In keeping with the modern trend, Bandra, that lovely suburb of tree-lined avenues and tiled cottages in quiet country lanes had to make way for the juggernaut of progressive growth! As Bombay turned into Mumbai it expanded to the North, creeping over all land and water, reaching the Dahisar river bank and further. The present Metropolis may be modern and posh but its underbelly, covered with sores and eruptions needs immediate attention to halt the collapse of this great city. Despite the glamour of night life, for the thousands of its ordinary citizens living here, Bandra is representative of all the ills that plague Mumbai.
The present crop of problems has arisen from the fact that various authorities that tend to the needs of the city seem to be functioning independently of each other. This blinkered vision in the name of progress is impacting the life of ordinary citizens. The need for an integrated force that takes all aspects of growth into consideration before a new project is launched is lacking in the minds of the city planners. Roads, Transport, Construction, Power, law-enforcement and the service agencies need to collaborate not only with each other but also with MCGM to formulate a sleek and feasible plan conducive to easy living. A token of an agreement between various authorities may exist on paper but is it being treated comprehensively?
It is sad to think that the transformation of Bandra into a commercial and entertainment hub has itself sounded its death-knell! The night clubs, pubs, lounge-bars, restaurants and gymnasia that seem to have cropped up overnight here are drawing patrons from all over Mumbai and the strain of this extra load on Bandra roads is choking the breath out of its lungs! For anyone commuting from the island city to the Northern suburbs passing through Bandra will pose a major road block of delay, wasted time and fuel that invariably ends in ugly incidents of road rage. Bandra’s arteries are perennially clogged with traffic that clusters around the plush eating joints and spills over to the adjoining roads till the whole area becomes one stagnant pool of vehicles emitting deadly pollution and noise. .
Let us deal with just this one problem here. While analyzing this most critical problem, i.e. traffic snarls on most of Bandra’s arteries at any given time of the day, more questions pop up than answers. Vehicles parked on both sides of the roads that slow down the flow of traffic belong to citizens from outside Bandra, patrons of the increasing number of eating joints and lounge bars. How did the number of restaurants grow so unwieldy within such a short time, leading to total collapse of vehicular movement? Why was the lack of parking space and the narrow roads around the new eateries, the proximity to a school or Nursing Home not taken into account when the license/permit was granted?
From the meager presence of the Traffic police on the choked roads one can surmise that even the Traffic police have thrown up their hands in despair because any number of phone calls fail to elicit any response, the excuse being the shortage of personnel in the department!
Monday, February 14, 2011
Saturday, September 20, 2008
What price Power?
Power is heady, addictive and corrupt. Once you taste power you will cling to be there come hell or high water. Look at the old Netas.... what is the collection of antiques at the helm of affairs doing there? creating a geriatrics ward?
If common people are eased out at 60 because they are no more the agile, alert humans they once were, the thirst for power keeps politicians at 70-80 still young and capable of governing a big Democracy like India!
No? Then why are they pursuing netagiri with single-minded devotion, immune to kosi's wrath, mahanadi's mayhem and Bajrang Dal's brutality against Christians, closeted in their ivory towers, dreaming of winning the general elections just round the corner, to grab power once again?
Power gives the right to donate someone's land to your friend, legalise a structure in the middle of the road, create a slum where ther was none, hold back a planeload of aam janta for your late arrival and go globe trotting with your extended clan spending the tax payers' money!
If common people are eased out at 60 because they are no more the agile, alert humans they once were, the thirst for power keeps politicians at 70-80 still young and capable of governing a big Democracy like India!
No? Then why are they pursuing netagiri with single-minded devotion, immune to kosi's wrath, mahanadi's mayhem and Bajrang Dal's brutality against Christians, closeted in their ivory towers, dreaming of winning the general elections just round the corner, to grab power once again?
Power gives the right to donate someone's land to your friend, legalise a structure in the middle of the road, create a slum where ther was none, hold back a planeload of aam janta for your late arrival and go globe trotting with your extended clan spending the tax payers' money!
This is me
This is me. I live my life thinking about me. What am I going to do today? Call up a few friends, arrange to hang out, grab a bite, take in a movie basically do everything that I want to do to make me happy. This is me. What are the other things I love to do? Lets squeeze those in. Its great to be living life king-size as the ad goes. Have tons of stuff going on so maybe go onto facebook and let the world know - man, life's a ride, a long weekend, I am living it up. This is me.
And in the background of this hectic, happening, awesome life there's stuff happening that sticks like little yellow post-it notes way back on the noticeboard. Take down the salsa classes and the shoe-shopping and whoaa whats that? Some one else, another person, another someone like me? Naaah they're not having such a great time. Hell no, they're being beaten up, and Oh my god! burnt alive Good Lord! Why? Why? What? there's a truckload of reasons why and not a single one makes sense!! Because would it make sense? to thrash the living daylights out of someone, another someone (like me?) Oh man. Tough. Wrong place wrong time. Shit happens. Next.
But hang on a minute, what if I'm next?
BIG FAT WAKE UP CALL. Now's the time to make some noise. Now's the time to ask those questions. Now's the time to snap out it. Because I've a dirty feeling I know who's next!
And in the background of this hectic, happening, awesome life there's stuff happening that sticks like little yellow post-it notes way back on the noticeboard. Take down the salsa classes and the shoe-shopping and whoaa whats that? Some one else, another person, another someone like me? Naaah they're not having such a great time. Hell no, they're being beaten up, and Oh my god! burnt alive Good Lord! Why? Why? What? there's a truckload of reasons why and not a single one makes sense!! Because would it make sense? to thrash the living daylights out of someone, another someone (like me?) Oh man. Tough. Wrong place wrong time. Shit happens. Next.
But hang on a minute, what if I'm next?
BIG FAT WAKE UP CALL. Now's the time to make some noise. Now's the time to ask those questions. Now's the time to snap out it. Because I've a dirty feeling I know who's next!
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The Greatest Great Grand Mother
We were privileged. As children we had plenty of loving hearts, caring minds and soothing hands to tend to us. Turn to one or the other- there was always a tender bosom and gentle caress as balm to our minor worries and hurts. Yes, those were the days of ideal and extended families…….
Grandmothers, the matriarchs were the anchoring force that held drifting youth and warring women firmly secured to the hearth and home. Their unconditional love bound people together and forged a family into one loving unit that enjoyed and sorrowed as one man.
But grandmothers these days can be found mostly in old-age homes, fending alone for themselves or relegated to the dark corners, denied of their rightful place and position. So, I invite you to take a peek into the world of grandmothers……those spent forces that have given everything they possessed to make you and me what we are today!
She was a frail pretty lady bent under the weight of her age, but filled the house with her quiet presence and calm yet dignified ways. She was Aboli, my great grandmother, whom I had the good fortune of knowing in my own childish ways only for a few years at the beginning of my life.
Her husband, Bernard Kamath was known to be a handsome towering personality and beside her huge knight, Aboli looked the dainty little bloom that she really was! But if looks could ever be deceptive, they were in this case- I have heard it said that she ruled her large family with an iron hand hidden in that gentle touch. The large man in her life had a large heart too and would have donated even the shirt off his back if not for the firm restraining hand behind him. Not that she was uncharitable, living next to the church provided ample opportunities for reaching out to the church and the needy.
Though all of us loved ‘Aboli Mai’, few of us knew that her real name was not Aboli and till this day none of us of the fourth generation ever felt the need to know her real name, for us she will always remain the sweet Aboli mai she was to the family. Even my father and his siblings addressed her by that name apart from the dozens of his cousins, nieces, nephews…..!
As a result of education and employment in the premier cities of the country, parents in my family were addressed according to the legacy of our erstwhile white rulers. So that left the endearing term of ‘mai’ to be bestowed on the grandmothers both of who were the embodiment of love and concern for the littlest members of the family. If the grandmother was a ‘mai’ what would her mother be? Not one contemporary of mine would distort it into ‘big mai’ or ‘small mai’! So ‘Aboli Mai’ it was, the name that fitted the personality perfectly.
Often the mix-up in forms of addressal was the rule of the day, since aunts, uncles, nephews and nieces were contemporaries and no form of salutation would measure the deep bond that existed between them. But the name ‘Aboli mai’ remained unmoved and unchanged; she was a grandmother to all! As an Octogenarian, she moved around the house alert and observant of the situations, risen out of catering to the diverse needs of the vast family. Her eldest daughter, my own grandmother turned out to be a chip of the old block, sensitive and patient to the point of being a living saint!
Sometimes it dawns on me that my love for all things in nature must come from that one gene passed on to me by these two beloved grandmothers of mine. Both had green thumbs, planted saplings in the vast properties they owned and lived in cottages that were airy and open to the sun. The use of earthenware vessels on woodstoves produced the most delicious food I have ever tasted in my life- both were cooks par excellance! The image of Aboli Mai sitting on her haunches on the vast verandah of the house, enjoying her red-rice and fish curry from her ‘Malthi’, while the steady drizzle outside sprinkled her with a few drops of water as though in blessings, is etched in my mind till this day!
Much later, after her demise I learnt the origins of this name. It seems, to distinguish her from the other grand mothers, she was named, ‘Abageli Mai’( grandmother from grandfather’s house) which on young inexperienced tongues evolved into the present short form! When the June wind rustles the Jackfruit leaves on the huge tree next to the house, it is a reminder to all of us that a great spirit lived and died in this house all those years ago! May her soul rest in peace!
- Vera Alvares
Grandmothers, the matriarchs were the anchoring force that held drifting youth and warring women firmly secured to the hearth and home. Their unconditional love bound people together and forged a family into one loving unit that enjoyed and sorrowed as one man.
But grandmothers these days can be found mostly in old-age homes, fending alone for themselves or relegated to the dark corners, denied of their rightful place and position. So, I invite you to take a peek into the world of grandmothers……those spent forces that have given everything they possessed to make you and me what we are today!
She was a frail pretty lady bent under the weight of her age, but filled the house with her quiet presence and calm yet dignified ways. She was Aboli, my great grandmother, whom I had the good fortune of knowing in my own childish ways only for a few years at the beginning of my life.
Her husband, Bernard Kamath was known to be a handsome towering personality and beside her huge knight, Aboli looked the dainty little bloom that she really was! But if looks could ever be deceptive, they were in this case- I have heard it said that she ruled her large family with an iron hand hidden in that gentle touch. The large man in her life had a large heart too and would have donated even the shirt off his back if not for the firm restraining hand behind him. Not that she was uncharitable, living next to the church provided ample opportunities for reaching out to the church and the needy.
Though all of us loved ‘Aboli Mai’, few of us knew that her real name was not Aboli and till this day none of us of the fourth generation ever felt the need to know her real name, for us she will always remain the sweet Aboli mai she was to the family. Even my father and his siblings addressed her by that name apart from the dozens of his cousins, nieces, nephews…..!
As a result of education and employment in the premier cities of the country, parents in my family were addressed according to the legacy of our erstwhile white rulers. So that left the endearing term of ‘mai’ to be bestowed on the grandmothers both of who were the embodiment of love and concern for the littlest members of the family. If the grandmother was a ‘mai’ what would her mother be? Not one contemporary of mine would distort it into ‘big mai’ or ‘small mai’! So ‘Aboli Mai’ it was, the name that fitted the personality perfectly.
Often the mix-up in forms of addressal was the rule of the day, since aunts, uncles, nephews and nieces were contemporaries and no form of salutation would measure the deep bond that existed between them. But the name ‘Aboli mai’ remained unmoved and unchanged; she was a grandmother to all! As an Octogenarian, she moved around the house alert and observant of the situations, risen out of catering to the diverse needs of the vast family. Her eldest daughter, my own grandmother turned out to be a chip of the old block, sensitive and patient to the point of being a living saint!
Sometimes it dawns on me that my love for all things in nature must come from that one gene passed on to me by these two beloved grandmothers of mine. Both had green thumbs, planted saplings in the vast properties they owned and lived in cottages that were airy and open to the sun. The use of earthenware vessels on woodstoves produced the most delicious food I have ever tasted in my life- both were cooks par excellance! The image of Aboli Mai sitting on her haunches on the vast verandah of the house, enjoying her red-rice and fish curry from her ‘Malthi’, while the steady drizzle outside sprinkled her with a few drops of water as though in blessings, is etched in my mind till this day!
Much later, after her demise I learnt the origins of this name. It seems, to distinguish her from the other grand mothers, she was named, ‘Abageli Mai’( grandmother from grandfather’s house) which on young inexperienced tongues evolved into the present short form! When the June wind rustles the Jackfruit leaves on the huge tree next to the house, it is a reminder to all of us that a great spirit lived and died in this house all those years ago! May her soul rest in peace!
- Vera Alvares
Friday, May 2, 2008
anilthakraneyonsunday: Pirate BMC
Well, Mumbaikars used to turning a blind eye to BMC's corruption and failure for a long time will not bother about this move to levy taxes on the rent collected by landlords.Is the BMC authorised to do this? Can it be challenged ina court of law? Who will bell the fat cat?...Barring the few activists battling to save open spaces, clear pavements, implement non-hawking zones,no Mumbaikar has the time or inclination to fight for his rights. With the redevelopment of properties, corporators are getting richer, skimming the cream at the source, for themselves! That apart, the poor track record of BMC should have prompted right-thinking citizens to question as to where the funds already collected by BMC, the richest Civic body in India go..Yes, housing will be expensive, flats will remain vacant for want of residents.Buyers will hesitate to invest in real estate and hopefully the construction activity will come to a standstill. But in the long run, the increasing number of slums, encroachers, hawkers will turn away good citizens from coming here... Schemes such as these will hasten the demise of the so-called commercial capital of India... whom will they tax then?
Saturday, April 26, 2008
Masala Mania!
Masala Mania!
Blame it on the balmy sea-breeze, the proximity to personalities or the verdant vegetation, people in Bandra sport an unparalleled zeal for action, according to the reports of happenings in newsletters.Life here is always filled with smells, sounds and colours.
I love the colours of life- life for me is a VIBGYOR stretched from birth to death! Lots of sober indigoes, blues and greens, a touch of sunny yellows most of the time, with oranges and reds creeping in bringing troubles and trauma sometimes!
One such event was being organised by the busybodies of Bandra and the announcement proclaimed that the ‘Bombay Portuguese’ community was organizing a fun and food mela at the local Gymkhana! At the mention of 'food', i sat up and took note, food that is cooked by anyone other than me, is a treat. I had to sample the fare, the parade of mouth-watering dishes with exotic names.The disclosure that the recipes were a closely guarded secret by generations made the cuisine all the more mysterious. That brings me to today’s colour of life- Masala !
Though the debate whether man lives to eat or eats to live has been raging for long, it cannot be denied that man cannot live without food- some enjoy it more while others sit with their mental calculators to count the calories till the food goes to sleep on the plate, cold and unappetizing. No respect for the tantalizing aroma wafting out of that delectable dish or the loving labour of those hands toiling for hours at the hot stove. Food is just a commodity. Love’s labour lost is another story, better told another day. So back to the masala……
Like the original inhabitants of Bombay (sorry BalaSaheb, you came much after them!), many experienced cooks guard their recipes as though it is a question of life and death. They deal with the request for the recipe deftly, omitting that one important ingredient that makes or breaks the dish or conveniently forget to mention that the meat has to be basted in the grill not burnt at the stake! With the result that there are hundreds of recipes of the same dish floating around- right from Chole to Churise, Sambar to Sambari and Vindal becomes Indad, Vindalu, Vindaloo( with one o or two)! Appams of some regions begin to wander around as Hoppers when transported to other regions. No Pav-Baji tastes the same at different places in the same city. Oh, the intricacies of Indian cuisine are as vast as the masalas in this land- ask Kunal, my favourite chef!
Stepping back to the time our grandmothers stood over the wood-stoves to make delectable stone-ground masala by ‘throwing in a fistful of this and a pinch of that’, we realize that most of those mysterious menus are lost in the haze of man’s memory. Preparation of food was an art, to be practiced and mastered, not read out of worn out pages. A ‘lemon sized’ tamarind could either ruin the curry or render it inedible, depending on the size of lemons that grew in one’s garden. You see the damage done to the prized recipes by writing them down? Anyway how can you put down on paper the love and care bestowed on each item that went into the pot- the freshness of fish, the unadulterated spices and the stone pressed fragrant oil that lent its personality to the preparation? Tearing tetra or plucking plastic to get at the ready-made contents requires no concentration, leave alone labour of love! But who cares, for those who eat to live, the rubbery scraps of vegetables floating in the cornflour taste like manna!
Oh yes, we know the usual rhetoric- life in the fast lane, aiming for higher achievements, reaching for the stars…..leaves no time to know what a masala is! More than that, cooking is meant for housewives, not high-flyers!
Not many know that many entrepreneurs have pitched in to help just such lifestyles, by packaging ground masalas, some of which are so good that chefs swear by them…..one such is the king of masala, named so for the unique blend of ingredients available in the Eastern spice lands. Just dump whatever you wish to cook in this powder, throw in some yoghurt and leave the mess alone till you complete your office assignment at your PC. The food sits there quietly incorporating the flavours and turning into a delectable dish when tossed on the grill, tandoor, oven or stove. You will get several brownie points for this highly appreciated cuisine and the bonus is you can still guard your ‘secret recipe’!
The holiday season is here……go enjoy some good food and forget calories!
- Vera Alvares
Blame it on the balmy sea-breeze, the proximity to personalities or the verdant vegetation, people in Bandra sport an unparalleled zeal for action, according to the reports of happenings in newsletters.Life here is always filled with smells, sounds and colours.
I love the colours of life- life for me is a VIBGYOR stretched from birth to death! Lots of sober indigoes, blues and greens, a touch of sunny yellows most of the time, with oranges and reds creeping in bringing troubles and trauma sometimes!
One such event was being organised by the busybodies of Bandra and the announcement proclaimed that the ‘Bombay Portuguese’ community was organizing a fun and food mela at the local Gymkhana! At the mention of 'food', i sat up and took note, food that is cooked by anyone other than me, is a treat. I had to sample the fare, the parade of mouth-watering dishes with exotic names.The disclosure that the recipes were a closely guarded secret by generations made the cuisine all the more mysterious. That brings me to today’s colour of life- Masala !
Though the debate whether man lives to eat or eats to live has been raging for long, it cannot be denied that man cannot live without food- some enjoy it more while others sit with their mental calculators to count the calories till the food goes to sleep on the plate, cold and unappetizing. No respect for the tantalizing aroma wafting out of that delectable dish or the loving labour of those hands toiling for hours at the hot stove. Food is just a commodity. Love’s labour lost is another story, better told another day. So back to the masala……
Like the original inhabitants of Bombay (sorry BalaSaheb, you came much after them!), many experienced cooks guard their recipes as though it is a question of life and death. They deal with the request for the recipe deftly, omitting that one important ingredient that makes or breaks the dish or conveniently forget to mention that the meat has to be basted in the grill not burnt at the stake! With the result that there are hundreds of recipes of the same dish floating around- right from Chole to Churise, Sambar to Sambari and Vindal becomes Indad, Vindalu, Vindaloo( with one o or two)! Appams of some regions begin to wander around as Hoppers when transported to other regions. No Pav-Baji tastes the same at different places in the same city. Oh, the intricacies of Indian cuisine are as vast as the masalas in this land- ask Kunal, my favourite chef!
Stepping back to the time our grandmothers stood over the wood-stoves to make delectable stone-ground masala by ‘throwing in a fistful of this and a pinch of that’, we realize that most of those mysterious menus are lost in the haze of man’s memory. Preparation of food was an art, to be practiced and mastered, not read out of worn out pages. A ‘lemon sized’ tamarind could either ruin the curry or render it inedible, depending on the size of lemons that grew in one’s garden. You see the damage done to the prized recipes by writing them down? Anyway how can you put down on paper the love and care bestowed on each item that went into the pot- the freshness of fish, the unadulterated spices and the stone pressed fragrant oil that lent its personality to the preparation? Tearing tetra or plucking plastic to get at the ready-made contents requires no concentration, leave alone labour of love! But who cares, for those who eat to live, the rubbery scraps of vegetables floating in the cornflour taste like manna!
Oh yes, we know the usual rhetoric- life in the fast lane, aiming for higher achievements, reaching for the stars…..leaves no time to know what a masala is! More than that, cooking is meant for housewives, not high-flyers!
Not many know that many entrepreneurs have pitched in to help just such lifestyles, by packaging ground masalas, some of which are so good that chefs swear by them…..one such is the king of masala, named so for the unique blend of ingredients available in the Eastern spice lands. Just dump whatever you wish to cook in this powder, throw in some yoghurt and leave the mess alone till you complete your office assignment at your PC. The food sits there quietly incorporating the flavours and turning into a delectable dish when tossed on the grill, tandoor, oven or stove. You will get several brownie points for this highly appreciated cuisine and the bonus is you can still guard your ‘secret recipe’!
The holiday season is here……go enjoy some good food and forget calories!
- Vera Alvares
Sunday, March 23, 2008
Death of a Daughter
She is a mother, battling against the powerful and corrupt forces to get justice for her dead daughter, to lay her down in eternal rest among the lilies grown on a hillside in a faraway land. Long after the demise, she has not been able to give her daughter a decent farewell, instead watched the lifeless body sullied and debased as repeated Post-mortems had to be conducted on it to expose the lie by the very people who are supposed to be the guardians of the law of the land. She has been called names, branded as a poor irresponsible mother, for whose sins the daughter had to die a miserable death, plied with substance, raped, and her head held under water till her thrashing body subsided into death.
Would you suffer this fate for your darling little girl? No….? Then why should Fiona?
After killing her body, even her memory is being assassinated by the perpetrators of the crime to deflect attention from their heinous crime and the media gleefully laps it up! Has the word, ‘compassion’ disappeared from the dictionary in the land of the Mahatma? Even if there was some truth in it, we humans are known to leave the dead to bury its dead. The human action of hurling abuses at a corpse can be interpreted as a desperate attempt to save one’s one own neck!
No mother however negligent deserves this fate- every waking hour a torment by the memory of those vivid bruises on her daughter’s body, each night a torture chamber of imagining the brutal assault and rape of her child by strangers who befriended the hapless girl from the very beginning with ulterior motives. No mother should be compelled to endure the agony of not knowing the thoughts and struggles of her child during her dying moments. No mother should be made to feel guilty for seeking justice on behalf of her dead girl. Then why are those snoopy moles digging into the antecedent of this brave mother? Is it to assist the cover up?
Wordly-wise or not, no young girl deserves the kind of death her daughter was condemned to, by people who had no right to judge her morality. Going by the same standards, the perpetrators of the crime and also thousands of women of such loose character should all be condemned to die similar deaths. Was Scarlett the only girl-woman with the trust of a little girl and the actions of a gown woman, the only one of our times who entrusted her life to a lover, a man no never really loved her? Who will judge the rest of the sinners and pronounce punishment? You or the enthusiastic media?
If poverty is no sin, living in a decrepit caravan can be a decent way to live for the poor, better than begging on the streets. Justifying punishment on the basis of one’s economic status is worse than the primitive law of stoning the adulteress. So, deprive the poor of access to law courts because they have to be punished for being poor!
Since when have a poor mother’s sins to be atoned by sacrificing a daughter at the altar of drugs and lust? Since when have Indians, reputed to be spiritual and homely turned rapists and butchers in the pursuit of pleasure and riches? Who are these hard-hearted fathers of young daughters who untouched by the gruesome death of a young girl of their own daughter’s age, trying to cover up the crime? Is power and wealth so intoxicating that a government goes overboard using its machinery to dodge the simple issue of arresting criminals responsible for the girl’s death?
Each day there is a ‘new twist to the Scarlett case’, apparently leading to more lies to cover up the original one. Where will this sequence of deceit end? Would the ending be different if the parents of the slain girl were rich and influential that they could rattle a few bones in the corridors of power with a snap of their fingers? Why is the government going round in circles, even at the risk of making itself the butt of aversion and ridicule at the hands of the citizens of the land? Are the stakes so high that the ministers are willing to get caught evading questions on national television, than get cracking cleaning up the state?
Everything is linked together. Those who make a few pennies more are gloating over the fact without realizing that the larger picture reveals doom for the state. Renting shacks and feeding a few mouths cannot balance the dangers of rape and fragmentation of the land, degeneration of values to accommodate tourism and the influx of aliens swiftly taking over trade and business from the locals. Can we see beyond our own noses?
- Vera Alvares
Would you suffer this fate for your darling little girl? No….? Then why should Fiona?
After killing her body, even her memory is being assassinated by the perpetrators of the crime to deflect attention from their heinous crime and the media gleefully laps it up! Has the word, ‘compassion’ disappeared from the dictionary in the land of the Mahatma? Even if there was some truth in it, we humans are known to leave the dead to bury its dead. The human action of hurling abuses at a corpse can be interpreted as a desperate attempt to save one’s one own neck!
No mother however negligent deserves this fate- every waking hour a torment by the memory of those vivid bruises on her daughter’s body, each night a torture chamber of imagining the brutal assault and rape of her child by strangers who befriended the hapless girl from the very beginning with ulterior motives. No mother should be compelled to endure the agony of not knowing the thoughts and struggles of her child during her dying moments. No mother should be made to feel guilty for seeking justice on behalf of her dead girl. Then why are those snoopy moles digging into the antecedent of this brave mother? Is it to assist the cover up?
Wordly-wise or not, no young girl deserves the kind of death her daughter was condemned to, by people who had no right to judge her morality. Going by the same standards, the perpetrators of the crime and also thousands of women of such loose character should all be condemned to die similar deaths. Was Scarlett the only girl-woman with the trust of a little girl and the actions of a gown woman, the only one of our times who entrusted her life to a lover, a man no never really loved her? Who will judge the rest of the sinners and pronounce punishment? You or the enthusiastic media?
If poverty is no sin, living in a decrepit caravan can be a decent way to live for the poor, better than begging on the streets. Justifying punishment on the basis of one’s economic status is worse than the primitive law of stoning the adulteress. So, deprive the poor of access to law courts because they have to be punished for being poor!
Since when have a poor mother’s sins to be atoned by sacrificing a daughter at the altar of drugs and lust? Since when have Indians, reputed to be spiritual and homely turned rapists and butchers in the pursuit of pleasure and riches? Who are these hard-hearted fathers of young daughters who untouched by the gruesome death of a young girl of their own daughter’s age, trying to cover up the crime? Is power and wealth so intoxicating that a government goes overboard using its machinery to dodge the simple issue of arresting criminals responsible for the girl’s death?
Each day there is a ‘new twist to the Scarlett case’, apparently leading to more lies to cover up the original one. Where will this sequence of deceit end? Would the ending be different if the parents of the slain girl were rich and influential that they could rattle a few bones in the corridors of power with a snap of their fingers? Why is the government going round in circles, even at the risk of making itself the butt of aversion and ridicule at the hands of the citizens of the land? Are the stakes so high that the ministers are willing to get caught evading questions on national television, than get cracking cleaning up the state?
Everything is linked together. Those who make a few pennies more are gloating over the fact without realizing that the larger picture reveals doom for the state. Renting shacks and feeding a few mouths cannot balance the dangers of rape and fragmentation of the land, degeneration of values to accommodate tourism and the influx of aliens swiftly taking over trade and business from the locals. Can we see beyond our own noses?
- Vera Alvares
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