This letter is posted on behalf of the Consortium of Pubgoing Loose and Forward Women, courtesy of P.R. Chaudhuri. You can use this letter as it is written or make any alterations you see fit - or send your own letter. The important thing is to communicate your protest and your outrage. The addresses to which the following letters/emails may be sent are appended below. When sending thse emails, PLEASE send a copy to mahilabharati@yahoo.com - this is Chaudhuri's email address. The copy will enable the Consortium to keep a record of how many emails were sent. Thank you!
Dear Sir,
In the last week women in the cities of Bangalore and Mangalore have faced physical attacks by gangs of strangers. These women , without the slightest provocation - unless exercising your rights as a free citizen of India by travelling, driving a car, or walking on the street as all of us have the right to do - can be counted as a provocation - were threatened, intimidated, cursed, and beaten. Some of them will be traumatized for life ; others will be afraid to walk the streets of their own cities again. These attacks are nothing less than a dastardly attempt to circumscribe the freedom of movement of women.
We are a group of concerned citizens, male and female, old and young, Hindu, Muslim, Sikh and Christian, from all walks of life, who have gathered to express our outrage and to register our strong protest that such goons are allowed to disrupt the lives of ordinary citizens with impunity. We ask that you restore to us our right to walk our own cities free of fear and the threat of assault. We ask that you bring these miscreants to justice and return to us the confidence in our lawmakers which should be our birthright. For this is not just a "women's issue," when one woman is attacked, we are all diminished; we all have our rights as citizens eroded along with her.
We, the people, ask you for justice and for protection. We hope and trust that you will not fail us.
Sincerely,
Addresses follow:
Dr. VS Acharya
Home Minister - Karnataka State
Room no. 315 & 315 A
Vidhan Soudha
Bangalore 560001
Tel: 080 22252536
vsacharya@gmail.com
P. Chidambaram
Ministry of Home Affairs, North Block
Central Secretariat
New Delhi - 110 001
Phone: 23092011, 23092161
websitemhaweb@nic.in
Dr. Ajai Kumar Singh
DG & IGP
Karnataka State Police Headquarters
Nrupathunga Road
Bangalore
Tel: 080 22211803, 22942999
police@ksp.gov.in
When sending thse emails, PLEASE send a copy to mahilabharati@yahoo.com - this is Chaudhuri's email address.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Driving with Chris
I was in a hurry to get home, for the rain was scything across my windscreen and visibility was declining. So, it seemed, were my fellow drivers, whose cars scurried past, as though we all shared a common object – hunkering down till we could get to the shelter of our respective homes. We were isolated in our moving machines, but we were warm and safe. I was just thinking how good it felt not to be out in this weather when I saw him.
He was standing alone at a bus stop, hood pulled back, head hunched forward, eyes peering expectantly at the road ahead. I wondered how long he had been waiting. Even though I had just spotted him, there was that in his attitude that led me to think he might have been standing there some little time. And he was noticeable, being the only human being I had really seen that evening, for the cars were mere moving blurs, their drivers quite undistinguishable through the lashing curtains of rain.
I passed him, then changed lanes to the left, but the next couple of intersections forbade a U-turn, so I had to drive on a little way before I could finally turn the car around. As I drove back, I thought about what my lover would say when he knew I had been picking up strangers again.
“Taking enormous risks… Crimes of opportunity… No knowing what might happen… Extremely foolish… Have told you and told you…”
When I drove up to where the youth was still standing, I noticed that he was neatly, though cheaply dressed in a gray sweatshirt with a hood and black trousers. He was still gazing up the road with eager anticipation, as though each passing minute rendered him more impatient. He glanced at my approaching vehicle with surprise, but when I rolled down my window and called out “Excuse me, sir, would you like a ride?” he smiled, nodded, and stepped forward. Climbing into the car, he fastened his seat belt without being asked and thanked me politely.
He was very polite. Every sentence ended with “Ma’am.” He was also educated; he was working towards a degree in business from a local community college. Emboldened by his friendliness, I ventured to ask him why people in his community had so much difficulty accessing higher education.
He did not look offended. Nor did he seem to need the apologies that accompanied my question.
He regarded me for a few moments, his eyes serious, even a little sad, before he answered.
“Black people have settled, ma’am,” he said in a slow, deep voice. “We’ve been hopeless for so long that we’re finding it hard to hope again.”
He spoke musingly, as though mine were a question that, despite its banality, still carried some significance because it formed part of his own thoughts. Behind the quiet words I read the sorrow of a whole people – I heard the echoes of African spirituals and the resignation of a culture that has been part of the U.S. for as long as any other and yet has still to struggle to be accepted.
He talked about his sense of isolation from some of his peers who were into “the street life” including his own brother, who was “not into school, ma’am – he runs with a tough crowd.” Sometimes, he admitted, he felt alone because it seemed that not too many other young black men supported him in his quest for educational and financial opportunity. His voice was relaxed, conversational, but the words still sounded measured and thoughtful, the tones of one who spends time examining and analyzing the world and his place in it.
“Had you been waiting long?” I presently enquired.
He nodded. “I’d forgotten that it was President’s Day,” he said, smiling. “They suspend the bus service in observance of this day.”
President’s Day commemorates George Washington and Abraham Lincoln’s birthdays. The one was responsible for leading the American Revolutionaries against British armies, and the other for the civil war that eventually led to the end of institutionalized slavery in the United States. They had suspended the bus service on this day, so young men like the one beside me, who depended on public transportation to get around, could not get to work and had to depend on the chance of a ride offered by a stranger, a chance itself fraught with its own risks.
We turned into the bus station where the young man wished to be dropped off. As the car idled at the curb, he gave me his number, scrawling it and his name hastily on a battered ticket of Friday Night Valentine.
“Where do you work, Chris?” I asked.
“FedEx,” he responded, and quickly, as though he feared to be disbelieved, fished out a grubby-looking card with his name printed on it and the company’s logo on the top right.
I turned the card over. There was a name written on the back.
“Benny Hinn,” I read aloud. On the journey Chris had spoken once or twice of his faith in God, who he believed was guiding him through the challenges he faced as a young black man trying to make good.
Chris smiled enthusiastically, “Yeah, he’s great. I love his show.”
I knew the name. He was a Christian “televangelist” – a term my MS Word seems to know, though it professes ignorance of Hinn in particular – and he is reputed to be one of the richest of them all. For non-Americans, televangelists are men – and some women, too – who use television to spread the message of their faith. Hinn had been born in the town of Jaffa in Israel, and I had first heard his name from a white woman in Idaho, who narrated ecstatically how Hinn had been to India and how millions of Indians had apparently gathered to hear him “speak of the Lord.” This could well be true – Indians will gather to hear anything – we’re not particular – and as for the Lord, even non-Christian Indians accept Jesus as a god. One or two more don’t make a difference; we have so many, some of them still flourishing on the earthly plane, like the Sai Baba in the Deccan. Indeed, if Hinn had been advertising his powers as a faith healer, he was quite likely to have attracted even more of a following. Indians adore silver-tongued faith healers, and tolerate the schism that usually exists between their words and their promises with commendable patience. Such worthies are often vouchsafed a place in the pantheon of semi divinities. Hinn’s chances, I fancied, were fair; though he had a lot of competition, there was nevertheless plenty of room.
Chris obviously admired the man enormously, and found his words a source of encouragement and comfort. But we had no time to discuss Hinn, for the young man, understandably, was eager to be on his way. It must have been time for his train.
“Be careful in the rain out there, you hear?” I called after him, grandmother fashion.
He smiled, nodded, and lifted a hand in farewell. I looked after him as he disappeared into the station, probably towards the turnstiles. If he took the train to get to work, he would be likely to use a pass. Queuing up for a ticket every day would be too time consuming.
Later that day, I read that a few years earlier, Benny Hinn had solicited donations from his congregation for a “seed-faith” gift for the purchase of a thirty-six million dollar Gulfstream Jet.
He, too, had to get to work if he was to continue his mission of serving his flock, one of whom had just wandered into my car this rainy evening of late February.
He was standing alone at a bus stop, hood pulled back, head hunched forward, eyes peering expectantly at the road ahead. I wondered how long he had been waiting. Even though I had just spotted him, there was that in his attitude that led me to think he might have been standing there some little time. And he was noticeable, being the only human being I had really seen that evening, for the cars were mere moving blurs, their drivers quite undistinguishable through the lashing curtains of rain.
I passed him, then changed lanes to the left, but the next couple of intersections forbade a U-turn, so I had to drive on a little way before I could finally turn the car around. As I drove back, I thought about what my lover would say when he knew I had been picking up strangers again.
“Taking enormous risks… Crimes of opportunity… No knowing what might happen… Extremely foolish… Have told you and told you…”
When I drove up to where the youth was still standing, I noticed that he was neatly, though cheaply dressed in a gray sweatshirt with a hood and black trousers. He was still gazing up the road with eager anticipation, as though each passing minute rendered him more impatient. He glanced at my approaching vehicle with surprise, but when I rolled down my window and called out “Excuse me, sir, would you like a ride?” he smiled, nodded, and stepped forward. Climbing into the car, he fastened his seat belt without being asked and thanked me politely.
He was very polite. Every sentence ended with “Ma’am.” He was also educated; he was working towards a degree in business from a local community college. Emboldened by his friendliness, I ventured to ask him why people in his community had so much difficulty accessing higher education.
He did not look offended. Nor did he seem to need the apologies that accompanied my question.
He regarded me for a few moments, his eyes serious, even a little sad, before he answered.
“Black people have settled, ma’am,” he said in a slow, deep voice. “We’ve been hopeless for so long that we’re finding it hard to hope again.”
He spoke musingly, as though mine were a question that, despite its banality, still carried some significance because it formed part of his own thoughts. Behind the quiet words I read the sorrow of a whole people – I heard the echoes of African spirituals and the resignation of a culture that has been part of the U.S. for as long as any other and yet has still to struggle to be accepted.
He talked about his sense of isolation from some of his peers who were into “the street life” including his own brother, who was “not into school, ma’am – he runs with a tough crowd.” Sometimes, he admitted, he felt alone because it seemed that not too many other young black men supported him in his quest for educational and financial opportunity. His voice was relaxed, conversational, but the words still sounded measured and thoughtful, the tones of one who spends time examining and analyzing the world and his place in it.
“Had you been waiting long?” I presently enquired.
He nodded. “I’d forgotten that it was President’s Day,” he said, smiling. “They suspend the bus service in observance of this day.”
President’s Day commemorates George Washington and Abraham Lincoln’s birthdays. The one was responsible for leading the American Revolutionaries against British armies, and the other for the civil war that eventually led to the end of institutionalized slavery in the United States. They had suspended the bus service on this day, so young men like the one beside me, who depended on public transportation to get around, could not get to work and had to depend on the chance of a ride offered by a stranger, a chance itself fraught with its own risks.
We turned into the bus station where the young man wished to be dropped off. As the car idled at the curb, he gave me his number, scrawling it and his name hastily on a battered ticket of Friday Night Valentine.
“Where do you work, Chris?” I asked.
“FedEx,” he responded, and quickly, as though he feared to be disbelieved, fished out a grubby-looking card with his name printed on it and the company’s logo on the top right.
I turned the card over. There was a name written on the back.
“Benny Hinn,” I read aloud. On the journey Chris had spoken once or twice of his faith in God, who he believed was guiding him through the challenges he faced as a young black man trying to make good.
Chris smiled enthusiastically, “Yeah, he’s great. I love his show.”
I knew the name. He was a Christian “televangelist” – a term my MS Word seems to know, though it professes ignorance of Hinn in particular – and he is reputed to be one of the richest of them all. For non-Americans, televangelists are men – and some women, too – who use television to spread the message of their faith. Hinn had been born in the town of Jaffa in Israel, and I had first heard his name from a white woman in Idaho, who narrated ecstatically how Hinn had been to India and how millions of Indians had apparently gathered to hear him “speak of the Lord.” This could well be true – Indians will gather to hear anything – we’re not particular – and as for the Lord, even non-Christian Indians accept Jesus as a god. One or two more don’t make a difference; we have so many, some of them still flourishing on the earthly plane, like the Sai Baba in the Deccan. Indeed, if Hinn had been advertising his powers as a faith healer, he was quite likely to have attracted even more of a following. Indians adore silver-tongued faith healers, and tolerate the schism that usually exists between their words and their promises with commendable patience. Such worthies are often vouchsafed a place in the pantheon of semi divinities. Hinn’s chances, I fancied, were fair; though he had a lot of competition, there was nevertheless plenty of room.
Chris obviously admired the man enormously, and found his words a source of encouragement and comfort. But we had no time to discuss Hinn, for the young man, understandably, was eager to be on his way. It must have been time for his train.
“Be careful in the rain out there, you hear?” I called after him, grandmother fashion.
He smiled, nodded, and lifted a hand in farewell. I looked after him as he disappeared into the station, probably towards the turnstiles. If he took the train to get to work, he would be likely to use a pass. Queuing up for a ticket every day would be too time consuming.
Later that day, I read that a few years earlier, Benny Hinn had solicited donations from his congregation for a “seed-faith” gift for the purchase of a thirty-six million dollar Gulfstream Jet.
He, too, had to get to work if he was to continue his mission of serving his flock, one of whom had just wandered into my car this rainy evening of late February.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Saugata Chatterjee, Bangalore, February 6, 2009
"The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings." Julius Caesar, Act I, Scn II.
On February 6, 2009, Saugata and his friends were brutally assaulted by a group of goons who specifically targeted the women among the persons present. Saugata and his friends were standing outside a pub in the evening when the - feeble word - incident occurred. The women were verbally abused and struck in the belly, breasts and kicked in the groin. The men trying to defend them were mercilessly beaten. Predictably, the assailants turned out to be on first name terms with the police, and it was the victims, not the criminals, who were arrested. Although they were subsequently released and not detained in custody, the police proved - again predictably - reluctant to register a complaint, citing reasons as laughable as Saugata not being fluent in Kannada, even though the report was to be written in English.
What can one say in a commentary on a situation - again, feeble word! - like this? I am outraged. I am furious. But there is more - there is a desire to say the most brutal things as frankly as possible, to use words like fists and nails and swords, smashing and clawing at the armour of complacency that we have worn for so long. There is the desire repeatedly to expose the rot within, till the stench assails our inured senses, till our stomachs heave, till it becomes impossible to live within the putrefying bubble of our own indifference. We have ceased to feel the bile in our throats at such injustice; we have learned to live finished, glossy lives where all that is ugly and real is deemed not to exist.
Please, no more.
Our politicians are criminals - sometimes they win elections from jail cells.
Our police force is a joke, a brigade of Bozos, a body of men - mostly of men - who are feared by the common people for very real reasons. No-one in her right mind would ever approach the Indian police for protection.
Women in our country have been second-class citizens for as long as I can remember.
The rule of law in our country is evocative of nothing but laughter.
We are a disengaged, craven nation, a consumerist zombiehood that is impervious to most things that don't offer immediate gratification.
Eliot knew what he was talking about when he spoke of "the hollow men."
It is true that one cannot continue to function in a white heat of anger at injustices like the one mentioned above. Very well, then - let the heat be replaced by a cold fury, a clenched determination to do everything in our power - and our power is considerable - to ensure that there is not a repeat of February 6, that people can stand in a public road with their friends without fearing attacks for which the law, the government, the state, offers no remedy but mockery and indifference.
Write letters, form groups, post on blogs, email your friends. Send chappals to the elected officials of Karnataka with a note to hang them around their necks when they go to work.
Throw your shoes. It could be done to Bush, and it can be done to these travesties of humanity who rule us.
http://vishshanker.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/02/this-happened-in-bangalore-bengaluru-shocking.htm
On February 6, 2009, Saugata and his friends were brutally assaulted by a group of goons who specifically targeted the women among the persons present. Saugata and his friends were standing outside a pub in the evening when the - feeble word - incident occurred. The women were verbally abused and struck in the belly, breasts and kicked in the groin. The men trying to defend them were mercilessly beaten. Predictably, the assailants turned out to be on first name terms with the police, and it was the victims, not the criminals, who were arrested. Although they were subsequently released and not detained in custody, the police proved - again predictably - reluctant to register a complaint, citing reasons as laughable as Saugata not being fluent in Kannada, even though the report was to be written in English.
What can one say in a commentary on a situation - again, feeble word! - like this? I am outraged. I am furious. But there is more - there is a desire to say the most brutal things as frankly as possible, to use words like fists and nails and swords, smashing and clawing at the armour of complacency that we have worn for so long. There is the desire repeatedly to expose the rot within, till the stench assails our inured senses, till our stomachs heave, till it becomes impossible to live within the putrefying bubble of our own indifference. We have ceased to feel the bile in our throats at such injustice; we have learned to live finished, glossy lives where all that is ugly and real is deemed not to exist.
Please, no more.
Our politicians are criminals - sometimes they win elections from jail cells.
Our police force is a joke, a brigade of Bozos, a body of men - mostly of men - who are feared by the common people for very real reasons. No-one in her right mind would ever approach the Indian police for protection.
Women in our country have been second-class citizens for as long as I can remember.
The rule of law in our country is evocative of nothing but laughter.
We are a disengaged, craven nation, a consumerist zombiehood that is impervious to most things that don't offer immediate gratification.
Eliot knew what he was talking about when he spoke of "the hollow men."
It is true that one cannot continue to function in a white heat of anger at injustices like the one mentioned above. Very well, then - let the heat be replaced by a cold fury, a clenched determination to do everything in our power - and our power is considerable - to ensure that there is not a repeat of February 6, that people can stand in a public road with their friends without fearing attacks for which the law, the government, the state, offers no remedy but mockery and indifference.
Write letters, form groups, post on blogs, email your friends. Send chappals to the elected officials of Karnataka with a note to hang them around their necks when they go to work.
Throw your shoes. It could be done to Bush, and it can be done to these travesties of humanity who rule us.
http://vishshanker.sulekha.com/blog/post/2009/02/this-happened-in-bangalore-bengaluru-shocking.htm
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