Illusive Reality

“Which part of it did you want to be true?”

“It’s not what I want. It is… what is true!”

“And how would you ever know that?”

"I have been following his work for quite some time now… He has a particular sense of developing at least one character of this nature in his stories. When you read his biography… the events these characters would live through would echo to those that he himself has lived…”

"But is that reason enough to solidify your belief about the reality of these characters? What if the similarity of these events is a mere coincidence?”

“But what if they are not?”

“Well there is an equal probability of both…”

Nandita asked Ritu, “is it always about what the writer would want to tell us? Or is it almost always about what we would want to read?”

“I think it is the later. In the works of fiction, how would one ever know what exactly did the writer wish to say?”

“And if later be the case, why do we need the novel in the first place? Is that not, then, a second hand expression of our own thoughts? Why should I pay this writer for my own thoughts?”

“Well, may be the novel is a medium through which your thoughts are being expressed… else they would never have assumed a form… and even if they had, you would have not known until you read the novel to express them to yourself?”

“So is it all about giving my thoughts a form? What’s the point in giving form to some thoughts which are so fickle that they would change if I had to read the same novel again?”

There was a silence in the room. Ritu looked at Nandita and couldn’t take her eyes off her for a while... she looked at her and they stayed in that moment… Nandita smiled and said, “Imagine if someone heard our conversations and wrote a story around this, would that be a story based on real events? Some real conversations?”

“It would… no?”

“But would an observer ever know what we both thought or felt in the silence we just experienced? And if he writes about it would that not be his interpretation of the moment? Imagine if the writer is a woman? Would her interpretations be the same as that of a male writer? And if we add or delete or modify or change even the slightest of the things that’s happening here right now, would that story still be real? And to what extent, who can ever tell?” She continued, “It’s a strange sort of contradiction that we read novels to evade our realities for a while and then we keep seeking for reality in that novel, which by virtue of its genre has to be nothing but a fantasy of the author’s mind. It gets transpired into such ordinary moments, Ritu. Moments such as these… where we are so mundanely sitting and talking about something which is so illusionary. At the same time, we are wondering what is more real… whatever we are saying or doing? Or something else – something that may exist in our mind but may not take a form of an expression? Or still, something which may be even beyond expression… something that may remain most elusive idea in our head but at the same time would appear strongest reality that we would want to pursue to the end of our lives?

Ritu looked amused, “in that sense reality can never be narrated, isn’t it?” she paused and asked, “But can it even ever be lived then? How do we understand the reality of this moment?”

“The only reality we could ever achieve in each other is, Ritu, whatever we express to each other. However, we will have to recognize that rarely remains the reality in totality. And when we extend this idea to all our relationships, the whole world appears to be so unreal, so illusionary. But I wonder, what’s so wrong in living with the illusions of this world? What’s so enigmatic about the reality that we all so dearly crave for it?

Nandita looked at Ritu for a while. Then very casually got up and walked to stand very close to her. Ritu looked up at her. She still appeared puzzled. Nandita held her face with her palms, leaned down, closed her eyes and planted a kiss on her lips. Without opening her eyes, she asked, “how does it matter, Ritu?”

They smiled at each other. 


Image Source: www.maniacworld.com/optical-illusions.html

Oppression as solution?

I read about the recent Mumbai rape incident, its proceedings, the protest marches and empathy in people. I then read about Asaram’s “alleged” attempt to rape a minor girl. While reading both, I felt certain kind of difference in the tone of the news. I wondered if both news items are around rape, why do I not get the same feeling about the perpetrators and the victims/survivors? And then I read about how a rape case of a college going Dalit girl in Haryana was reported with least empathy and the protest group was termed as “angry Dalit mob”.

So I went back to read the reports on Mumbai case and Asaram. In the case of the journalist girl, the assaulters were declared as “monsters” by most of the popular media, before even they were put to trial. There was a deliberate and repeated mention of “slums” as their locality. It was first page news. Of course it has to be; it involves a tragedy with a reporter. In the later case, the perpetrator being the self-acclaimed godman, all the words were chosen very carefully, for example “teenager allegedly molested by Asaram.” Nowhere in the report was Asaram called a monster. Three girls allegedly raped across the landscape of our country belonged to three different socio-economic backgrounds and so did their “alleged” perpetrators. If we look at the reports carefully, we realize, perhaps the concept of power is in play, in the act itself and the way it was reported.

I wonder how does an act of rape done by slum-dwellers more heinous than that by a rich godman? Why does a Dalit girl deserve less empathy than a journalist? How come media revealed the identity of the girl as being “Dalit” in first place? Is a low caste/class identity for public display and open to scrutiny? Sometimes I feel like an idiot when I think about these questions. Are these questions real or just a figment of my flawed imagination? If they are real, why are things like this? And if they are not, why do these questions keep popping in my head?

And then I am reminded of a comment that one of my students passed while discussing hunger and equity. When I asked how is it to focus on an educational assignment while you are hungry, she said, “bhaiya, but what’s new in that? We are used to it. It’s normal.” I don’t know what troubled me more – the answer itself or the way it was said as a matter of fact. Whatever it was, what has remained with me is – they have got used to it. Whether its hunger, rape or oppression. They all have been internalised as part of life some people’s life. And hence it’s no big a deal.

May be it doesn’t matter to them. And may be so it doesn’t matter to media even. However, what’s more scary is our demands in response to such tragedies. What do we seek as a solution? Stricter laws and more policing? In the same newspaper, I read (somewhere on the 4^th page, as a side report) about the quality of schooling in 23 state districts in Maharashtra is below average, Mumbai at a far off 14^th rank amongst 35 districts. And we still don’t recognize that a better education may be, just maybe, one of the solutions to many of our problems, including gender based atrocities. It’s interesting that we demand courts and policing, which are dictating and oppressive in nature, against a good quality education which can be liberating for all. And why not? With such oppressive structures, the oppressed can further be oppressed. A Salman Khan can still freely roam around the city after killing so many people and media will refer him as “sweet, unlucky boy”. An Asaram may never get arrested. But those from the slums will be scouted and booked within few hours of crime.

Pardon me if I am sounding horrible here. I, with no intention, mean that those who perpetrate a crime should not be brought to justice and punished adequately if found guilty. They must be. All I am questioning here is how one’s economic status reduces or propagates the intensity of one’s crime? With current scheme of things it appears to me that we, as society, are more hypocritical than not. The country and its media, it seems, is still stuck with its prejudices of caste, class, gender, sexuality and what not! I wonder if we can ever realize a solution to our problems unless we look at the root.

 

I am not advocating for solutions through education just because I work in education space. Rather, I work here because I see a high need for educational advocacy. For an education which is holistic, contemplative, critical and liberating. And not just for a certain class or caste but truly for ALL. Till that happen, we may keep marching in Delhi or Mumbai or wherever next, nothing much gonna really happen, except apart from newsroom debates and colourful newsprints.

The city of hills and the sea - VII

Sound of the city

I listen to the evening azaan emanating from a distant mosque. Several vehicles scream and run past each other on the western express highway. Flights take off once in a while with heavy sound. The rains have just stopped. Once in a while vehicles run over potholes, splash the water out. I can hear the sound of those splashes. I switch off the TV, the music player, the noisy tubelight, the fan. I switch off the phone. I don’t want it to ring or vibrate. I take my slippers off and walk barefeet. I tune out all sources of sound that exist around me due to my lifestyle. Today, I wish to hear the sound of this city.
 

I am told this is India’s noisiest city. Makes me wonder what noise is. And what is it like being noisiest? As I wonder about noise, I am indulged with the idea of music. Could even silence have a sound? Before I can bring one thought to an end, the next one crowds. This city is like my mind. It can slow down, can change the conversations and the sound. But it never sleeps. Like my mind, this city is which is full of several sounds. Sounds of the love I experience from so many people and of love I hold in my heart for others. Sounds of thoughts of self and matters of life. Sounds of the trivia and of essentials. And of course the sounds of this city, I still call Bombay.
 

I close my eyes and smile to myself. I recall what a yoga instructor had told me once, “Listen to the sound of your breath. Can you, Rohit? Several thoughts will come to you but you have to come back to your breath. Gently. Feel it. Listen to it. What does it tell you?” Each time I tried hard, but was always swayed away by several other sounds in my attempt to focus on my breath.
 

I wonder if this city ever practices yoga; if it ever listens to its breath. Or does it escape silently as if either it doesn’t exist or it doesn’t matter?
 

The evening sets in. I open my window. I look down below. What if I jump? I imagine myself dead lying on the ground… in a pool of blood. My breath, soundless.
 

I hear sounds of crickets in the still, green space in front of my house, which shall soon convert into a concrete structure. I see some construction workers pass by. I deafen myself to the cacophony of the vehicles on the highway. I attempt to listen to any recognizable sounds of these men and women. I try hard but can’t hear anything. I wonder if they have a sound in this city. If everyone like them have any sound in this city? Or are they the soundless breath this city lives on?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

To read the previous posts in this series, you may visit following links:

The city of hills and the sea VI: Where the mind is without fear...

The city of hills and the sea V: Love Happens!

The city of hills and the sea IV: My Home, My Way

The city of hills and the sea III: Of Belong and Belongings

The city of hills and the sea II: 16 Jyotsna

The city of hills and the sea I: weaklings?

The city of hills and the sea: Introduction