Love, Sex Aur Dhoka !

When I was growing up, I was extremely protected by my parents. Of course their way was not by keeping me away from things, but letting me know beforehand as to there is a big bad world out there that you have to be careful of. So things never came as a blow, right in the face. But theory being theory, when the real world hit – it is hurting. The last couple of days I have heard stories of friends and friends of friends on topics ranging from Break-up, Sex scandals, Infidelity, cheating, lying, hatred and everything that has had a very devastating effect on me. So much so that I have almost stopped believing in the sanctity of LOVE. It comes strangely so, as I have been under the influence of extreme Love for the past 4 months – but I wish to end it. Not because it has anything to do with between people, but I get scared of how things will end. I am determined all good things come to an end.

This is the real world. This is happening to real people. I for one want to salute Ekta Kapoor for she forsee’s the future. She was ahead of her time. Wife beaters, Cheating husbands, emotional tormentation, women sacrificing – she showed it all. When at a friend’s house, we happened to touch this very topic, each one had their story to tell of a friend or a friend’s friend. Don’t we all ? This is how our generation is living – in constant fear of a cheating partner. This is what is has all been reduced to.

Look at that show Emotional Atyachar on UTV Bindaas – what does that really tell us. Most of us live today with a feeling that honesty prevails and true love will win in the end. I see those chicken faces coming out of the studio. But truth better be known, than always remain in the unknown. The discovery of infidelity is a truly painful experience, but I genuinely believe that it is better to endure a short term pain, than to discover an infidelity down the line, when a relationship may have moved to a much more serious level. For those stuck in a serious relationship and who are bound by societal pressures and their loving children – I can only sympathise with you. I am a firm believer in GOD, and i believe everyone has their golden days – and yours will come as well.

If my parents told me there is a big bad world out there – they also told me that there is also a GOD who protects everyone who not only seeks it but deserves it as well. My prayers with everyone who seeks divine blessings !
BEWARE OF EMOTIONS, EXPECTATIONS and EGO ! ELEVATE over them to EXPERIENCE EMANTICIPATION !!!

Story of the next generation Japanese.

The parents and grandparents of today's youth of Japan put a nation back together after a devastating war and accomplished an "economic miracle" through incredible work and sacrifice. They lifted Japan to the front of the modern world. That has been the story of Japan for the past fifty years. What is the story of this generation? They have been the recipients of enormous wealth. They've had everything that previous generations lacked. The future has great potential. But they are growing up in a land that has paid a price. All I ever heard was how the Japanese race has been scarred for life ! World war 2 and its after effects can still be felt in the heart of the Japanese people. Ask a Japanese about Americans and look at their reaction. My history text book sympathizes with these affected Japanese. But yesterday I was taken aback while watching a documentary of Japan and its youth culture.

Japan is experiencing the first generation gap in its recorded history. It's obvious that change is happening. Like us new generation Indians – who have forgiven and forgotten what the British did to us. They even have a special name for those under the age of about thirty: shinjinrui (the new race). This "new race" represents more than just wild clothing and colorful hair. They are disobeying at school, violating age-old rules of public behavior, and rejecting the ideal of a lifelong job working six days a week for the company. Many are dropping out of school and taking part time jobs in exchange for time and freedom. What really sets this generation apart is their refusal to follow the paths of their parents or accept their society's vision of a happy future. This signals a change in culture, not just youthful rebellion. Japanese people are no longer the small frame, non-consuming, non-demanding, disciplined, hard-working race of the world we live in today.

Much of this change is public and flashy – like the pop culture especially in certain places, like Shibuya, where one encounters public expressions of a generation trying to find its voice and identity. For a person like me, who has never given Japan's group-centric culture a thought apart from what I learnt at school, this apparent surge of individualism comes as a shock. It's certainly a common theme around the world today. But you don’t expect the Japanese to be the new Americans ! Japan has been shocked in recent years by the increase in violent crimes among youth. These include high profile cases of unspeakable acts at the hands of elementary school kids. Among junior high and high school girls, casual prostitution is becoming common. A high percentage admit to using sex in exchange for money and gifts, and there is a growing market among older businessmen willing to pay young girls for sex, with plenty of takers.

Shibuya is a stage where this drama plays out. Most people in Shibuya at any given time don't live or even work there. Shibuya is a convergence of people and activities. Below ground several train lines come together delivering untold numbers of passengers to the heart of Tokyo. When they emerge at Hachiko Crossing, they encounter a vast intersection where thousands pour across the street at each turn of the light. They are businessmen, students, internationals, shoppers, and gawkers of all ages and types. Above the crowd, dominating the sides of buildings, the faces of celebrities and "pop idols" appear on giant video screens in music videos and commercials, though it's hard to draw a line between the two. Hundreds and thousands of young people on the streets below are trying to emulate their latest haircuts and clothing. It is the BIG APPLE & The TIMES SQUARE of the East, only with small frame people.

Finally, Shibuya is well known for the girls who show up there in the latest Shibuya style (there is even a magazine devoted to them). Two years ago, Shibuya was owned by ganguro (dark) girls. They were either excessively suntanned or they lathered themselves at night with fake tanning lotion. They were dark. On top of that, they wore pale lipstick and eye shadow and stood atop 12 inch platform boots. (Some were injured falling off their shoes, it's true.) Shibuya girls inevitably attract videographers and photographers. Some are getting footage for pop culture TV shows, others are working on "serious documentaries, and still others probably just want close up pictures of loose women. In any case, the girls do everything but hang up a billboard that says, "Cameras here!"

Shibuya, like other popular gathering points in and out of Japan, represents a generation trying to take control of their own lives--determining their own hair colors and clothing, making loud public statements, and challenging rules of conduct. It looks like a thriving post-modern carnival, edgy and full of vitality (if a bit dark in places). But youth, in their exuberance, are usually less radical and more deluded than they realize. There are other powerful players on the stage.
Despite the rebellious and revolutionary overtones, Shibuya seems mostly like a huge marketing machine, and Japanese young people are perhaps the ultimate consumers (with time, their parent's money, and a sense that individuality and freedom are commodities (perhaps imported from the USA). They provide the energy and the machine offers them choices. What do you DO in Shibuya? You look; you shop; you eat. Then you go home and buy the brands that you saw there. In a land of shrines, Shibuya is a shopping shrine. The "idols" are on the video screens. Music is lifted up. Offerings are taken. They even have temple prostitutes; it's sad to say.

By the way, when Starbucks came to Japan they made a smart move. They immediately put a store right in the center of Shibuya looking down over Hachiko Crossing. Today, Starbucks is on the way to becoming as ubiquitous in Japan as it is in the USA.

Japan forfeited both tradition and cultural identity in it's rush to modernity. Though you see plenty of religion and ritual, the majority of Japanese people do not have faith in any god or God. They only believe in themselves (and that is debatable, given what I've written above). For the past fifty years Japan has been a world leader in suicides.

Japan is still recovering from the national story it projected after World War II. They have lived on world sympathy. Now Japanese youth are making waves by answering the hard questions of who they are, why they are here and what is worth living for. Till then, they will get up in the morning, fight their over-disciplining parents, put on their newest music gizmos, shop till they run out of their inheritance money, follow fashion as much as a woman in Manhattan would, ape the West, get divorced, trade sexual favors, have more pets than children, smoke cigarettes, gamble, drink the world dry… I can't wait to make my personal impression of it when I first visit Japan this summer.

Child Sexual Abuse

“I asked you for help, and you told me you would
If I told you the things he did to me.
You asked me to trust you, and you made me
Repeat them to fourteen different strangers
I asked you for help and you gave me
A doctor with cold hands
Who spread my legs and stared at me
Just like my father.
I asked you for protection
And you gave me a social worker.
Do you know what it is like
Ihave more social workers than friends?
I asked you for help
And you forced my mother to choose between us.
She chose him, of course.
She was scared, she had a lot to lose.
I had a lot to lose too.
The difference is, you never told me how much.
I asked you to put an end to the abuse
You put an end to my whole family.
You took away my nights of hell
And gave me days of hell instead.
You have changed my private nightmare
Into a very public one.”
This is a poem written by a 12 year old girl ! Which girl has written it hardly matters, what is written moved me to tears. I came across a book called BITTER CHOCOLATE by Pinky Virani a few years ago. I was only a little child back then, but the fear of something like that happening to me looms over me each day, even today. I can’t even begin to imagine what the Victims of such a heinous crime would have to go through, living with someone their own, each day.

The book talks about the Child Sexual Abuse (CSA), and how it is so very common in India. Mira Nair portrayed it so subtly in her movie – MONSOON WEDDING. More recently we heard about the Austrian case and then about the astrologer – dad-child-mother quadrilateral case in India about incest’s ! It sends shudders down my spine. It is so prevalent, time and again I have heard stories, until I saw it for myself ... SHOCKING , but TRUE !

Each morning I pass this 1 street to get to work. The routine included the looking at the over-crowded bus-stop, the magazine vendor, the Unch with a tattoo of a scorpion on one side of the stomach, the beggar woman with a bad limp, the pandu directing the rush hour traffic and a little girl sitting on the side bench. She was not a beggar child. She wore new clothes each day, sat only when there was space on the bench, else stood there waiting her turn. Her eyes were deep, but revealed only how deep the hollow within it was. They talked about the pain and anguish on her life. One cannot forget these sights of their everyday life. It’s only a routine.
But my routine got disrupted the day my car broke down. From the comfort of my air conditioned car, I had to now look for an Auto-Rickshaw to get into. But Bombay being Bombay I didn’t find one coming my way. I then tried getting into the Bus ! I tried once, I let another one go. And then my friend called – she offered to give me a lift if I waited there for 15 mins. Beggars can’t be choosers and so I waited there for her.

Now I am the kind of individual who will strike conversation at a drop of a hat. So I the little girl on the bench something. She didn’t say anything. She just stared into my face and then looked away. I asked her again, “ Whats your name ? You know, I see you sitting on this bench everyday...” She looked back at me, this time tears started rolling down her eyes. I told her, oh I am sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you. I got scared and walked away, and stood below the shade on the bus-stop. My friend came after 25 minutes, but I hopped into her car without complaining.
The next day I passed that place again. This time I rolled down my window and waved at her. She just stared in my face and let me pass by. A few days into the routine of waving, she finally waved back. I was content with this acknowledgement and that at least I didn’t scare this little being anymore. A few months passed by, she was growing into a more beautiful girl than I had imaged her to be when I first took notice of her. The seasons changed and then came monsoon.

On days that it rained I saw her sitting below the bus-stop. Days when the sun came out it seemed as though it was all on her... Until that day when I saw her crying in the rain. I felt as though I owed it to our routine to stop and ask her if what was wrong. Maybe she was hungry? Maybe she was hurt? Maybe she saw a new stranger like me, who scared her? The car stopped a little ahead and I walked back to the bench. I held my umbrella above her head. For a minute or 2 she just thought the rain had stopped pouring, until I snapped her out of it. I asked her what had happened?
And she told me the most shocking story ever. Here is what she had to say ...

“My first memory of abuse was at a very early age, with my father abusing my mum or should I say bashing with closed fists, it seemed to be a regular event in my life. My father works at a beddi factory earning daily wages. He is a big solid man and demanded and expected everything to be done his way and if wasn't there was hell to pay. My poor mum's life consisted of being a housemaid and wife. There was nothing more to her life other than this routine. She was not allowed friends except for the neighbours. But the neighbours kept their distance for my mother’s sake in fear that my father would torture her till the end of the night, when he would collapse on the floor from all the drinking. Meals had to be at a certain time and that included a hot meal at 12pm as father would come home for lunch and dinner at 9pm on the dot. Dinner was only for him, for the rest of us it was daal and rice only.

My worst memory of mum’s abuse was one night my dad had gotten into a fight with his boss and was thrown out of his job. We were pushed into the neighbour’s house for the rest of the night. In the morning when I went into the house to see how my mum was, the memory of which is still with me today, my mum’s face was black and blue swollen beyond belief and dried blood not only on her face but up the bedroom walls. Even as a young child I tried to defend my mum only to receive a smack across my head.

My mum’s world was our world too, my brother and I knew no different and even though my mum endured all this she still idolised my dad. A few days after this episode my mother collapsed. With the help of a neighbour we rushed her to Cooper Hospital. The doctor pronounced her dead. He said that the beating has caused internal bleeding and today she bled out. That night my father came home drunk once more. This time it was my brother’s turn. He bashed my brother up for not taking care of my mother while he was away. I urged father to sit down and eat. I served him daal and vegetable with rice that had been cooked by my mother that very morning before she collapsed.

What was surprising was that my father was not grieving. He ate the food like a scavenger and left nothing for my brother or I. On the pre-text of going and getting some food my brother left the house never to come back. A neighbours’ boy told me that he was sorry for my state, and that my brother promised he would come back for me, but he needed to get away and had apologised. I understood him, and was happy that at least he would find a solution.

Days turned into weeks and then my agony started. My father came back home one night sober. He asked me to come and sit on his lap. For a moment I thought I was living a dream. I ran into his arms and hugged him really tight. He started stroking my head, and then my back and was now slowly getting down to his dirty business. I was ranting about how I missed my mother, while he went down and further down. I was now slowly feeling his hand under my frock on my thigh. I looked at him in disbelief. I didn’t want him to touch me there. But he was, he put his hands into my underwear. At first he stroked me gently, but then it was hurting. He fingered me so hard, and then he rubbed his hands against my breasts. I tried to get up and walk across the room, or run out of the house but he held me very tight. I couldn’t break free from his grip. I started crying. He shouted and screamt and ordered me not to cry, but I couldn’t help anything that was happening. He slapped me. The blow was so hard that I fell against the floor. I felt as though my ribs has crashed against the floor. I could hardly get up. I crawled into the next room and sat in one corner. I was scared. I just hugged myself and listened to some activity in the other room for a while and then he fell asleep. From the small window overlooking the nalla I could see the night turn into day.

The next morning, it was almost as though everything was k. He asked me if I had slept alright. He said he would be back for lunch and left for his factory. In the next few days he found a new job. His new job took a toll on him. The long hours gave him just enough energy to trudge back home, eat and sleep to renew his energy for the next day. I didn’t know who I could speak to, cause father forbade me to have any contact with the outside world. He said if I did he would throw me out of the house. The memory of that hell-braking-loose night was fading. But such a happy arrangement didn’t last long. He started drinking more, and went to work with a hangover. After several warnings he was fired again. This was 2 weeks ago. He now started drinking in the house. We had more empty alcohol bottles in the house than the other things put together. Hewould drink and drop and in between his drinking he abusse me, sometimes 3 – 4 times a day. He would insert all sorts of things in me, some even sharp that have left scars. I cannot move as the pain in between my legs is so intense that I just want to die. I have lost control over my urine. I drip all day long. The dripping is causing a foul smell. If I wash myself with soap it burns... and .... and .... and”

OH MY GOD !!! I didn’t have the heart to listen to this little girl anymore... I was shocked, I was horrified... It caused some acute pain within me. I said to myself I had to do something about this. The first thing that I thought was of a Police Complain and Social Service Organisations who know how to control these things. I wanted to take her to the hospital. I had a 1000 thoughts in my mind running at the same point in time. My heart went out to this little girl. I told her if she wanted me to help her I would. She said this has happened before. People take on a cause like hers, and then forget all about it. The momentum was lost somewhere. She didn’t want to lose hope one more time. She asked me to get going with my day. I urged her to let me help her. She said she could do with some money to buy some medication. MONEY!!! You want money!!!

When she asked for MONEY, it ticked me off. An urban INDIAN is so used to beggars and CON men , that I thought this was some ploy to get some money out of me. I asked her how much, she said Rs 1000. So now, this was it really! A 1000 bucks once every year v/s the 10 rupees everyday!!! Was my sympathy to take her to the hospital not enough? I insisted that I pay it myself. She said she wouldn’t go with me. I thought this was a foul play. I said to her I didn’t have the money, knowing full well I did. She insisted only on the money.

I left the bench in a fury !! This girl had wasted so much of my time on a Wednesday morning!!! I went through the day. I was so upset. I didn’t understand why beggars were becoming CON-MEN. I ranted about this episode to my family and kin throughout the day. What is the world coming to,??? said my mother. My grandmother screamt – KALYUG !!!

The next day I passed by the same bench, only to find her still there. But this time she was in her same clothes from the previous day and she was not sitting but she was sleeping on the bench. Some passersby looked at her for a moment and turned away. Most people covered their face with their handkerchief indicating foul smell. Then someone screamt and a huge crowd formed around her. I was looking at this scene from my rare-view mirror now. I felt inquisitive, I pulled up. I walked back to the bench only to find her dead. I called for the ambulance and rushed her to the hospital. The doctor recognized her from a few days ago. He has suggested her a Gynac. The Gynac at this government hospital has asked her for a minor surgery to be performed on her. It would cost her Rs 1000.

Maybe she couldn’t move when I offered to take her to the hospital ! Maybe I didn’t give her a chance to end her story ! Maybe she was scared I would inform her father. Maybe we are so pre-judgemental in our daily lives that an apple cannot be an apple always. I feel partly responsible now for not looking out for her. I feel as though I didn’t fulfil my purpose. I ask the universe for forgiveness today ! May her soul rest in peace. But her story needs to be told, so that we can break out of our mansions and beautiful lives to commit to a cause !!

I have found my cause – People against CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE ... !!