Sadness is profound. I'm not talking about anger or hatred or even jealousy or insecurity. Sometimes, the feeling is absolute and calming. That is the sadness I talk about.
Today I lost something. Something that meant a lot to me. It's strange how lifeless, meaningless objects can suddenly have so much sentimental value attached to them. I attached the value. And now I have lost it. There is absolutely nothing I can do to get it back.
I started thinking through all my travel experiences to a time when a place held such profound sadness for me. And even though there are several places which I visited while I was sad, I would not like to believe that the place itself could not hold happiness. Or that the sum total of my sadness could wash over the history of its joy. As if it was only me, there and then, in that time and place, in that moment, and nothing else.
And then I thought of Jallianwala Bagh.
I remember visiting it. The place held children scampering around with glee. Couples in the corner. A few men lazing in the garden, perhaps taking a nap or soaking the afternoon sun. It seemed like such a chilled out scene.
But I knew that that place did not belong to that time and moment. That place belongs to April 13, 1919. The screams of people I believe still linger on in that space. The bullet holes still pay tribute to the senseless violence that took hundreds of innocent lives. The men, women and children who jumped into a well...so that they'd die as martyrs and not as victims. Acts of bravery and courage. Human strength and endurance. And then there was blood everywhere. And then nothing was left.
I sat in the garden. Looking around, taking in the place. Something had been lost. And there was absolutely nothing I could do to get it back. The pain belonged to a different time and space, but I still felt it right then. I touched my cheek, only to realise that I was crying.
Sadness...profound and absolute.
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Somehow this video from the movie Rang De Basanti, always plays in my head when I think of Jallianwala Bagh.
Showing posts with label india. Show all posts
Showing posts with label india. Show all posts
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Friday, January 6, 2012
Piya Haji Ali
I had always wanted to visit Haji Ali but despite making several trips to Bombay, somehow never made it there. Last week, I was in the city with a day stretching out ahead of me alone. With my friend busy at work, I decided to make a trip to the mosque by myself.
----
As I started my long walk up to Haji Ali, I got distracted by all the pretty things being sold on the side. I stopped and bought 3 bottles of ittar. Ittar is Indian perfume and I bought the smell of the "heavens" called firdaus. Anyway, as I walked into the mosque, I was stopped by a man standing guard at the entrance for the women's section. When I asked him what the matter was, he pointed to my legs, "You cannot go to Haji Ali in this outfit". His tone was harsh and demeaning. I was wearing a medium length skirt and so obviously he could judge me.
I negotiated my way in. He gave me a chunni that i wrapped around my waist like a dhoti. Starting at my waist and going all the way down till my ankles, it covered me up completely.
Stepping into the main hall, I looked up to marvel at the gorgeous mirror work on the ceiling. At the same time, a lot of women looked down at the dhoti-esque cloth and started murmuring among themselves. Soon, one woman gestured at me to come forward. I went up to her and she chastised me - Why is your head not covered? What religion are you? Are you married?
The questions came at me like paint dripping from a wet brush. Each new drop fell at a different spot on the canvas creating a complete picture, just as each new question helped crystallise her perception of me.
Once she established that I was alone, not muslim, single, I was made to sit down beside her. She started off with her story. A woman has no identity without a man, she said. As long as you have a man in your life, people will love and respect you. But if the man doesn't exist, then you don't exist. I asked her what happened to her man. He died a few years ago, she said. The children couldn't bear the burden of feeding an extra mouth. So everything had to be sacrificed - a house, a family, a life. Living from one mosque to another, under the protection of Allah, waiting to be called to him. Waiting, waiting. That was all she lived for, she said. That, and chastising young girls, I thought secretly.
She explained to me how God was merciful and so I would be forgiven for my sin. But he will probably not grant my prayers because of my insubordination. And in the future, I must always remember to cover my legs and my head. With that, she lay down to rest. I understood that I had been dismissed.
-----
Later, while walking back, I came across a year old homeless child on the street. This girl was crying from hunger, fingering a biscuit packet that she had not yet learnt how to open. I sat down next to her, ripped the packet open and fed her the biscuit. She rejected it at first, but eventually her spit broke down the biscuit into soggy matter that her inexperienced mouth could chew. An old beggar man sitting next to her said to me, "You fed a poor child with nothing to gain for yourself. Allah will bless you for this good deed." And I couldn't help refute his claim by exclaiming, "But, I'm wearing a skirt!"
----
As I started my long walk up to Haji Ali, I got distracted by all the pretty things being sold on the side. I stopped and bought 3 bottles of ittar. Ittar is Indian perfume and I bought the smell of the "heavens" called firdaus. Anyway, as I walked into the mosque, I was stopped by a man standing guard at the entrance for the women's section. When I asked him what the matter was, he pointed to my legs, "You cannot go to Haji Ali in this outfit". His tone was harsh and demeaning. I was wearing a medium length skirt and so obviously he could judge me.
I negotiated my way in. He gave me a chunni that i wrapped around my waist like a dhoti. Starting at my waist and going all the way down till my ankles, it covered me up completely.
Stepping into the main hall, I looked up to marvel at the gorgeous mirror work on the ceiling. At the same time, a lot of women looked down at the dhoti-esque cloth and started murmuring among themselves. Soon, one woman gestured at me to come forward. I went up to her and she chastised me - Why is your head not covered? What religion are you? Are you married?
The questions came at me like paint dripping from a wet brush. Each new drop fell at a different spot on the canvas creating a complete picture, just as each new question helped crystallise her perception of me.
Once she established that I was alone, not muslim, single, I was made to sit down beside her. She started off with her story. A woman has no identity without a man, she said. As long as you have a man in your life, people will love and respect you. But if the man doesn't exist, then you don't exist. I asked her what happened to her man. He died a few years ago, she said. The children couldn't bear the burden of feeding an extra mouth. So everything had to be sacrificed - a house, a family, a life. Living from one mosque to another, under the protection of Allah, waiting to be called to him. Waiting, waiting. That was all she lived for, she said. That, and chastising young girls, I thought secretly.
She explained to me how God was merciful and so I would be forgiven for my sin. But he will probably not grant my prayers because of my insubordination. And in the future, I must always remember to cover my legs and my head. With that, she lay down to rest. I understood that I had been dismissed.
-----
Later, while walking back, I came across a year old homeless child on the street. This girl was crying from hunger, fingering a biscuit packet that she had not yet learnt how to open. I sat down next to her, ripped the packet open and fed her the biscuit. She rejected it at first, but eventually her spit broke down the biscuit into soggy matter that her inexperienced mouth could chew. An old beggar man sitting next to her said to me, "You fed a poor child with nothing to gain for yourself. Allah will bless you for this good deed." And I couldn't help refute his claim by exclaiming, "But, I'm wearing a skirt!"
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