What can a woman do, but ignore them or even, frown. Lascivious looks don't kill it's true And it's the norm at the human zoo  But I've watched helpless while a friend was groped And around us, life walked on, no one spoke She is scarred inside, this I know Because it's happened to me too, before. I've seen children by the roadside, answering nature's call As hungry mouths gathered at the chaat stall After all, no one cares really, not even me Life ebbs and flows, in this human sea. What's a woman to do, when she's on show Because the walk is now something more   In the great tamasha of life, played out parkside The human zoo becomes just a photo slide.

Have you ever seen children at play? Jumping, shrieking, screaming... all day. Laughing, jostling, running all around Kids really do not need a playground Or parks or toys, nice clothes, or shoes Nope, some land, just a patch will do And sticks or stones, pebbles and shells Makes for some great play, I can tell. Day in, day out, come rain or shine Leave kids alone, and they will be fine. Rich kids, posh kids, poor kids from slums Children, you see, already know how to have fun.

Stumbling out of bed in the dark I think to myself if this were Noah's Ark I'd have surely stubbed my little toe On that grubby wooden floor. As it is, walking sight unseen, I must confess My muscles are tight, my nerves a mess Is that the door and or that the bench? Ouch! I just stepped on his metal wrench.   Tip-toeing I go, knowing not where I step Did I wake him, I cannot help but fret The curtain's closed to the still light But there's a glow so pearly, what a sight. Waking up at dawn, this I love to do But not falling over assorted shoes Or stepping on scattered toys Left carelessly by our son, that incorrigible boy! Making it to the kitchen safely is a feat A steaming cuppa coffee is my early morning treat The aroma rising in that hour I cannot wait, to sip and savour But hark, what is this I hear? A sleepy cry, a voice so familiar Amma, he calls, Amma, come here. How does he do it without coming near? What is this sixth sense in chi...

Sumalatha, a young mother of two from Banashankari, Bangalore, was married off very young (she does not say, how young but I suspect she was in her early teens). She is a 'mobile' beautician/expert masseur/stylist and makeup artist. That is, she meets clients at their homes, zipping around on her trusted Scooty Pep.   “My mother was an 'ayah', a woman who massages/bathes new mothers and their newborns. I did the same work too,” explains Sumalatha. At that time, she was still a teenager and already mother to a daughter. "Then a friend told me I must do more. So I saved up from my earnings and did a basic beauticians' course at a parlour in Kumaraswamy Layout." Armed with these new skills, she started offering home-made face packs, facials, beauty treatments, massages and even, bridal make-up, at clients' homes.  Over time, her fame grew, completely  word-of-mouth. "My charges are lower than that offered by parlours. And I ensure I use go...

“ Maalu, Maalu”, where are you? Come quickly, the cashews are nearly done.” In my house, someone is always telling me what to do. But this is different. I love watching cashews go “pop”. I run down the stairs towards our soot-encrusted cheriya adukala . Chechi straightens up. She’d been stirring a bubbling aluminium vessal of rice. There’s a wood-fired stove next to the rice. It’s filled with slow-burning coconut husk and what looks like little black smoking pieces of coal. She takes a stick and turns the ‘coals’ over. There’s a slight spice in the air, wonderfully fragrant nut oil. “Oh chechi , why didn’t you call me earlier, the cashew nuts are already roasted fully,” I wail. Chechi smiles. My little spurt of anger melts away and I take the stick from her. I give the nuts an extra ‘poke’. The cashews are coarsely blackened. She digs them out for me and carefully peels away the crusty skin. Steaming or no, who cares. I crunch on them happily. Chechi is not really...