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Sunday, September 21, 2014
Rape! Who is to be blamed?
Early in the morning, Facebook serves as my alarm clock. I scroll through my Facebook page to truly wake up my opened eyes.
Indeed this habit does bring in wakeful moments for my soul. I read about things happening in and around and the first thing I do is a quick click click click on the like buttons.
But there are moments like this morning when time halts and I start to ponder. Normally I don't think much beyond my kids and the books I'm reading. But, there are some moments when the dumbo in me stirs with a vengeance and I begin to think seriously.
This morning, I saw a post by a journalist about a rape victim in the Thai pavilion area. I had heard about the incident in BBS last night. I shook my head and empathized with the journalist for the call she was making.
I scrolled further down to read the many comments that had poured in. While some agreed with the post, there were many who condemned the rape victim instead of the accused. And a cold discomfort ran down my spine. People had started questioning the victim because she was supposedly a married girl ( I intentionally call her a girl cos she is only 19).
"Why was she not with her husband?" And so many other questions in that line have been raised. These questions irked me to the bone. A girl has been abused in such ugly manner and the question that arises is "why was a married woman out at that hour (10:30 pm)?
I remembered few politicians in our neighboring country who were found blaming the girls for such horrendous incidences. Another laughable report was about a police officer, who came out with a list of "what not to do" for the girls and women in the society to prevent such cases. And very little has been questioned about the men who are the bigger prey that needs attention.
Now, the same opinions are reflected by our very own Bhutanese folk too. It is such a shame.
Instead of questioning why the victim was with that man, at that hour, she should have been with her husband and other details, can't we question the brutal acts of those men? why can't people see what the girl has been through, the physical pain will be passed out as she was intoxicated by some but what of the humiliation? What of her emotional pain? Should her pains be superseded by the fact that she was a married woman out with another man?
Babies, barely one year old, have been raped. Angays, as old as seventy plus have been raped. Daughters have been raped by fathers and step fathers. Little girls have been raped by neighbors. Teenagers have been raped by their lovers. Unknown strangers rape the innocent village girls. Rape is a crime very much happening right under our noses. What are we waiting for? And why is it always the womenfolk who are under the radar whenever such incidences are reported? Why do we need to question what the girl was wearing?
Why can't we have laws that will provide a safe zone for our girls without putting curfew on the girls or questioning what they should wear. If the perpetrators receive dreadful punishment, I think that should take care of the issue itself. The predator should be the one in the clutches of the law, questioned and grilled not the innocent victims who are grilled and robbed, firstly by the heinous act of rape and later by the people questioning her integrity. Every time a rape victim is questioned of her integrity, I feel its like double rape.
But this is just a single opinion of a mother who fears for her growing up daughters.
Saturday, August 2, 2014
Remembering my Ama
Two years! How do I count it? Do I use my fingers and toes to calculate it in terms of months and weeks? Or do I use calculator to calculate the exact number of hours since you left us in that pre-dawn darkness.
No, I don’t want to count the days that’s gone by. Nor do I want to remind myself of that unfaithful hour that robbed me off.
All the people I talk to, tell me, they understand my grief. But only my heart knows that no amount of understanding can actually wade deep into the gorge of my grief.
Some might say a prayer or perhaps offer butterlamp but no prayers will mend my broken soul nor any butter lamp dispel the darkness I’m in.
Many frightful dreams I shudder in, wallowing in whirlpool of remorse. If only I had kept my heart open. If only I had looked closely at your fragmented spirit rather than basking in your youthful radiant skin. If only I had seen through the fake wall of strength you had build around us.
Many ‘ifs’ remain. I can’t offer any ‘buts’ in return. Many questions remain. I don’t have any answers.
So I sit in solitude, scrolling down the contact numbers in my phone.Your number is still right on the top of the list. But I’ve stopped dialing your number now. I don’t like that computerized sound reminding me that you no longer exist in this world.
But what do this voice know? You have not ceased to exist. Never. You’ve evaporated into every cell of my soul. How can you not exist then?
I’ve those,” I miss you terribly ama” moments. I shed silent tears. But every time a drop trickles down, I remind myself of the strength with which you carried yourself around even when things were all wrong with you. Then I stop crying. I know you would never want me to be a weakling, for you never were one!
I fight a battle each new day. A battle with my spirit. And I think I am winning ama. Yes, indeed. I see myself stronger, way more confident and above all so sure of where I’m headed in life. And I know this is possible only because your soul has transgressed into my being.
Often times, I rebuke my weak heart and lo! I find your strong heart sitting next to it and that makes all the difference to my existence.
So you see ama, you are not gone. Then why am I counting the days and saying that today it will be two years since you left me? You’ve not left me, for you are very much alive in my soul.
No, I don’t want to count the days that’s gone by. Nor do I want to remind myself of that unfaithful hour that robbed me off.
All the people I talk to, tell me, they understand my grief. But only my heart knows that no amount of understanding can actually wade deep into the gorge of my grief.
Some might say a prayer or perhaps offer butterlamp but no prayers will mend my broken soul nor any butter lamp dispel the darkness I’m in.
Many frightful dreams I shudder in, wallowing in whirlpool of remorse. If only I had kept my heart open. If only I had looked closely at your fragmented spirit rather than basking in your youthful radiant skin. If only I had seen through the fake wall of strength you had build around us.
Many ‘ifs’ remain. I can’t offer any ‘buts’ in return. Many questions remain. I don’t have any answers.
So I sit in solitude, scrolling down the contact numbers in my phone.Your number is still right on the top of the list. But I’ve stopped dialing your number now. I don’t like that computerized sound reminding me that you no longer exist in this world.
But what do this voice know? You have not ceased to exist. Never. You’ve evaporated into every cell of my soul. How can you not exist then?
I’ve those,” I miss you terribly ama” moments. I shed silent tears. But every time a drop trickles down, I remind myself of the strength with which you carried yourself around even when things were all wrong with you. Then I stop crying. I know you would never want me to be a weakling, for you never were one!
I fight a battle each new day. A battle with my spirit. And I think I am winning ama. Yes, indeed. I see myself stronger, way more confident and above all so sure of where I’m headed in life. And I know this is possible only because your soul has transgressed into my being.
Often times, I rebuke my weak heart and lo! I find your strong heart sitting next to it and that makes all the difference to my existence.
So you see ama, you are not gone. Then why am I counting the days and saying that today it will be two years since you left me? You’ve not left me, for you are very much alive in my soul.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
The Choice
The cars are zooming by outside, I hear them. People are moving around, I hear them too. But more than these loud sounds,there is another sound far more louder than all these sounds put together. It is the sound of my heart thudding in my chest. NO! I've seen no ghost. Neither have I just come in from some heavy physical work. I'm just sitting in my room. Oh! yes! I can even hear the soft snores of my son sleeping beside me.
Why is my heart beating in this manner then?
Well, my heart knows that just as I'm sitting here, trying to gather the beats of my heart, my daughter must be in front of hundreds of her friends in the Assembly ground. She might be holding out a new silk Rachu and talking about it. Today it is her turn for the "Show and tell" during the morning Assembly time. In her school, unlike the other schools which have morning speeches, they have this 'show and tell' where the children bring an object to school and tell their friends about it.
I know had I not resigned, I would be another spectator, listening to her with tears streaming down my eyes. This has little to do with a mother's nervousness over her daughter's speech turn. I'm confident my daughter would give in her best!
What is making me feel that dripping feeling in my tummy is what she must be telling about that Rachu.
2012, a month before my ama left us, she called my daughter near her bedside. She was very weak and her hair had started falling out in clumps after the first round of chemo therapy. Her bony hands sliding into her black duffel bag, she fished out the silk Rachu. Handing it to my daughter, holding it firmly between their palms, which remained like that till she finished talking, my ama said," This is your Abhi's gift to you, Angie."
My Angie had just turned six a month ago but she always has been too mature for her age. She thanked her Abhi and came running to me. The first thing she had to ask me was,"Mama, is Abhi gonna die?"
I had tears in my eyes. I nodded first, trying to find words from the lump that had suddenly blocked my voicebox. Finally in a weak voice I told her," But I don't want her to."
Angie held me in her small arms which barely made a full round around my huge body and she told me,"Don't worry she won't die."
My ama expired a month later. Angie knew she had been wrong. But she didn't accept defeat. Calmly she told me, "Abhi is in heaven now mama, stop crying!" It was as if my little girl knew that she was gone to the better world than this earthly world of sorrows and griefs.
Yesterday, she came to me and said,"mama, can I have the gift my Abhi gave me." I just looked at her, stunned, why she was making this absurd request.
"I want to take it for my show and tell," she informed me. I stood dumb-founded. Just the other day I had given her the option to either take her IPod or the kindle which she uses every moment of her time at home. My daughter had once again proved her maturity with the choice she has made, leaving me spell-bound.
p.s I can almost hear her," this was a gift from my late abhi......."
Why is my heart beating in this manner then?
Well, my heart knows that just as I'm sitting here, trying to gather the beats of my heart, my daughter must be in front of hundreds of her friends in the Assembly ground. She might be holding out a new silk Rachu and talking about it. Today it is her turn for the "Show and tell" during the morning Assembly time. In her school, unlike the other schools which have morning speeches, they have this 'show and tell' where the children bring an object to school and tell their friends about it.
I know had I not resigned, I would be another spectator, listening to her with tears streaming down my eyes. This has little to do with a mother's nervousness over her daughter's speech turn. I'm confident my daughter would give in her best!
What is making me feel that dripping feeling in my tummy is what she must be telling about that Rachu.
2012, a month before my ama left us, she called my daughter near her bedside. She was very weak and her hair had started falling out in clumps after the first round of chemo therapy. Her bony hands sliding into her black duffel bag, she fished out the silk Rachu. Handing it to my daughter, holding it firmly between their palms, which remained like that till she finished talking, my ama said," This is your Abhi's gift to you, Angie."
My Angie had just turned six a month ago but she always has been too mature for her age. She thanked her Abhi and came running to me. The first thing she had to ask me was,"Mama, is Abhi gonna die?"
I had tears in my eyes. I nodded first, trying to find words from the lump that had suddenly blocked my voicebox. Finally in a weak voice I told her," But I don't want her to."
Angie held me in her small arms which barely made a full round around my huge body and she told me,"Don't worry she won't die."
My ama expired a month later. Angie knew she had been wrong. But she didn't accept defeat. Calmly she told me, "Abhi is in heaven now mama, stop crying!" It was as if my little girl knew that she was gone to the better world than this earthly world of sorrows and griefs.
Yesterday, she came to me and said,"mama, can I have the gift my Abhi gave me." I just looked at her, stunned, why she was making this absurd request.
"I want to take it for my show and tell," she informed me. I stood dumb-founded. Just the other day I had given her the option to either take her IPod or the kindle which she uses every moment of her time at home. My daughter had once again proved her maturity with the choice she has made, leaving me spell-bound.
p.s I can almost hear her," this was a gift from my late abhi......."
Friday, July 11, 2014
I can Write
Don't let the title mislead you! This 'I' has nothing to do with me. This 'I' are the kids I met with, this summer break. READBHUTAN had been kind enough to give me the opportunity to work with children of grade 5-12. Working with them on SUMMER WRITING PROGRAM has brought tremendous shower of blessings in my heart.
I have always believed that there are stories in every heart and the writer who is going to write these stories aren't anywhere far, it is right there dwelling in our heart, right beside our stories. Working with these kids, nudging them to bring out the writers hiding inside them, I truly felt what my heart knew was right. Always!
Reading their stories and seeing it come alive, This particular thought came in my mind and I heard the silent screams from their little hearts saying this:
I can write
Of prince and princesses
In a faraway land
Jostling with life
And eventually living happily ever after.
I can write
Of broken families
And lovelorn lasses.
Of sporty kiddos
And humanly animals.
I can write
Of life’s journey
And the stops in between.
Of living and breathing
And the destination
Of death and beyond.
Yes, I sure can write!
I have always believed that there are stories in every heart and the writer who is going to write these stories aren't anywhere far, it is right there dwelling in our heart, right beside our stories. Working with these kids, nudging them to bring out the writers hiding inside them, I truly felt what my heart knew was right. Always!
Reading their stories and seeing it come alive, This particular thought came in my mind and I heard the silent screams from their little hearts saying this:
I can write
Of prince and princesses
In a faraway land
Jostling with life
And eventually living happily ever after.
I can write
Of broken families
And lovelorn lasses.
Of sporty kiddos
And humanly animals.
I can write
Of life’s journey
And the stops in between.
Of living and breathing
And the destination
Of death and beyond.
Yes, I sure can write!
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Your first steps Ninda!
Dear Ninda,
Today you seem more than eager to use your little feet to get from one end of the room to the other. It’s been a while since you started standing up tall, trying to prove your stand. But, today of all, you have proved that you can go few more steps than you dared until now.
Let me tell you, you are a careful daredevil. At fifteen months, you are more daring than your sisters were at your age. You don’t shy away from riding your bike, pushing it with your tiny hands, trying to propel it forwards.
Your taking the steps today brings me the joy of seeing you step into the world, taking those baby steps into the journey of life. We laugh and we giggle. That drives you to take more steps. You know that we are enjoying what we are seeing.
However, Seated close by, waiting to hold you if you ever fall I feel a sudden sadness creep in. Here, right now, in this room, I am there, all alert! Waiting to hold you if you ever falter. But then these little steps will grow and then when you venture into the big big world, will you have me by your side, waiting to cushion your fall?
How I wish I could be there, watching your every step and be there right beside you to hold you if you ever fall down. Much as I feel this I dread the feeling that in our lives there will come a day when you’ll find my presence beside you more of a nuisance than a comfort. Oh! How it will shatter my heart!
Your movement forward reminds me that these small steps will eventually become the journey into the world, away from this heart, which loves you more than anybody ever will. I wonder if you will ever hear the beats of love from a wilting heart then.
I wonder if the new note of love should overshadows my withered heart, how shall I ever survive that truth?
I know I am being obnoxious now. Let me cast away these fears of the unknown and the unreached and rejoice in what we have for the moment.
Let me laugh with your laughter trickling down in my heart resonating my love for you my son!
With love,
Mama
Today you seem more than eager to use your little feet to get from one end of the room to the other. It’s been a while since you started standing up tall, trying to prove your stand. But, today of all, you have proved that you can go few more steps than you dared until now.
Let me tell you, you are a careful daredevil. At fifteen months, you are more daring than your sisters were at your age. You don’t shy away from riding your bike, pushing it with your tiny hands, trying to propel it forwards.
Your taking the steps today brings me the joy of seeing you step into the world, taking those baby steps into the journey of life. We laugh and we giggle. That drives you to take more steps. You know that we are enjoying what we are seeing.
However, Seated close by, waiting to hold you if you ever fall I feel a sudden sadness creep in. Here, right now, in this room, I am there, all alert! Waiting to hold you if you ever falter. But then these little steps will grow and then when you venture into the big big world, will you have me by your side, waiting to cushion your fall?
How I wish I could be there, watching your every step and be there right beside you to hold you if you ever fall down. Much as I feel this I dread the feeling that in our lives there will come a day when you’ll find my presence beside you more of a nuisance than a comfort. Oh! How it will shatter my heart!
Your movement forward reminds me that these small steps will eventually become the journey into the world, away from this heart, which loves you more than anybody ever will. I wonder if you will ever hear the beats of love from a wilting heart then.
I wonder if the new note of love should overshadows my withered heart, how shall I ever survive that truth?
I know I am being obnoxious now. Let me cast away these fears of the unknown and the unreached and rejoice in what we have for the moment.
Let me laugh with your laughter trickling down in my heart resonating my love for you my son!
With love,
Mama
Wednesday, June 4, 2014
A Mother's realization
Feels like ages it's been since I last logged in here. LIfe's journey indeed is filled with such unknown bends in the road that swerving and maneuvering into the smooth track takes time. Since the end of 2013, life has taken me by sudden grip of surprises that I never thought I would survive the tussle but here I'm today, feeling anew and better indeed.
Having to suddenly change the ritualistic life that you lead for almost ten years can be a nerve-jerker ( and ofcourse tear-jerker) moments. Since day one of 2014 I've been knocking on various doors, pleading them to help me retain my sanity by bestowing me the opportunity of not having to choose between my career and my family. People who have known me already knew what option I would grab but they also knew with what intensity I've been passionate about my job. Teaching has never been a bread earning option for me. I've always taken pride in being in love with my career option and today looking back i take double pride in knowing that I've lived nine and a half years of my teaching years learning more than what i had been teaching. I learnt love that transcends the boundary of one's home. I learnt about patience that comes knocking even when you are seething in anger. I learnt the beauty of life in the innocence of little kids.
There were moments in these five months time period, I cursed my fate, sobbing in the dark dismal nights. I thought ill of the officials who denied me my transfer thereby leaving with me with no options but to choose to voluntarily resign from the job that meant more than religion to me. "We are pleased to accept the voluntary resignation...." I read and re-read this line in the acceptance letter from the Ministry and wished they could hear my sighs and realize that while they were pleased to let me go, my 'voluntary resignation' was actually forced by their inconsiderate declaration.
For the first time in my life, I realized that nights were better to hide the anguish of such pains for sleep would supersede the anguish. But day times were more brutal! Whole day, sitting in the house, performing the chores like a zombie, I would think of my teacher friends in their classroom. Suddenly while sweeping the floor, I would rush to bring in the mob for the floor would be sprinkled with my tears.
But today, the tap of tears have run dry. I don't cry over what I chose to let go. I knew it was the toughest decision of my life but I've chosen the right option. I shudder to imagine had i chosen the other option what misery I would be under right now. Come to think of it, had i chosen my career I would have left my daughters and gone away just with my son and a babysitter. In that new place, instead of playing the teacher's role that I always thought I was good at, I would have been wondering and aching for my daughters. Heaven forbid! If one of them had fallen sick in my absence, it would have killed me. So that way I would not have made any contribution to my workplace.
Today, taking pictures of my little son who just turned one I feel I'm living every nuances of his tiny world. I love the fact that my daughters get to cuddle me when they need to and they are still eating the meals that I cook for them. I take delight in the fact that every moment they need me; I'm nearby, holding them, loving them and ensuring they are well taken care of.
This has nothing to do with the religion that I follow but I do believe that every child we women get to mother comes to us not a result of some animalistic natural craving but these tiny lives walking hand in hand with Angels in the kingdom of heaven are given the freedom to choose the womb they want to nestle in. And with their chubby tiny fingers and pink pout, they tell Almighty the God to send them to the ONE they turn towards. I'm super blessed because three little cherubs chose my fat womb to carry them. and in gratification for this opportunity of motherhood they have bestowed on me, I choose to play a mother and let go of my career.
And an inexplicable joy surrounds me like a halo of enlightenment. I'm jobless! But, I'm not workless! I work for my children and I'm happy. So, I no longer curse my previous employer nor do I cry for want of money. I'm contended in this small world I've set myself in. My children have me, I've them and we are happy!
Having to suddenly change the ritualistic life that you lead for almost ten years can be a nerve-jerker ( and ofcourse tear-jerker) moments. Since day one of 2014 I've been knocking on various doors, pleading them to help me retain my sanity by bestowing me the opportunity of not having to choose between my career and my family. People who have known me already knew what option I would grab but they also knew with what intensity I've been passionate about my job. Teaching has never been a bread earning option for me. I've always taken pride in being in love with my career option and today looking back i take double pride in knowing that I've lived nine and a half years of my teaching years learning more than what i had been teaching. I learnt love that transcends the boundary of one's home. I learnt about patience that comes knocking even when you are seething in anger. I learnt the beauty of life in the innocence of little kids.
There were moments in these five months time period, I cursed my fate, sobbing in the dark dismal nights. I thought ill of the officials who denied me my transfer thereby leaving with me with no options but to choose to voluntarily resign from the job that meant more than religion to me. "We are pleased to accept the voluntary resignation...." I read and re-read this line in the acceptance letter from the Ministry and wished they could hear my sighs and realize that while they were pleased to let me go, my 'voluntary resignation' was actually forced by their inconsiderate declaration.
For the first time in my life, I realized that nights were better to hide the anguish of such pains for sleep would supersede the anguish. But day times were more brutal! Whole day, sitting in the house, performing the chores like a zombie, I would think of my teacher friends in their classroom. Suddenly while sweeping the floor, I would rush to bring in the mob for the floor would be sprinkled with my tears.
But today, the tap of tears have run dry. I don't cry over what I chose to let go. I knew it was the toughest decision of my life but I've chosen the right option. I shudder to imagine had i chosen the other option what misery I would be under right now. Come to think of it, had i chosen my career I would have left my daughters and gone away just with my son and a babysitter. In that new place, instead of playing the teacher's role that I always thought I was good at, I would have been wondering and aching for my daughters. Heaven forbid! If one of them had fallen sick in my absence, it would have killed me. So that way I would not have made any contribution to my workplace.
Today, taking pictures of my little son who just turned one I feel I'm living every nuances of his tiny world. I love the fact that my daughters get to cuddle me when they need to and they are still eating the meals that I cook for them. I take delight in the fact that every moment they need me; I'm nearby, holding them, loving them and ensuring they are well taken care of.
This has nothing to do with the religion that I follow but I do believe that every child we women get to mother comes to us not a result of some animalistic natural craving but these tiny lives walking hand in hand with Angels in the kingdom of heaven are given the freedom to choose the womb they want to nestle in. And with their chubby tiny fingers and pink pout, they tell Almighty the God to send them to the ONE they turn towards. I'm super blessed because three little cherubs chose my fat womb to carry them. and in gratification for this opportunity of motherhood they have bestowed on me, I choose to play a mother and let go of my career.
And an inexplicable joy surrounds me like a halo of enlightenment. I'm jobless! But, I'm not workless! I work for my children and I'm happy. So, I no longer curse my previous employer nor do I cry for want of money. I'm contended in this small world I've set myself in. My children have me, I've them and we are happy!
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