Eye Reveal Catalogue

Cover Photograph/Design/
Exhibition Design : Probir Gupta

Cover card : 350 gsm Magno Matt
Text paper : 170 gsm Magno Matt
Catalogue Size : 21.5 cm x 27.5 cm
Type Font : Times New Roman
Processed and Printed at : Archana, Tel.: 011-24311992
present
E Y E R E V E A L
an exhibition
photographs & short stories
e x p l o r i n g t h e i n t e r p l a y b e t w e e n g e n d e r ,
v i o l e n c e a g a i n s t w o m e n a n d m a s c u l i n i t y .
U N I F E M A N D M U K T A N G A N
Suppor ted by UNI FEM South Asi a Regi onal Of f i ce
Galerie Romain Rolland 26th April to 6th May 2005
Lalit Kala Akademi, 7th to 13th May 2005
UNIFEM is the womens fund at the United Nations. It provides financial and
technical assistance to innovative programmes and strategies that promote womens
human rights, political participation and economic security. UNIFEM works in
partnership with UN or ganizations, governments and non-governmental
organizations (NGOs) and networks to promote gender equality. It links womens
issues and concerns to national, regional and global agendas, by fostering
collaboration and providing technical expertise on gender mainstreaming and
womens empowerment strategies.
The views expressed in this publication are those of the authors, and do not
necessarily represent the views of UNIFEM, the United Nations or any of its
affiliated organizations. No part of this printed work may be reproduced without
due acknowledgement.
UNIFEM South Asia Regional Office
223, Jor Bagh, New Delhi - 110 003 (India)
Tel: 91-11-24698297/24604351, Extn: 26 Fax: 91-11-24622136
I h a v e b e e n a f r a i d
I h a v e f e l t a n e n d l e s s i r r e p r e s s i b l e p a i n ;
I h a v e s e e n t h e s u n wa ke i n a b l o o d - r e d s k y
a n d c o mma n d me t o d r e s s a s a s o l d i e r o f h u ma n i t y,
c o n f r o n t t h e wo r l d ;
J i b a n a n a n d a Da s
I h a v e b e e n a f r a i d
I h a v e f e l t a n e n d l e s s i r r e p r e s s i b l e p a i n ;
I h a v e s e e n t h e s u n wa ke i n a b l o o d - r e d s k y
a n d c o mma n d me t o d r e s s a s a s o l d i e r o f h u ma n i t y,
c o n f r o n t t h e wo r l d ;
J i b a n a n a n d a Da s
F o r e w o r d - E y e R e v e a l
Gender-based violence knows no boundaries. Right through history, it has cut across continents, class and cultures, impacting all
aspects of womens lives. Gaining in momentum, it is moving from strength to strength, taking new forms, and increased impunity
on the part of perpetrators. With the proportions of a pandemic, gender-based violence remains one of the most outstanding challenges
that all of us face in the 21
st
century.
Several articulations respond to this. The Declaration on the Elimination of Violence against Women, adopted by the United
Nations General Assembly, shortly after the World Conference on Human Rights in Vienna in 1993, set the pace. And today,
violence against women is recognized as a crime requiring official action, in peace and in war.
It is no secret that gender-based violence remains the biggest deterrent to both development and empowerment of any kind. Deep-
rooted for generations and built on social sanctions, it is no casual visitor and remains a timeless health and human rights issue.
Clearly, unless, all stakeholders join hands to confront and combat this common adversary, there is little chance of vanquishing it.
For strategies to be effective there is a need for multi-sectoral efforts at multiple levels. For solutions to be enduring and durable, the
active involvement of the youth is critical.
This is what we have tried to do in Eye Reveal. In a way, a companion to UNIFEMs earlier initiative, Touch, we have had the
pleasure of partnering again with eminent artist Probir Gupta who has designed and conceptualized both. In Eye Reveal, the
objective has been to sensitize young people on issues of gender based violence, masculinities and HIV/AIDS using the power and
potential of art, the photographic medium and the written word to communicate and create appropriate messages.
Eye Reveal has essentially been a journey of discovery - not only for the 150 university students, who participated, but also for
everyone involved, including resource persons. NGOs facilitated student interactions with survivors of violence, leading to increased
understanding on the issue as well as offering glimpses on community responses. Resource persons from specialized agencies
provided insights on diverse dimensions of the issue, including the life cycle of violence faced by women, trafficking, issues of
mental health and HIV/AIDS. To explore the interplay between gender, violence against women & masculinities, students interacted
with men in traditional and non-traditional areas of work, such as wrestlers, dancers, chefs and singers. Interactions with leading
journalist were held, to provide a journalistic perspective, demonstrating how such issues could be articulated.
This tremendous journey, with so many special partners could not have achieved the level of success that it did, without the
exemplary commitment of all. I would like to take this opportunity to acknowledge and applaud our many partners. To begin
with, I would like to extend my appreciation to the students of colleges of Delhi University, which include, Jamia Milia Islamia
University, Indra Prastha University, Jawaharlal Nehru University and Rai University. Without them, this journey could not
have been made.
I warmly thank Mr. Probir Gupta, who conceptualized and guided the whole process, Ms. Sudha Tiwari of Shakti Shalini, Dr. Achal
Bhagat of SAARTHAK, Ms. Vidya Shah of Breakthrough and Ms. Sanghamitra Chakravorty of Outlook our resource persons,
who brought such a singular edge to their respective areas and who created a holistic understanding of the issues under consideration.
My sincere gratitude to Prayas, Shakti Shalini, Mamta-Health Institute for Mother & Child and Nav Sristi for deepening understanding
on violence by facilitating exchanges with survivors of violence. I extend my appreciation to the Chandgi Ram Akhada, the School
of Kathakali Dance, the chef of the Maurya Sheraton Hotel, the Qawwals of Nizamuddin, without whose inputs, understandings on
masculinities could not have emerged. I thank the Alliance Francaise and the Lalit Kala Academy for making available their art
galleries for our exhibition. I would also like to thank my colleagues Nandita Baruah and Gitanjali Singh for their hard work and
close involvement in every facet of the initiative.
We are sharing this journey through an exhibition at the Galerie Romain Rolland of the Alliance Francaise de Delhi. The First Lady
Mrs. Gursharan Kaur has honoured us by inaugurating the exhibition and releasing the catalogue. We have been further privileged
to have the gracious presence of Mrs. Nane Annan on this occassion. This exhibition will also be housed at the Lalit Kala Academy.
We have brought out this publication in an effort to share this unique and multi-facetted initiative with a wider audience. Having
made a deep impact on the participants, it is encouraging to see the response. Some have said that they would like to take this
experience of working on issues related to violence against women forward, as a career option. Others say that it has changed the
way they think and feel, enriching and educating them at a personal level. We are hopeful that it will contribute towards making an
inter-generational change in mindsets, that it will help in making changes in individual lives such as standing up against dowry,
fighting against sex selective abortion, and breaking the silence around violence, among others.
We hope that this publication will add to the knowledge and resources currently available on violence against women, bringing new
insights on the issue. Equally, we hope that it will be a useful tool for diverse stakeholders in their work to end violence, catalyzing
increased involvement of youth in creating a world that is more gender-just and more violence-free.
Chandni Joshi
Regional Programme Director
13
th
April 2005
m y d i a r y
Eye Reveal: A dream project whose final approval by UNIFEM follows their recognition of an artists emotional and creative
intervention and its worth, thus allowing it to grow. The symbiotic relation between the revealing nakedness of the visual
image and the word - Word the first product that sells in a marketplace (as said by a Baul friend) and images that the eye and
the inner eye records. Eye Reveal records, combines and connects manuscripts of countless shrieks in visual images of the
inner eye. Sounds - the word that needs to be uttered to create a sense called communication, as the essential. Here we see and
speak in the hope that people will see, read and react, if not in the same way but close to the way we reacted and not be mere
spectators.
A predetermined and sensitive approach towards the presentation and portrayal of reality is the need of the hour, connecting
masses to masses is how one would define the priorities of Eye Reveal a true Public Art Project. One experiences and carries
it to other negotiating mediums. It is the Art of transmission connecting people that is termed as Art here - Art in its role of
development and community service - an intimate involvement of people of different generations; the youth as well as
seasoned grass root activists (committed field workers) in identifying victims/ survivors of violence, in difficult and dangerous
circumstances. Especially those like Nazma (survivor), Kiran, Ayub, Suneeta , Shabana, Ranjita, Ashok and many others like
them operating in infamous areas like Sangam Vihar, Tigri and Nangloi in Delhi deserve much more than just an applause.
Hence Muktangan. Endless trips were made to several colleges in different corners of the National Capital. And all this was
done relentlessly over the last few months, repeating tape recorder like with the will to convince and mobilize the youth of
today to enter the limited arena of social work for social action. Following months of frenetic activity, like minded, convinced
young people were brought together.
All that I could do as an artist was to reach out to their sensibilities; it goes undeniably to the credit of these young people that
they willingly stepped out of their sheltered existences and sought out the deeper shades of grey willing to look into the
under belly of our society
Awakening of dormant senses - immune to everything else but ones own, Eye Reveal has touched the sensibilities, when
exposed to atrocities much in the same manner as the emergence of a product of art.
Contrary to what skeptics might have to say, many a survivors shattered within their world of irony and savage like existence,
opened their hearts and homes and shared their pains and pleasures with uslooking for a brighter day? Perhaps!
Long, turbulent nightmarish hours of listening where one tried to give them hope, for that one day. Conscience and
conviction gave me emotions and strength that were required, to prepare and pilot groups during their meeting and interacting
with a survivor, nervous as ever of making a faux pas. At moments, temperatures would soar and raw emotions would flow
uncontrolled, soon excitement would ebb giving way to silencepunctuated with sobs that none could bear. These very
emotional out bursts held us together, as a family.
Unable to focus on perpetrators we took the cultural route going to Chandgirams Akhara, whether the Pehelwans (wrestlers),
the Chef of a chic hotel, the Qawwals or the Kathakali dancers - glimpses to the male psyche.
There were moments of silence when asked why would a woman never be allowed to be a Kathakali dancer? Even she has
the right to enjoy, earn and contribute silence, silence when the young womenfolk of the Nizami (Qawwals) family asked
the all girls team of LSR to come up to see their room - they were shown the solitary window.
Moments when none of us were in creative spirits - moments of grey blur and vacuum: we were not intellectuals but workers
absorbed in the weight of revelations.
I would like to thank our guest of honour First Lady Gursharan Kaur ji for having graced the opening of this exhibition. Her
words of encouragement during my discussions with her on a couple of occasions at her residence have been a great source
of inspiration.
I take this opportunity to thank Chandni Joshi, Firoza Mehrotra, Nandita Baruah, Gitanjali Singh, Suneeta Dhar, Chandrashekhar
Iyer and others from the UNIFEM family for their contribution towards the blossoming of this significant endeavor and all
the support that was extended to us at various stages.
I am grateful to my new found young friends for their participation and sustained support as they continue to make me grow
younger, I have cherished every moment that I got to spend with them. Special thanks to my energetic project assistant Mr
Neiljeet Gupta, Aapa ji of Nav Shristi, my old friends Meraj bhai, Farid bhai and Chand Nizami Qawwals of the Dargah of
Hazrat Nizamuddin Aulia, Guruji of the school of Kathakali Qutab Institutional area and his disciples, Mr. G. Sultan Moideen
executive chef the Maurya Sheraton Hotel New Delhi, Anjali, Supriyo Mukkherji, and Vikas from Mamta , Mohan,
Mr. Soma Sundaram, Claire Devos, Muktamani Kaul, Padma Natarajan, Mr. Sandeep Biswas , Mr Tupinder Singh, Ramlal
(framer) and the unrecognized Taxi drivers for their support and affection.
Probir Gupta
I h a d a d r e a m
As she walked down the hot, dusty road, the sun scorched her little shoulders. The bundle was heavy but she was used to the burden
now, having had to carry it for about two years. The tiny seven year old caught sight of the Academy and hurried her steps. As she
approached the gates, the gatekeepers eyes looked her up and down.
Hello Maya. He smiled and pinched her cheek. Youre becoming cuter and prettier everyday!
The discomfort and dislike showed on her face, yet she boldly pushed his hand away.
Wheres my father? I have his lunch here with me?
He hasnt dismissed his class yet. So why dont you come with me, I have something interesting to show you. He took hold of her
hand.
No! Ill wait in the verandah, and throwing his hand off, she ran to the safety of the verandah.
Maya abhorred the man, yet she could do just anything to get a chance to visit the Academy.
Her father was a teacher of Kathakali at the Academy, which was one of the oldest institutions in the village. Her elder brother
Krishna too, was a student here, entering the world of dance two years back.
While her father and brother were at the Academy, the little girl helped her mother about the house, washing clothes, dusting the
straw mats, learning exactly what ingredients to add to the rassam and various other things.
Maya looked around searchingly for her favourite window, concealed and unnoticed by everyone passing by. There it was! Calling
to her. She sneaked to it and snuggled down against the low window sill.
Immediately, her father came into view, graceful, poised and perfect in every movement his body and face made. He was a strict
teacher and his students, all boys, feared and respected him.
The little girl observed every exercise, every facial expression-the eyes, the mouth, the cheeks- observed carefully. For two years,
J E S U S A N D M A R Y C O L L E G E
these few moments of being able to view and feel what went on inside a Kathakali classroom, had meant the world to her. The first
time she had dared peep into the tiny window, she was struck by the beauty and grace of the dance form. Kathakali fascinated her!
Often, Maya had overheard her father explaining the difference between and the significance of the Red, White and Black beards
to her brother. He would scold her if he spotted her listening intently instead of boiling the rice. Often she had received suspicious,
unwelcome looks from the other teachers at the Academy, if found on the premises. Women were not welcome. They believed that
women and Kathakali did not go together, for the latter required great stamina, concentration, dedication and perseverance, which,
according to them, the former lacked. They believed that women were better off at home, looking after the household affairs and
children. Women werent even allowed to view a dance performance!
But Maya had gathered substantial information about Kathakali, through means of eavesdropping and vigilance. She was aware
that Kathakali had originated about four hundred and fifty years back, as a reaction to foreign aggression. It reaffirmed the social
status of heroic warriors, staging spectacular dance-dramas as a public ritual for the entire community. From her brother she had
learnt and observed that to affirm masculine pride, enacted dance-dramas presented the female as submissive and the male as
dominant. Men were portrayed with creative and vigorous powers, while females were portrayed characters, since women were
given no share of the stage in Kathakali. By being attentive in a lecture on its history, Maya learnt that the Mudras came from the
Arya culture and the colour on the face and body came from the Dravid culture. The songs were in the Manipravara style, which
was a combination of Sanskrit and pure Malayalam. The themes were usually traditional, mythological, religious stories.
Closely observing the steps that were being taught today, Maya tried to memorise them the best she could. She would practice
tonight, in front of the mirror, when her family would be in the other room.
The class ended. With a disappointed air, she rose, but waited for the students to exit first. She didnt want to be seen and teased.
Then she went up to her father, who was instructing Krishna on his finger movement.
Hello Acha! Ive got your lunch.
Ssshh! Cant you see Im in the middle of something? Silly girl. And he continued. She sat in a corner, her face in her hands,
watching. How she longed to be taught what her brother was learning! She dreamt of becoming a famous Kathakali dancer someday.
The journey would be very hard, she was aware of that, but it would be worthwhile. She wanted it so bad!
A week passed by, during which, Maya mustered up the courage to ask her father to let her join the Academy to learn Kathakali.
She did. Her father was furious and cruelly disdainful! He shouted at her, reminding her of her right place at home! He blamed her
daily visits to the Academy for her foolish, selfish, impossible dreams! He forbade her from going anywhere near the Academy
anymore. Maya never saw it again.
As she looked into her mirror, her eyes brimmed up with tears. Her vision became hazy..... Hear my voice in its silence.
Tread on me softly,
Im woven with delicate thread.
Try to reach me earnestly
Im at the end of infinity.
But my feet are now fettered,
Though they were meant to explore.
My blanket which covers me
Is now wet with pain.
My body, now ornate
With scars of my destiny.
My silence, once complacent
Now prays for its death.
My hands held tight
The Elysian swing,
But now, impregnable bars.
My lips, they have forgotten
I used to smile.
My eyes dont remember,
Now they hallucinate,
Show me only the dark.
My soul so effervescent,
Now bleeds, it cries,
The only part of me;
Today, it too has fallen,
In the abyss of my destiny.
The deafening applause from the audience snapped Maya out of her reverie. Becoming aware of the tears rolling down her face, she
wiped them away with a handkerchief. How pretty she looked on stage, graceful, poised... her grand daughter. With proud eyes she
watched her grand daughter perform. She was a famous Kathakali dancer, known all over the world for her talent.
Maya sighed. Things have changed, she thought. And Im happy that my grand daughter has got what I never could achieve...
a fair chance to live her dreams. She rose with the rest and her clapping echoed the loudest in the auditorium.
u n t i t t l e d
They call me a survivor, a term often assigned to those who struggle their way out of the clutches of devastation. My life today is
a footnote of tears, anger, dismay and frustration. And though I have just traveled 23 years of this journey, the years to come are a
battle for me, the outcome of which seems predictably decided.
Growing up in the suburbs of Delhi, I had a world of my own with my family, with parents who comforted me with the best they
could afford and even more at times, with siblings who would not let me spend a moment by myself alone. My father is a painter
and had a meager earning yet he had always made us feel rich enough to ask for whatever we wanted. Mother, though always
confined to the chulha had given us the liberty to speak and decide for our best.
As a child I had always felt that life was like a magic box, full of goodies, a treasure of amusements that never seemed to end until
suddenly I grew up to this phase of life where the box of goodies had turned into a storehouse of horror, pain and dismay. I was
married into a family which was financially sound and considerably well-to-do. They appeared to be the ideal in-laws one could
imagine and never mentioned a word regarding dowry or any other demands; I was also told that my husband was employed in two
jobs which fetched him a handsome income every month. All posed as angels sent from heaven and claimed to go to any extent to
have me in the family. I realized that it was in fact the contrary, only after I had fallen into the pit and drenched myself in muck. The
stains which tell stories of that one year which I spent in that house, a year that has doomed me and the world that I live in for ever.
It all started with trivial marital clashes and increased with impossible demands of my in-laws which never seemed to end. Yet all
these concerns appear petty when I am reminded of those horrifying nights that I spent with my drunken husband forcing himself
on me, beating me with just about anything that came to his hands, from hot iron rods, to belts and car spare parts. The rest of the
family indulged in ghastly tricks of black magic which chased me from one corner of the house to the other, hitting my head against
the walls and drawing me closer to insanity. Living behind closed doors, confined to a room, not allowed to touch anything around
that was not sent by my parents, I bore it all. Until one day, during the eight month of pregnancy I decided to put an end to the
sleepless nights, continuous physical torture and mental pressures I had been subjected to. Driven by an unknown sense of fearlessness
C O L L E G E O F L A W A N D L E A G A L S T U D I E S , I N D R A P R A S T H A U N I V E R S I T Y
C O L L E G E O F L A W A N D L E A G A L S T U D I E S , I N D R A P R A S T H A U N I V E R S I T Y
and passion to survive I decided to leave. Today, Guddi is almost a year old and recognizes only me as her family. The battle was
less tough till she was born. The threats that I receive from my in-laws have been growing with time, my parents who are already
financially and emotionally drained have three more children to raise and I have no education to fall back on in order to secure
myself a job.
As things worsen I look up at the sky, feel the droplets of rain on my skin, sigh; another day in paradise; and the rain makes it worse.
There is no sun today and as evening sets in I will carry on and even though the outcome of this battle seems predictably decided,
I shall not lose even if I am meant to.
u n t i t t l e d
It is the need for sensitivity that should be prospered in the minds of the people. There is a lack of sensibility and every window
is closed till they themselves are struck with the same problem. Lest we should make a humble beginning, Probir Da claimed our
attention. A series of related discussions and observations on the burgeoning problems, cases of domestic violence...Phul
Bano...working of NGOs...Mamta...Shaktishalini...male stereotypes...cultural fragmentation...So went a chain of talks till the wheels
finally came to rest in an alley in one of the many bastis of metropolitan Delhi. A short flight of steps and a window overlooking
a dump yard piled with the only conspicuous luxury of the masculine; empty wine bottles. Tea and more discussions and there hung
an air of expectancy, of nervousness brought about by our complete inability to take the unfamiliar role of consolers.
There she was, hesitant yet oozing with pride. Before we could make each others acquaintance, the moistness in her eyes, too
circumspect and suspicious to make a bold statement made a more conveying comment. A few stuttering statements; thereafter
Shahajahan opened up and settled into her groove.
Sir he may have been close to his first wife but my life has been hell since I arrived in his life or rather he brought me into his. A
girl is not appropriated by society to scrutinize the one with whom her life is fixed and I was no exception. I question those
contractors who negate the girls right to even know about the one to whom she is being married, what his biradiri is, what his
sanskar is. I wasnt even consulted before my marriage; I dont know whether I should blame my parents or not...Sahib he suspects
me of having an affair with a friend of his...he beats me brutally with an iron rod...calls me a randi, a tawaif... But here was no sob-
story, none of the soft, inconsolable wretches we had dreaded. Not one tear rolled down those eyes...pellucid eyes overflowing with
vehemence and fury...it caught us completely off guard, swept us off our feet and we were carried away as in a flood. He treats me
like an ayah..., says hell break my legs if I go out to work...Even the children dont recognize me...even they doubt my character,
my own daughters voice is full of sarcasm... only the little one here is still attached to me... Sympathy and remorse were compressed
beneath the sheaths of hatred that swept through us...hatred against the vanity of the masculine...against the system as a whole...against
the forces responsible for the fettering of the feminine...and the room seemed too small to contain it...I want to work sahib...am
H I N D U C O L L E G E
ready to live alone, will be happy with just this one child...Kuch banna hai...unhe dikhana hai ki mein bhi kuch kar sakti hu... Fists
clenched, jaws set. Unke dost bahut achhe hai...Aisa bhi waqt tha jab pehle mujhe roti dete phir hi khud khate...,Mujhe doordarshan
pe bolna hai sahib...\
Television alluded her besides a lot of other things that came her way. But the desire to break from the shackles of exploitation was
overwhelming, to grasp at any opportunity that came her way. The contrast in the glint of the eyes at the end and the moist retina
upon her arrival held the promise to challenge any hurdle that came her way. In retrospect however, the story went in hardly without
the taste of cinder.
H I N D U C O L L E G E
k r a n t i
Though no one can go back and make a new start, Anyone can start from now and make a brand new end.
Anonymous.
The following lines are about a life struggling to live through a hailstorm of pain, sorrow and uncertainty, having faith that one
day the sun will shine bright upon the stormy clouds and end all sufferings.
Young wild and free
Nothing can take you away from me
When I am lying in your lap
I feel heaven on my back
Its my age to fly high
Twist and turn
Flip and slip
But in the end
Its only love that Ill always need
I found it in your heart
And Ill never let it go
When Im feeling down
I know you will turn my world around
Main abhi ek gudia hoon,
Mere kadam kamzor hain.
Chalti hoon kuch kadam to,
Usmain bachpan ke shor hain.
J A M I A A P P L I E D A R T & R A M J A S C O L L E G E
Abhi to main apne ko
Pehechanti bhi nehi hoon
Pal rahi hoon aise main
Ma ki mamta janti bhi nehi.
Abhi main bachpan se bahar
Aai bhi nehi hoon
Ek aisi kali hoon
Gamo se murjhai huin hoon main
Ai nanhe kadam mere
Katon se lahoo luhan hain
Mangti hoon adhikar jeene ki
Par dushman ye jahan hai.
But suddenly, my world did turn around\
Instead of joy, brought total darkness
And no hope of light
Your heaven on my back
Became hell in front
No where to go
No turning back to the normal flow
Everything cuts like a knife
Theres no way to know whos going to bite
Who is selling me by making me his own device
Playing with me when Im in pain
Taking my everything for their personal joy and gain
I dont remember my roots
A blur face I see in my dreams
Who is my father I scream
Waking up in the middle of night
Ive lost my mind, will I be ever free?
Tanhaiyon se ghira jeevan hai
Kis tarah ab basar karain?
Kaaton se bhara raah hai
Kis tarah abs afar karain?
Jidhar dekhti hoon main
Veeran se raste hain
Intezar aapka hai
Bas tera vasta hai
Ummid ki kiran bhi
Ab bujhti nazar aa rahi hai
Jaldi se aa jana sanam
Takdir tadapti nazar aa rahi hai
Me and my soul
Talking with each other, searching for a goal
i.e FREEDOM
starting from here, we made promise
and we are honest
will never come back to this forest
nobody can stop me
I dont know where I am going
Everything has gone
But theres some HOPE which is carrying me on
vo mausum kitna suhana hoga
jab ayegi jhum ke baharain
hum khushi se jhumenge phir
chamkenge yaha chand sitarain
ab nehi hai khabar hamain
na jane kya hoga aage
ab peeche nehi hatenge
kadam bada chuke hain aage.
Sun is shining on my face
Everything is clean and clear
There is no limit where I can see
And the whole world is open for me
Trust in God has made me strong
What I felt- the limitless sky, the deep ocean
From head to toe, I was in motion
Found a home called SHELTER HOME
Im not the only one to get the whole pain
Here we are several ones without any gain
God has given me feelings
I express them in words
But I dont know with whom Im dealing
Everyone says you are the one to heal us
You are the one to heal us
My name means REVOLUTION
Ill maintain my devotions
To drag them all
Out of this slump
Ill push myself as far as I can go
To the end of the sky
And to the earths core as low
And one day Ill find you
And never let you go.
Naam hoga itihas mein
Khud itihas banayenge
Hum aise rung hain
Rangeen prayas banayenge
Atm nirbhar humko banaya
Jeevan se ladna humko sikhaya
Khoya hua apno ka pyar
Yahan muhobbat humko dilaya
Ab koi lachari nehi
Charo taraf ujiyara hai
Aane vale bhavishya mein
Ab humko lana ujala hai.
u n t i t t l e d
The house is completely dark. Ma and I are the only ones awake. Munni, blissfully unaware of the curse that has fallen upon our
lives, sleeps peacefully in her cot.
BhaiyaI feel sick calling him thathas passed out in a drunken stupor.
I feel frozen to my bed. I just keep lying therestaring at the ceiling fan as it moves in slow painful circles. I think back to how the
day beganwas there any hint in the morning sunshine, in the usual breakfast of chai and roti, of the horrors I would witness today?
Were there signs that I missed? Had the chirping of the birds prophesized how I would suddenly in one evening, turn from an
innocent child into a violated woman? Had I only known I would never have woken up today...
Havent you ever felt that some things just cannot be helped, I mean call it a defense mechanism or just harsh reality but some
things simply cannot be helped. I woke up today morning, slightly sweaty and uncomfortable when I realized that no one was in
the house besides Ritu and me... I could hear her humming to herself as she hung the wet clothes in the verandah. She came back in,
her hair wet from a bathdroplets of water were trickling onto the front of her kurta
Bhaiya do you want tea?
I finished my tea and headed out of the house. My friend Deepak and I had big plans for today. We planned to remove some of the
parts from the more expensive cars in his employers garage and sell them to a dealer. When I reached the school where we were
supposed to meet, Deepak was standing huddled together with a group of boys and seemed to be having a highly entertaining
conversation. They were talking in whispers and chuckling to themselves. I hurried my step but they fell silent when I reached. A
sort of guilty look was passed around. Instantly my mood soured. Deepak came away from the rest of the group
He seemed to be in unusually high spirits and kept whistling an annoying tune
What are you so happy about? I asked him, finally losing patience.
Nothing... He smiled; unlocking the garage door, his air of secrecy beginning to get on my nerves.
We set about our work but he began to whistle again.
S T S T E P H E N S C O L L E G E
What the hell is it you bastard? What are you so happy about? Did you finally manage to get it up last night or something?
Maybe I was overreactingI dont knowit was something about the dayit was too bloody hot and his self-satisfied smirk was
really bothering me.
Just tell me what it is you asswhats the big secret? I said grabbing his collar
Ok finejust dont take it badly
Arrebol na
Its Ritu we kind of saw her hanging the clothes out in the verandah and you know ok dont get me wrong but shes really
grown up
I felt my face go hot immediately; remembering the wet kurta clinging to her body, my fists stated to clench but I decided to let
it go...
I looked away, and we set about our work silently
At the end of the transaction, we acquired about 100-rupees each.
When I turned to go home Deepak said with some hesitation, Yaar, dont go home yetat least lets celebrate our earnings
By the fourth quarter of rum, I had long forgotten my anger towards him; we were merrily laughing and exchanging jokes. Soon we
came to our usual topic of discussion
Have you seen that one who lives near your house she is always wearing that white salwar kameez without a chunni good
heavens I could just.
I know exactly what you mean Deepak said taking a swig.
She does that to me too
But shes a married woman yaar I said with a hint of disappointment in my voice.
Married? Oh nonot herI was talking about that sister of yours I just cant resist her
The next thing I knew was Deepak screaming for me to stop hitting him. I wasnt even sure what I was doing anymoreI just
punched any part of him within reach
Deepaks face was covered with blood, and my shirt was torn. I gave him one final shove and stumbled home.
I flung the door open and stormed in. It was completely dark by now; a lone electric bulb was swinging in the corner. Ma and baba
were asleep. I could feel the effects of the alcohol increase with literally every movement. I lurched towards the charpai, when
suddenly Ritu awoke she was sleepy and her clothes were disheveled.
Bhaiya? What happened to you? Is that blood on your shoulder? her voice shrill.
She came towards me and put up a hand to touch my face, but I pushed her away roughly
Suddenly it seemed like everything was coming into focus. It was because of this bitch that things were getting so out of hand. I
couldnt even look my friends in the face anymore, because shes been parading herself like a whore in the verandah. I pushed her
again- harder this time. She fell down and looked up at me with fear in her eyes It was almost as if she knew what I was
thinkingaccepting her guiltshe wasnt even screaming anymorejust looking up at me with that mute, pleading expressionI
felt powerful. I felt strong.
It was almost as if I was possessed. I wasnt thinking but somehow knew exactly what I had to do. The whore had to be punished.
She had to learn what happened to girls like her. I dragged her by the hair towards the charpai
Bhaiyapleasenodont she was choking on her sobs now. I felt repulsed and aroused at the same time. It was a sickening
sensationbut I couldnt stop nowI had to go through with it
What do I remember of it? Tears blood and an overwhelming sense of ecstasy that had taken over
Its a strange feeling. I really dont know what to make of ita weird, warped sense of calm has taken over I feel completely numb
to the world. Everything and everyone has ceased to matter. Theres just this overwhelming sense of emptiness within this
deafening silence. It felt like the end of the world, but now, I dont know .I keep telling myself that its not such a big deal, that Ill
get over it someday, somehow but suddenly the look on his face flashes in my mind the way he pressed me down against the
cotthat feeling of helplessnessand something inside me explodes. I lose the will to do anything even to live. Ma says what
happened was unfortunatebut I should put the past behind me and look forward to the future she says theyve found a boy for
methe idea of leaving home seems like the only ray of hope
All the arrangements have been made. The wedding is going to take place tomorrow...in a matter of less than 24 hours, I will be a
married woman.
Ive seen brides weeping from the pain of leaving their childhood homes behindyet I will never know that pain. I realise now that
I was never really a member of the family anywayjust a liability.
As for now, let us all forget what happened that night. He is the son of the house, after all. Lets pretend no one heard me screaming
and begging for him to stop. Lets hope my husband to be doesnt find out hes getting tarnished goods
So the sooner I am out of this house, the better. No one knows what to say to me anymore theyre all bustling about preparing for
the wedding as if it were a normal, happy occasion. Sometimes it feels like I imagined the whole thingthe way everyone is being
so nonchalant about it. But then night fallsand fear grips my heart again
Its been four years since Ive been married.
In the beginning, it was all just right; things were going according to plan. But gradually problems started cropping up
At first it was just little thingsher constant nagging about where I had been, why Im late, why am I drinking so much, then the
way shed cower in a corner if I was drunk, look at me as if I were a heartless demon the list is endless.
Progressively her behavior started becoming more and more unbearable, she started demanding that I let her work thinking that
I could always use some extra money I got her a job at my friend Satishs factory.
But it was of no avail as she began hiding the money she earned I would discover it in several nooks and crannies of the house
inside the pillow, under the idols in the templeeven in the lining of the mattress my blood boiled with anger when I saw her
trying these scheming little tricks.
She would come home late, see me drinking and hide herself away. I could see her flinch when I ventured near her; recoil every
time I touched her, as if she was repulsed by my sight, revolted by my touch that made me livid, I felt like thrashing her so much,
that the scars on her body become permanent
I cannot go on like this. I left home thinking this marriage would save me. But there seems to be no respite for me yet. He sits at
home drinking all dayand when he is completely drunk, drags me out of bed and forces himself on me. When I am unwilling, he
hits me, abuses the children and mesays that he will sell us off to a brothel if I dont do as he asks.
I try to be a good wifeI try to keep him happy. But nothing I do seems to be good enough. He flies into a rage at the smallest of
thingsthe other day he didnt like the way the food tasted, so he flung the kadhai on my face, sometimes he doesnt return from
work for days on end, and if I ask him where he has been he whips me with his belt what have I done to deserve this?
I think Im losing my mind, because, these days the display of his wrath has begun to amuse me when he whips me, I feel as if
with every successive blow, Im enjoying the pain more. My children feel disturbed
though they never say anything, just keep looking at me their eyes brimming with terror.
My employer Satish, he is an elderly man, is the only person who has shown some interest
in helping mebut the help comes at a heavy price; for he is no different from any other
male. In return for what he wants out of me, he gives me money and is even willing to give
me a place to stay in the city. One day when my husband is away, I shall take the children
and run away from this place. Its funny how this situation seems so familiar, four years
back I was leaving my house to find solace in my married lifeI found none. Now Im
leaving this place to go to another with the same ray of hope in my heart- that someday the
clouds will part
b a j r a n g b a l i a n d t h e c r i s i s o f m a n h o o d
Shakti ki puja to karte hi hain, par Bajrang Bali zyada strong hain.
(We worship Shakti but Bajrang Bali is stronger.)
A pehelwan
1
at the
Chandagiram Akhara
The epitome of masculinity, vigor, power and male strength, Bajrang Bali
2
looms large over the Chandagiram Akhara
3
as its patron
God. A place where stereotypical notions of masculinity are manifest in the traditional Indian sport of Kushti
4
, or Mud Wrestling,
the akhara offers significant insights into the workings of gender relations in patriarchal structures. A visit to the Chandagiram
Akhara, one of the oldest and most renowned in Delhi, allowed us to examine the different facets of a gendered existence.
The front door opens into a large hall stocked with modern fitness equipment. Doors on all sides lead to the single room
accommodations of the resident wrestlers. In the backyard is an approximately twenty by twenty foot mud ring where the matches
take place. On one corner of this ring is a small shrine to Bajrang Bali. The akhara houses almost everything that a wrestler needs.
Everyday routine is a continuous cycle of sleeping, exercising and eating. The single focus of the men here, is to perfect the art of
wrestling, but like so many other things, this is not merely sport, it is a way of life.
Men work out, wrestle, win awards and money. The most important function of the women is to support the mans routine and see
to his meals. Here, the enforcement of traditional gender binaries: man/woman, public/private, culture/nature, reason/instinct is
stringent and harsh ignoring the notion of identity as a fluid construct.
The traditional akhara is clearly a male domain. The ancient link to Bajrang Bali highlights the Hindu tradition of celibacy that now
operates in a much lesser degree. It also hints at the fact that a womans intrusion would not be welcome. Most of the wrestlers we
interviewed did not seem to mind the idea of women wrestling. Women also wrestle now, but their matches are held on mattresses,
not on the mud. Their menstrual flow pollutes the wrestling ring. They were, however, silent on the issue of introducing women
from their own families to the field.
J A M I A - M C R C
A pehelwaan is often associated with notions of masculinity and interestingly even violence. A closer examination
of popular perceptions led to interesting observations. Social imposition of a gendered identity creates a sadistic
and violent image of the pehelwaan in popular perception. This perception functions on the basis of social collectives
ignoring the individual. Dominant, authoritative, muscular, broad shouldered, insensitive, tall, strong were among
the variety of responses we got on asking people what they associate with the notion of masculinity. Being asked
to describe a pehelwaan fetched broadly similar responses. Most respondents also believed, however, that pehelwaans
were intellectually stunted. If you have muscles you cant have brains said one of the people we interviewed
making it apparent that in popular perception, a pehelwaan was really the male equivalent to the stereotype of the
dumb blonde. The wrestlers themselves looked at masculinity purely in physical terms. The only difference
between them and any other man, according to them was physical strength. Far from violent or even aggressive,
they seemed to be victims of social stereotypes.
Gender is a social construct. Ultimately it assumes proportions that subsume the individual. The male identity, then,
becomes equally transfixed as that of the female. The akhara provided a glimpse of how such pressures form the basis
of the male experience. The assumption of a grandiose image of a macho and authoritative wrestler (which some of
the men did enjoy) is very different from the reality. For most of the wrestlers, learning the art of wrestling is not an
end in itself. It is a means to the security and stability that employment in the Railways would offer. Wrestling then,
for them becomes like any other means to earning a livelihood.
The akhara with its stringent sexual division of labour also reveals how patriarchy functions on the silence and
support of women. For the order to sustain itself, it has to be internalized by the women who as compradors, further
male dominance. Ironically, the champion of patriarchy in the household of . Is the matriarch, whose
status comes from being the mother of two sons. Aurat ke saat roop hain, she boldly announces, maa, beti,
bahu, behen, shakti, randi aur chandi.
5
Extolling the virtues of the good old days when women were confined to
the household, she revels in the reflected glory of her Father in law, husband and son, all wrestlers. In her world
J A M I A - M C R C
view, these roles are mutually exclusive. The path of true womanhood or manhood is to fulfill to the best of ones abilities, all social
obligations that come with an assumed role.
Caught in the dichotomy of Shakti and Bajrang Bali, in the minds of the wrestlers seemed to reside a growing conflict. Their world
seems to be in a flux. The conflicts in their minds often found expression in the silence that punctuated their speech. Caught
between the age old dichotomy of the traditional and the modern, the pehelwaans in traditional akharas are precariously balanced
between the stringent codes of the system they learn and the changing realities of the world. Changing realities, especially in urban
spaces constantly problematise accepted and cultivated attitudes towards gender. While studying the oppression of women inherent
in our system, we must also understand the position of the male. Patriarchy also defines the mans fixed role and he must respond
to its dictate without exerting his will actively and combatively against it. The freedom of choice overtly denied to women, is also
restricted for men. Thus, an alternative system would become librating not only for the female but also for the male.
Notes
1. Pehelwaan; A wrestler involved in the traditional Indian sport of kushti.
2. Bajrang Bali; or Hanuman is the monkey God who assisted lord Ram in defeating Ravan and bringing back Sita from Lanka.
The son of the God of Wind, hanuman is revered by the wrestlers as a symbol of power, valour, fearlessness, good health and
specifically male strength. A specifically Hindu tradition attached to the figure of Hanuman is that of celibacy or Brahmacharya,
a symbol of his lifelong devotion and service to lord Ram.
3. Chandagiram Akhara; one of the oldest and most renowned Akharas in Delhi. The word Akhara may be seen in two ways. It
refers to the traditional wrestling ring that is specially prepared before the matches. The earth is dug up and matches are fought
on lose mud, thus the term, mud wrestling. It also refers to the institution usually maintained by a senior pehelwaan that takes in
young boys as students and teaches them the traditional art of kushti.
4. Kushti; an ancient traditional form of wrestling in India.
5. Aurat keChandi; Women have seven roles, mother, daughter, daughter in law, sister, power, whore and that of the destroyer.
The matriarch, Amma also held that the role of Shakti, or power was most important and all women must preserve it, while, of
course, always being subservient to the man.
J A M I A - M C R C
ut+jkuk
i- ir (i i i i- r i -i l î r r i n-ir- i li ri ii i l , ; i
(i i ni - i ii| i i- i ni&i i in l ni i- ii, --n, --, i ni i i(i
i- ilri l -i ri, -i ii, ii n- ini ri l nrii -i i iii i lni n r, - ri
rni l n- r - ii ri -&&- l - ni ii ri i
;ni ri ii l ii i,
ii ii - r ii ri ii i ii rni r l ^ nr i; iii r ni -n nii i ni - nri i- i |
ri i ii -i - ilri i iii - ii, i i rii i i
rii i rin r iî i ^li - r r -l-- -i - ri ini i i- iii ii îr rini r| ii i lir i
i r i li ini r i li i i- ni ii| lir (n r in i- ini r l r ii ini
r r l l-ii - (i i i iî in ri i i ini r ii i ri rini, & (n ^ î r
i ni( î| in n ii i i ii, i-i&i-i ini i nî i i i i i- ri î, ii&ii -ii-
n i in i ini r, i -i i ni, ii; ii -ni i ^ i lni i -i-i r i r- in| ii
-i&i -ni in, i ni l rni ii l (ri i ri ini| i i i i i i( ii r i li
l-ii i ri ri rini|
ii ;n ii ii i ri ri| in i i ii; i ri r ^ ii r l i ii i ii| (ri i i i i
ii r i| î l ii; i -in r i ii î ri ;i --i ri -- i n ^| ii i iiln
rni ri l (i ri î l rii i i l ir (n (i li i- iiii - - î ni ii
r i iiii ii ri l-n -.......................... in in ni r iir i li i in ii ii
in ri ni|
D E L H I C O L L E G E O F A R T
in i ii ini ri r ri n i li l (i i ri rî
i i ii i i i- ri î i i i ;in (i l-i i
î ri ii - i-i&-i-i i- i i i i ^& î|
lî ii&ii n ri ii| i ri - ii i i il
ii| l-i i- ;i - ii iî r l nî l(i
i ii ii i ii i- ii i î| rn r l ;i
i ni r -i ri ini, ii l i - ii ii -i ii
l ii r i i i ni ri ri i i i ri -i r
- i- i î r in ri i i - i| ii i î l
i i i ri r i ri ii ii r| r i i lî -
li - ii i n ii| ri ii i( i - li| r
-ri&i -ri - i ini i ii ii i ni( -i rni| ii
r i i ilii ri i l (i ri rni r i i ni|
ii i l> ii ni i ii li i l lir l
nii i i ii| l li i- ir ii i i l i i-i ni
ii li i i ri ii, i- - ni i l r ii ii i ii
li i ii î r| ^ l r i i-i nii l ii
li i lir li r ri ii ii r î| i i -nii l
i i-iî - ri ri i in ni - ri| i - r ii (i ii
l-i l- ii ii| ii i (i ri ^|
-i i -ri i i -i i r i -i^ i î| -iî î - ii i
rln ri ii ii li nr i -i^ i i li lli
ri ri i| i l li li i i -i;i ri î| i&i - ni
ii li nr i -i;i i i ni ir i in ii| r i i
l i; ni&ni ri ii| ii l i r î| ; i -i i (ii i- i iii
nii ri ni - ii ii ii| ;i i i-i -i i nln ii ii r î| ;i
- ri r ii ri ri i i|
-- li nr i ;ni- iiln ri(ri i-i ni r ;i (r -i i i - ri
ini r rn&rn i i(i ii î iii l i îi i îi n r|
i ri ni; i- ilri, ri i+ ;ni i ^r ni r ri l ^ i iii&rn i ii ii
(i ii i-- ri î| i ii i -n i -i r ii&ii i - ini r l iiii |
ii lr-n -n rii i- ilri ii i rii i ri i n- ii i i i -n -ni, -
-ii i ini r i nrii i ini l ri i- ni r - i - iii r-ii nri ii r| n- ii nrii -i
i (i i - ri î r, (i nrii ;ni ri riî|
ii iln -i (i i i i in ri i- ilr i -ii li r ii i - nii|
i i-i -i i ;i li i i li| i -i l ii ii ir i|
;i ;ni ri i ii ii i li - ri l i l-i l --i( - i -i i^ - n î r| r(i
i ii i î ni (ri i (ii i -i l- ri li| ii -n î l iî i -i;ii i
i i i i -i i i r| ii rn -nii l (i i -i i ii iî i ;i iî ;
ii iî i i; r- ri ii| ; r r; l iî ii ri ;-i- î li l (i i -i i ri
i i irni r|
rii lii i n ii i -i i ;i ri ii i i i -i l -ii i nr ilii - î ii|
d a r g a h
The rather unstable step made by the two slabs of stone one above the other, leads to a small
courtyard with a shrine on the right and the sights and sounds of a busy household on the left.
This is the residence of Farid and Chand Nizami, two brothers who are carrying on the Sufi legacy of their ancestors
The Qawwals at the dargah are the direct descendants of Amir Khusro who came to India from turkey around 750 years ago. He
invented the popular instruments like the tabla and sitar used today. Miraj, the eldest among the qawwals says that qawwali is sung
for the greatest pir-GOD. He distinguishes it from the commercial form which is sung for mortals. Although Qawwali was to be
sung for his praise and devotion or Ibadat, it is today only a ritual of sorts performed during Urs and the following day. The loss
of our culture and its degeneration can be seen here very obviously where the descendants of a great poet have to struggle to
survive. But the question to be asked is that in the age of globalization and capitalism is it possible for an art to survive?
Can the performers sustain themselves without commercialization?
The answers are available. The younger generation of qawwals like Zaffar Hayat Nizami is ready and willing to work commercially.
One of the reasons why the economic condition of a family is important is its effect on other aspects of life like education, work
skills and the condition of women.
The qawwals are a close knit group. They do not mix their blood. Their daughters are married within the community and the
daughters in laws are also from within the community. When asked about their daughters and their education Miraj and his friend
go on the defensive. They say that their children including the girls go to schools like any of us and are free to pursue higher studies.
But girls at no cost are allowed to sing or even learn music as a hobby. It is a domain of the men in the family. Miraj says that they
would have no problems in teaching music to girls from other communities, but for their own girls it is forbidden territory. However
the women are free to take up jobs such as teaching.
This phenomenon of close knit families is neither new nor is it unique to the qawwals of Nizamuddin. It is a phenomenon that has
L A D Y S H R I R A M C O L L E G E
existed in Indian society for a very long time even amongst the Hindus. What is interesting is the fact that though the qawwals sing
of god or Nizamuddin Aulia in a way similar to Meeras praise of Krishna, there is no Meera here.
They sing of love and the beauty of their soul mate but the partner, the other half is kept away from the eyes of the world. Or the
world from her eyes? Farid and Chand Nizami were very hospitable and forthcoming with information on Sufi music and their
family Chands wife invited us to see her room. The invitation seemed unappealing to begin with. Strangely enough, she persisted
and we complied. The narrow stairs opened in a small rectangular enclosure- HER room. As she showed us around we realized the
importance of the four walls.
Her room is stark-no bed, no tables, a small cupboard and a mirror. The highlight of the room, however, is a small window which
is her contact with the outside world. It is her favourite room in the house because she can enjoy the view through the window at her
own leisure. The view interestingly is that of the dargah of Nizamuddin Aulia. Her day is spent here, playing with the children,
cooking for the family and offering the customary namaz five times a day.
It is believed in this community that higher education restricts the mind towards the reception of music. The women choose to
disagree, although they do not do so openly . They want their children to pay equal attention to their studies. But given the strong
family tradition, moving out may seem an option hard to consider, even for the males. Perhaps a strict regime is the only solution
for facing the challenges of todays socio economic realities. Had it not been for the restriction in education, the younger generation
would have found it easier to move out of the demanding art. Practicing this art, like any other art, requires patience, total dedication
and undivided attention-Two qualities that have been forgotten today. The strict norms provide protection and a sense of guarantee.
One can certainly not accuse the Nizami tradition of being repressive. Most of our other social orders take roots from the same
beliefs. It is only recently that women have started venturing out of homes, into the public sphere. Even our more liberal societies,
initially, did not accept women singing and dancing in front of audiences. Educating women, is a problem today even in modern
India. A common thread that runs through society is the constant suppression of women, their confinement to the realms of the
household. In places where they have managed to achieve freedom economically, there is still a constant subjugation within the
house. Women are still attributed the traditional responsibilities of bringing up the children and looking after the house .This
discrimination is not religious in character . It breaks barriers of caste and religion. It is a gender- based discrimination. With the
ruling out of qawwali as a career option ,and no promise of education, the women are left with little to do. They do not have the
courage to dream inspite of having ambitions. The same set of rules which are a boon foe the male members of the family to ensure
that the qawwali tradition gets carried forward, become a bane for these women. Women will never sing, but they can do a lot more.
Perhaps the simple step of educating them could prepare them for that dream. What such a step can do for a womens confidence
needs no explanation. This would also solve their e economic problems to a great extent and would leave the males for more artistic
pursuits, rather than digressing from the praise of god to the praise of mortals for financial viability.
The Nizami tradition presents a beautiful world, a world different from what we inhabit. However the solitary window, fitted with
iron bars in the ladys room troubled our minds. Is looking out of such windows the only way these women can see the sky above?
The walls of their rooms are the universe for these women, but is the universe just these four walls?
Miraj with LSR students Farid and Chand Nizami
u d a a n - t h e f l i g h t
Kaaton se kheech ke ye aachal,
tod ke bandhan bandhe payal,
koi na roke dil ki udaan ko,
dil wo chala.......
aaj phir jeene ki tamanna hai.....
{I have pulled myself out of thorns,
I have broken all shackles,
Let not anyone stop my flight today,
I want to live again......
Once again....}
Its a chilly January morning-gloomy and foggy. Somewhere 40 kms deep in the heart of Delhi suburbs in a run down 3-storey
building sat five people. The walls of the room are defined by posters which scream against violence perpetrated on the body, mind
and soul that the so called fairer sex undergoes in phases within our modern society.
The room was barely furnished with a few tables stalked with files and a chattai on which were seated five women. In one corner
sat Najma staring at the small blackboard that hung at the centre of the plastered wall written in bold white chalk MAHILA
PANCHAYAT staring at her, invoking the past. The pain, the tears, the betrayal and her triumph......they all came back in a flash.
I was 16 when I got married to a man knowing fully well that he was in love with another woman. But Ammi kept telling me that
men change after marriage. I waited.......... days, months and years rolled by. But nothing really happened......For 8 years, I lived in
that gilded cage. I was abused, beaten, raped and humiliated and scarred for life. I was even lured into trafficking by a man. But
fortunately I saved myself.
J A W A H A R L A L N E H R U U N I V E R S I T Y
Appaji with JNU students
I decided not to take it anymore and thus walked out with my four sons towards an unknown destination. A new journey had begun.
I found refuge in SHAKTISHALINI-an organization with a vision to empower women. Here I met APPAJI- one of the most
inspiring personalities and a woman of incredible resilience, who showed me the direction and changed my life forever. A woman
of insurmountable strength and an embodiment of courage who had seen it all. Her own daughter had been burnt alive by her own
in-laws for demands of more dowry. But unlike many others, Appaji refused to break down. She instilled courage in me. She made
me realize if she could do it, then why not many other women like us. A new dream was born-NAVSHRISTI and I became a part of
it. It became a medium to realize our self-worth. Navshristi was established in Nangloi. Soon it became a symbol of communal
harmony by generating goodwill in the equally dominated Hindus and Muslims of the area. Women from both the communities of
nearby areas here got an opportunity for self expression by educating themselves, learning to stitch, sew,& being trained in beauty
treatments.
The centre has become a symbol of sisterhood. We have become a family sharing our feelings. We have tried our best to care for
each person who has joined us and helped them fight against this state of fear, oppression and insecurity. We gave them a voice. The
workers here strongly believe that girls should learn to be self-reliant and stay independently if needed.
Things started to change. The battered wife stood up against her drunk husband, the harassed daughter-in-law said no to more dowry,
many daughters convinced their families to educate them, mothers refused to stand by and watch their children suffer, they realized the
futility of the senseless discrimination between the boy and girl child, many started challenging the conventional patriarchal wisdom.
In short, Navshristi- our new creation forced people to deconstruct and then construct the traditionaly received norms.
Today, yet again I see another Najma here, hiding her tear-stricken face and bruised eyes in her wet dupatta. Its ironical indeed! The
pain stings back each time with equal vengeance. But this time I have promises to keepand to walk a mile more........Ill break her
shackles. I will give her wings to fly.
J A W A H A R L A L N E H R U U N I V E R S I T Y
s o w h a t s c o o k i n g ?
It is a universally acknowledged truth that the best meal in the world is prepared by ones mother. Being budding engineers we
might doubt Einsteins E=mc2 but none of us doubt the above statement. In fact, the only Indian chef to feature on the list of worlds
best chefs, Mr. G. Sultan Moideen, executive chef ITC Maurya Sheraton, reinstated the fact himself.
Only recently weve had the good fortune of meeting a man as accomplished as Mr. Sultan. His career began as a nominated trainee
at the Oberois and he later went to France and Japan to complete his training in this field. Today, he has an industry experience of
over 25 years and his kitchen boasts of a 98% satisfaction rating from British associations, (higher than most hotels in the UK
itself). The very fact that we were able to meet him only after an hour long wait, since he was busy finalizing the details for the food
of the Malaysian Premier, is an indication of his influence and importance.
A Scorpio by birth, Mr. Moideen tells us that he has all a man could ever ask for: a satisfying job which pays him extremely well and
provides fame, recognition and glory. In the words of Mr. Moideen, his job encompasses the role of a manager, public relations
officer, scientific head and of course that of a culinary expert. He has traveled all over the world to work with the best, to learn from
the best, to become the best himself. He has a simple philosophy that Work is Worship and this is what has made a man like him
earn the caption of Every Creation is a Masterpiece on his chefs cap.
On enquiring about his family we got to know that his son is pursuing an engineering degree, and his twin daughters are in +2
preparing for medical school. Usually he has no time for indulgences but whatever time he gets he likes to spend it with his family.
When asked about getting his children into the hotel industry, he says that he would be more than happy to help them, but they do
not show much interest. Surprisingly, his children never insist on savouring his cooking, not even for parties and he never cooks at
home nor teaches his wife any of his recipes since Mr. Moideen wants food at home to be different from his hotel. Even the best
cook in our country loves his wifes cooking!
When asked about the secret behind his success he told us that he lived by a simple axiom: the main ingredient for preparing good
food is the love you put in cooking it which is probably why a mothers or a wifes cooking is the tastiest. This would lead one to
D E L H I C O L L E G E O F E N G I N E E R I N G
believe that this is a job that most women would be adept at, but surprisingly this field
remains mostly male dominated. It is quite ironical that at home men hardly enter the
kitchen whereas when it comes to the professional front, women are rarely to be found.
When asked about this paradox Mr. Sultan told us that professional cooking is a very
strenuous job involving long hours and so women are generally not suited to this profession.
Being physically weaker than men, women have difficulties in handling huge and heavy
utensils, as is also the case with large quantities of raw material required for cooking.
Long working hours extending late into the night do no good either. He tells us that since
most of the kitchen workers belong to lower economic classes, they are illiterate and use
abusive language. And so he reasons that the few women who might be present would find the atmosphere quite uncomfortable.
But of course, there is no profession in this world that is bereft of any difficulties and we wondered if there were some women who,
undaunted by these limitations, wanted to enter this field. Mr. Sultan told us that when he was a student, there were no girls in his
batch but now the society is changing and there are some girls taking interest in this profession. When asked if the hotel authorities
were prejudiced against women for the same reasons, he refused and said that he himself was a great promoter of enterprising girls
who were interested in this field, since he believes that merit can outdo any preconceived notions. In fact, the proof for this lies in
the fact that the daughter of a top defence personnel works under him in his kitchen.
After a few days, we got the opportunity to meet Bahadur Singh, a cook at a local dhaba where he has been working since the age
of 9. Today he is married with two daughters and a son. His daily schedule is monotonous and consists of sleeping, eating and
cooking primarily though he watches Hindi movies once in a while. He has not won any international accolades but nearby
residents swear by his aloo ke paranthe.
When we asked him whether his wife worked along with him, he seemed quite amused at the prospect and replied, If ladies work
outside, then who will take care of home? When we explained that by letting his wife work he would be increasing his household
income, he looked as if realisation had dawned upon him. Just a minute later he changed his statement and said that a woman should
be allowed to work only if she can handle both the fronts. But when asked whether he would allow his daughter or his wife to work
separately or independently, he gave a very cold NO as an answer. On being asked why, he replied in a very serious tone that no
man in his society could see a woman working separately. Assisting the husband was one thing, but working independently would
mean that the man and master of the house was incapable of providing for them.
We went on to explain to him that now society was changing, women enjoyed an equal status as men, they were ambitious and were
extending their area of expertise, beyond the household. Bahadur Singh got angered at this
and said that these were the kind of new ideas that were responsible for the moral degradation
of society. He says that a man will never allow a woman to get a step ahead of him, and his
daughter will comply with whatever her husband expects of her.
We do not wish to draw any set conclusion from this nor do we wish to offer an opinion on any
of these accounts that we have retold. We only present you with a true picture of our society in
just a few lines. We leave it to the readers to conclude whatever they choose to and realise the
truth if they wish to.
p e r e n n i a l d e a t h
Cries, stifling cries, maddening hysteria..silence and then again..shriek, a painful shriekwhich dried the blood in her
veins.
As her eyes opened she just wished him to be away. It was just another nightmare lying there beside her in reality.
Still shaking from the heart wrenching shrieks of desperation, she got up, wrapped a shawl around her frail and scrawny body and
just stood in front of the open door.
Her vision was blurred by the tears welling up in her eyes. As she kept staring outside looking at the empty road, it turned into a grey
muddy path and instead of buildings she saw small black mud houses like dots on either side of the road, tall trees hung over the
houses as if protecting them from some unforeseen forces, she had drifted as if by magic into her childhood, which was a distant
mirage now.
It was that dreadful night where it all ended for her. The sudden noises of a passing car shock her back to reality. She was
grinding her jaws so that they would stop moving but this was no respite as it was very cold.
She went inside and got a small bottle with an ugly skull made on it in red, as she looked at it she thought life was mocking at her
face, voices started echoing in her head all screaming at her just one word COWARD.
With the bottle clenched tightly in her small bony fist she sat by the door and started to gaze outside again. Only this time what she
saw was unbearable, open, moist eyed, she saw only shades of black and grey broken houses with cobwebs, trees like scary
onlookers without leaves that wanted to grab her with their branches. She was feeling suffocated, as if she were underwater in an
ocean at night, it was so vast that she did not know where it started and where it ended.
She was taking a bath in the lake in the village, she was 13 when two hands grabbed her and drowned her in the shadows of darkness
forever. He was 35 yrs old. She shivered as she thought how he had forced and penetrated all her innocence and had left a void in her soul.
S H R I V E N K T E S H W A R A C O L L E G E
She was married to that same man within two days. The flowers lining the lake had withered and so had she, each day she was
drowned in that same waters of shame by her husband and the trees without leaves, they just looked.
She was chained to her own tomb for eternity.
Shivering she looked at the bottle with the ugly skull and saw her once spotless face in the glass, so bruised and battered now that
she could not recognize herself.
They shifted to the city after a year of the marriage.
Every day she saw the sun rising from behind those tall buildings. The sun looked so feeble and tamed in the midst of that concrete
jungle, an epitome of freedom and strength, the sun seemed insulted and deprived of its glory in the shadows of those tall buildings,
she too was deprived, deprived of her freedom, deprived of her own will.
The shades of black and grey encircled her again. She felt as if someone had poured molten lava on her, as the boiling water seeped
through her sari and her 4 months pregnant stomach, she saw the face of hatred staring back at her, she became deaf to the yelling
and walked away, those same hands grabbed her again and drowned her again in the waters of shame and lust.
Little eyes small feet, just like a doll she was holding life in her hands, after toiling with labor for 4 hrs, this was her prize. Her child
died after 8 months due to pneumonia. Closing her eyes she touched her stomach, there were burnt marks still there, she had
suddenly aged she touched her eyes around the corners and felt the lines of time which had passed quickly for her while she was still
waiting for salvation.
Blood gushed out of her wrist and made red spots on the floor, she stared at them and then looked up into the eyes of her second
child 10 years of age; she saw fright in those small pupils; she smiled and then started crying that, the life which had evolved out of
her had no future; her son was working in a mechanics shop, her husband was bedridden, liver cirrhosis and she worked in houses,
cleaning utensils, clothes.
The neighbours came, hearing the screams of an innocent, forced into this meaningless life and took her away to the hospital. The
scares of all the years were still there on her heart, mind and soul. The tears whirled in a black whirlpool along with the ghastly
buildings and she swam in an endless tunnel without any light.
He was lying there on the bed, grey hair and ageing but those hands had not lost their strength or their greed and showered their
venom on her and her son, who also lay there on the floor curled into a ball trying to give his mother some place on the bed but even
he could not give her a place in this world. He was curled as if hiding away from the tentacles of poverty and black eyed malice of
hunger.
The angry face on the bottle again screamed at her COWARD she wanted to drown that word away. As she stared at the sun rising
from the concrete jungle, insulted and deprived of its glory in the shadows of those tall buildings, she slowly brought the bottle to
her lips.
Everything was in the shades of black and grey.
u n t i t t l e d
This is not a sob story for the benefit of a PhD in male bashing. If it comes across as
such, then all we would like to say (politely of course) is Face the reality ladies and
gentlemen! Dont make fabricated excuses in order to satisfy your conscience.
Because we tried as hard as we could to not put spice into our taleand this is what it
sounded like:
Take 1: Paridhi is born when her family is going through financial difficulties and
is branded unlucky.
Take 2: Paridhi passes her 12
th
standard exams, is not allowed to study further and is married off to an unemployed
man.
Take 3: Paridhis father-in-law starts making physical advances towards her. Her husband demarcates his association with the
whole business.
Take 4: Paridhi leaves her husband and files for divorce.
Take 5: Paridhis family lets her into the house but constantly accuses her of ruining the family name and any future that her
younger sister might have had.
Take 6: Paridhi agrees to marry a divorcee police constable so that the path can be cleared for her younger sister to marry.
Take 7: Paridhi reaches her new home in the interior of Uttar Pradesh and finds that the first wife of her new husband is still
living with the family and is not legally divorced.
Take 8: Paridhi discovers that her new husband has a sexual relationship with his younger brothers wife and Paridhi herself is
expected to reciprocate the same favours to her husbands younger brother. She refuses.
Take 9: Paridhi stays in constantly harassed circumstances for 2 years till her younger sister is married off without any
stigma.
Take 10: Paridhi leaves her second husband and comes back to her family begging them to let her in willingly.
Take 11: Paridhis family now fears her legal right in the family property which should all go to the son traditionally. They
accelerate their demeaning attitude towards her.
Take 12: Paridhi still lives with her family. She now has a job but that does not compensate for the constant psychological
stress on a day to day basis, 365 days of the year.
Here we finish the story of our protg with minimum of emotional sentiments. We made sure that the readers didnt cry or were
even remotely entertained. So now that everyone is not sentimental, is thinking rationally, is capable of an impartial hearing of
our narrativewe continue.
Paridhi was never a man-that is obvious! she has been treated as woman. But her future is something that has even the term as
woman ripped from her badge of accomplishments. Because according to our
ever righteous socity, a woman without husband and kids is not a complete
woman. So what do we call Paridhi now?
We will not go into the complexities of what feminity and masculinity mean.
All we have to say is that Paridhi is not interested in marrying again. Let alone
depending, she does not want to trust any man, any longer.bottom-lineno
arguments. Who can blame her? In Paridhi we saw the face of thousands of
women who have burnt all bridges of contact between feminity and
masculinity. Here goes our benevolent purpose of gender studies again. Can
we salvage it yet?
Why is it that parents acknowledge the burden of marriage of their daughters as their responsibility
and yet the responsibility of checking the credentials of the household they are packing their burden
off to, is outside their domain? In this case the educated parents of the girl blame it on her kismat. Yet
another excuse for getting something off ones conscience...?
Why is it that even educated people, according to the presence of their flashing degrees, are not
educated in the true sense of the term. Paridhis father is an engineer but his education seems to be nil
in real terms.
Why is it that in certain situations a woman has to be dominated and kept down while in other situations
(mostly when she is doing wrong) is not to be interfered with and even encouraged. Paridhis mother is
in the forefront of the whole attack, her father and brother who would otherwise designate her to the
position of a woman in other matters, do not interfere and even support her when she harasses her own
daughter.
Her second husband says that he has seen the world and knows that all city girls are whores or nearly
whores, so Paridhi being a city girl should not object to sleeping with her brother-in-law. This portrays
the attitude towards stereotypes that have been formed.city girls-too open, girl smoking - bad
character, girl dancing in a disc - ready to sleep with anyone who approaches. One can somehow deal
and fight with the situation but what happens when the members of the law enforcement force start
categorizing everyone into broad categories of what they consider good or bad. They are the ones
we look up to for the well being of the people and maintenance of the lawwhen did we give them the
right to make laws and play God?
t h e b e t r a y a l
The only thing that carries this beautiful woman around, like it does many in the world, is hope - Hope that her husband would come
back to her one day. Sanam Banos husband deserted her, three years ago, to clandestinely marry a widow, who already had a son
from her earlier husband, to have a child from her, as he did not have a child from Bano. As they say, justice prevails; the new
couple could not conceive a child either. A meeting with her husband recently, where, according to Bano, he looked very tense and
drawn - probably for what he did - has refreshed Banos hope of her husbands return. The mixed feelings of betrayal, anger, hope,
and confusion that rules the mind of this 35 year old village woman has made her life no better than hell.
During their 22 years of married life, her husband, Noor Mohammad, had been very kind to her. But Noors mother and sisters,
according to Bano, got him under pressure to remarry. Quite tragic though, Noor Mohammad did remarry but without divorcing
Bano or either taking her consent, which is illegal under both the state and the religious laws. The sweetness of the tragic betrayal
is that Bano, who can very well file a suit against him, is reluctant with the idea because it would be an embarrassment for her
husband. She said, Log boleinge ki Sanam Bano ne apne shohar ko pitwaya (People would say Sanam Bano got her husband
beaten). What betrayal of a 22-year old trust on one side; and what trust even after a betrayal of the other!
Sanam recalls the incident when her husband went away to marry Saraswati, a Hindu girl, at the Nizamuddin Awlias Dargah in
New Delhi. It was Friday and the first day of Ramadhan (Holy month of fasting in Islamic calendar). Noor had told Sanam he was
going to attend a friends wedding. Sanam had kept a new dress ready and his shoes polished for the occasion, least did she knew
what her husband was up to. Sanam did not see her husband for the next three days. Noors mother and sisters had also attended the
marriage.
Sanam has a pet name for Saraswati - xxxxxx. She did not know Saraswati till she saw her husband giving her a pack of sweets
at a sweets shop on Deepawali. Late at home, when Sanam taunted Noor about the sweets, he beat her ruthlessly. How dare you
doubt me?, Noor told Sanam. He pulled down the earrings from her ear like a towel from its hanger. Blood trickled down her neck.
But the only thing that Sanam did not like about the bloodbath was that it was different from what she was used to. Unlike earlier
N A T I O N A L I N S T I T U T E O F M A S S C O M
thrashings, her husband did not tame and love her after the beating. Pehle
jab marte the, pyar to karte the (Earlier, he would be tender with me
after a beating)! What can one call this? Ignorance about ones rights or
submission to the one you love? A serious question for all those who still
believe in healthy debates.
Sanam had been with Noor through all the hard times. Her restless hands,
came one over the other, perhaps in search of her better halfs pair; her
beautiful eyes drained tears every time she mentioned his name; as she
narrated how they would remain hungry for days together in their harder
times back in the village. In fact, they had migrated to Delhi in search of
work only, where now Noor is well off working for a garment company
as a master tailor. He earns Rs 15,000 a month and sends Rs 1500 to
Sanam too - enough for her to kill her time - alone? She indulges herself
in occasional visits to neighbourhood Thakurs. Plays around with their
children. Dresses up quite bright and always wears a plastic smile in the
Mohalla street. She might have to do only this for the rest of her life.
What does she do now? Would she remarry, as she is still beautiful and quite young; or would she seek divorce from her husband?
All tastes bitter to her. She is in a dilemma. However, she seems quite eager that her husband take her back, which seems quite
unlikely though. But, what to do, she is still in love and has hope. I wonder can hope and love ruin somebody like this as well?
s h i n e o n y o u c r a z y d i a m o n d
I was back home. Everything seemed so familiar around the house. The walls, the smell, the people.
It was like coming back from a sweatshop. Loads of work, meager pay, pathetic conditions et al. Abbu
was still in Dubai, drinking. He was supposed to send money which he never did. He hadnt called this
week. What would happen when I tell him that I would never go back to that house again? My mind
refused to work. My marriage seemed like a fairytale, like snow white . No, like Cinderellas
except the prince charming would never come back looking for me. The house seemed so peaceful.
The nagging there was constant. Your dowry is less, You should have given us a scooter instead of
that cycle.
My head was exploding. Too many dilemmas in my head. Too many problems and no solutions. I had
to take charge of my life. But what if he came back? What if he came back, to take me to his house?
No! I will never step into that house again. That old man disgusts me from the very pit of my stomach.
I was supposed to be like his daughter. How could somebody abuse their daughter, sexually? My
mind fails to understand. And and to top it all Ravi Ji wouldnt believe me. He felt that his father
couldnt go wrong, but that? Even after he saw it happen in front of his own eyes!!! My mind fails to
understand.
I hate that house, I hate the occupants of that house, except Ravi Ji, but only if he leaves that house.
But even he has fooled me. Even he told me how he was working even though he wasnt. They had
made me useless and even he had a hand in it. If only he could leave the house to come and stay with
me. I will surely forgive him, because I miss him.
However he may be
Seems like Ammi is back. She looks exhausted. Anybody would be. She works 14 hours a day. To
R A I U N I V E R S I T Y
feed herself, her daughter, now both the daughters and that useless lazy oaf, who doesnt do anything except drink. Even he is
cribbing about getting married. Ill make sure he doesnt marry until he sorts himself out. Poor Ammi. I need a job, one where I am
provided with a good house and a long sleek car. Ha who would employ a poor seventh grade pass for that job? I feel so lost in
this world. I want to learn crochet. But I dont have the time. I will make garlands instead. They pay according to the garlands you
make per hour. I can work more to get more money. Even Munni has to get married. I have to talk to Ammi, I dont want her making
the same mistake they made with me, by not letting me grow up.
Ammi tells me that lazy oaf has been harassing her for money. He beats her up to get money so that he can have his drink. In front
of me he is like a mouse. These men! When will they ever have sense?
Life seems so disgusting.
I have to realize all this! These are my problems. Nobody would come forward and help me. I need to take charge of my life. I need
to take care of my family. I need to be the man of the house. Even when there are two! Huh funny
R A I U N I V E R S I T Y
College of Law & Leagal
Studies, IP University
Reeva Gujral
Vasudha Sen
Geet Priya Jha
Megha Sharma
Akshata Goel
Neeti Shikha
Divya Shree Dhimaan
Namrata Pahwa
Rai University
Devika Dayal
Anushree Agarwal
Mritunjay Devvrat
Abhijeet Chhabra
Siddharth Gautam
Divya Kothiwal
Mansi Goel
Saurabh Kumar
Jamia Milia Islamia &
Ramjas College
Chandrakesh Bihari Lal
Tanvi Jain
Himani Singh
Shatabdi Chakraborti
A. Ravi Kiran
Delhi College of
Engineering
Aditi Shukla
Amber jain
Aman Verma
Anuj Dhawan
Nipur Arora
Rajat Vashishta
Lady Shri Ram College-I
Natasha Jha
Shruti Dua
Aali Kumar
Suman Sharma
Adita Singh
Shaivya Saxena
Shymaine Panday
Sameen Siddiqui
P A R T I C I P A N T S
MCRC (Jamia Milia Islamia)
Amit Madhesia
Shirley Abraham
Stuthi Raghavan
Charulata Menon
Manak Matiyani
Delhi College of Art
Sugandha Gaur
Shruti Soharia
Charu Monga
Amandeep Bakshi
Rajesh Duggal
Surendra Kumar
Kapil Kumar
Rajiv Chauhan
Lady Shri Ram College-II
Kanika Samra
Sheema Sharma
Tenzin Nyima
Gayatri Mishra
Shivani Kapoor
Aashita Tayal
Surabhi Sharma
Prerna Jain
Jesus & Mary College
Ragini Singh
Niti Dhingra
Parul Bhargava
Vanessa
Deepanshi Chaudhary
Shalini John
Ann Philipose
Rahi Goswami
National Institute of
Mass Communication
Arshad Rasool
Neha Uppal
Kanika Suri
Harneha Gulati
Nidhi Aggarwal
Tabassum Sofi
Hindu College
Kanika Gupta
Chetan Pathi
Praveen Prashant Jha
Akshay Chopra
Pranav Prakash
Umaid Vikramaditya
Naveen K. R. (Kirorimal College)
Shri Venkateshwara College
Ghazal Javed
Siddharth Pathak
Ravi Ekka
Shalini Rajaram
S. Ashwath Venkatesh
Shiva Kumar
Nandita Gupta
Anuja
St. Stephens College
Nida Ali
Saba Joshi
Nishita Jha
Triranjan Radha krishna
Pallavi Raghavan
Mathew Mathai
Nitin George
Jawahar Lal Nehru University
Mansi Singh
Piyali Sarkar
Rukmini Gohain
Malini Bhattacharya
Ziko
Cooshali Samuel
P A R T I C I P A N T S
Probir Gupta an awardee of
the 10th Triennale India is an
artist and a human rights
activist determined to take art
to the masses. He combines
art practice with community
and development work for the
marginalised. For the past 8
years he has been deeply
involved in sensitizing
adolescents against various
issues, such as trafficking and
sale of organs of infants, child
labour and violence against
women. He is nominated to
the General Council of the
Lalit Kala Akademi by the
Govt. of India.

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