A property dispute between two neighbours in the obscure Indian village of Saffadirpur was enough of a provocation for one of the warring neighbours to pour acid on a baby girl, barely four months old.
I have been writing for a long time now, but in this case, I am tempted to throw style and ethics to the winds and express my revulsion in the strongest possible terms.
How should a man who has the heart to severely hurt a helpless baby be treated? Any ideas? Would a trial and even capital punishment be good enough for this psychotic monster?
Revolting as it is, this is not the first case of people hurting babies being reported in the media. There have even been rape attempts upon infants.
I remember the day, when as a sub editor with an English daily, I was supposed to edit a news story on a six month old victim of a rape attempt (?????). Usually nimble on the keyboard, my hands were cold and clammy that night.
I am also mother of a beautiful baby girl and I know what I go through even when my little angel catches a cold. The thought of a baby screaming helplessly under excruciating pain made me feel abominable for not being able to protect her. That might be an irrational feeling, considering how far removed I was from the incident.
From what I have learnt of genetics and biology, nature has programmed human beings to look at babies protectively and nurture them as a matter of instinct.
Don’t the clumsiest of us immediately go gentle at the sight of a baby? That is how nature made us. It was to make sure that the adult of the species would protect the young to ensure their survival.
So I suppose that makes these psychos, genetic aberrations. May be they ought to be done away with.
Those who would raise eyebrows and yell “human rights”, please look at a child closely. The little bundle does not know how to speak, has the softest of limbs that only know how to be caressed, not fight back and also has complete trust in adults.
People who subject them to pain are not humans in my dictionary and so human rights don’t apply to them. Terrorists fighting for whatever they believe in, suicide bombers, etc are all better than this breed of ghouls.
At least, they have an ideology, they are making misplaced attempts at being martyrs. Criminals are better. They want money and will steal, or kill someone who has a chance to defend himself. Who would hurt a baby? A cruel, sick, coward. Someone who does not have the guts to take on an equal adversary.
Terrorists and criminals, mafia dons et al deserve a chance at reformation. But these people don’t. They are pests who should be eliminated.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
A few years ago, in Delhi, there was this colleague of mine, Rehana, a pleasant, good looking woman. From our casual conversations, I could make out her husband was pretty devoted to her. She told me their courtship lasted almost seven years and apparently, 20 years down the line, the marriage was still "young".
As I got to know her better, she told me she was terribly scarred in a gas accident in the kitchen one day. As a woman, I understand what it must feel like to get your face and body disfigured. The first response would be withdrawal for fear of rejection. That was her instinct too. But then, her husband's reaction was anything but rejection. "He acted as if nothing had happened. There was no trace of revulsion, or pity," she recalled, while explaining why she felt trusted him so much.
According to her, he had the same look in his eyes as he had when she was fine, a tender look. He made it very clear that he loved her anyway but had to get a plastic surgery done for her because she was not ready to face the world and was losing her career and social life.
The thing is, the plastic surgery was FOR HER, not him. he was just as loving, just as accepting.
That left me wondering about the nature of the feeling we call love. I suppose many of us confuse it with plain attraction to a beautiful face or body. Let's face it, we have our standards of physical beauty clearly imprinted on our minds and a romantic liaison, (if we have our way), is possible only with someone who meets those parameters.
Which makes me realise how rare real love is. When you are in love with someone, that person is perfect. Then there is no question of appearances. There are no conditions, no explanations, no expectations, nothing. If you look at it, it is actually rather liberating. But how many of us have ever loved someone that way?
As I got to know her better, she told me she was terribly scarred in a gas accident in the kitchen one day. As a woman, I understand what it must feel like to get your face and body disfigured. The first response would be withdrawal for fear of rejection. That was her instinct too. But then, her husband's reaction was anything but rejection. "He acted as if nothing had happened. There was no trace of revulsion, or pity," she recalled, while explaining why she felt trusted him so much.
According to her, he had the same look in his eyes as he had when she was fine, a tender look. He made it very clear that he loved her anyway but had to get a plastic surgery done for her because she was not ready to face the world and was losing her career and social life.
The thing is, the plastic surgery was FOR HER, not him. he was just as loving, just as accepting.
That left me wondering about the nature of the feeling we call love. I suppose many of us confuse it with plain attraction to a beautiful face or body. Let's face it, we have our standards of physical beauty clearly imprinted on our minds and a romantic liaison, (if we have our way), is possible only with someone who meets those parameters.
Which makes me realise how rare real love is. When you are in love with someone, that person is perfect. Then there is no question of appearances. There are no conditions, no explanations, no expectations, nothing. If you look at it, it is actually rather liberating. But how many of us have ever loved someone that way?
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Leaving the nest
Ever since I was 15, I wanted to leave the family nest. Sheltered and protected by doting parents, I was in love with the idea of making it on my own. To them, I was always their little girl, even after I got married and had a daughter.
Sounds strange, at least it did to people who knew our family, but then that’s the way parents can be with daughters. Though I basked in the affection, I always nursed the desire to break free and assert my individuality.
I wanted to be a woman, not a little girl. After University, I spent years doing just what I thought would reinforce my individuality. All the protection and pampering fanned a rebellious spirit that grew fiercer every day, till I had a daughter.
Watching the precious little bundle with awe, I felt a million emotions tugging my heartstrings. As I touched her gently, afraid of even turning over at night for fear of hurting her, I saw myself as the baby and my mother cradling me in her arms, like I was doing with my baby.
Finally I realized what I meant to her. All those times when I was stopped from staying out late, when my dad would peer suspiciously at the guys I met, when my mother would fuss about my hair, my skin, my report card……..everything, replayed in my mind.
As I went through the taxing moments that come with motherhood, forcing myself to stay awake at night when my infant daughter chose to, getting up bleary eyed the next morning to cook her breakfast, wash her, change her, rock her to sleep till my back hurt……………part of my mind viewed my mother in the same situation, with me in her arms.
Then I finally asked myself, “was it so bad being her darling?” There may have been moments, especially in my teens when she might have overdone the protection. But then, it was meant to make sure I met no harm.
A sneeze from me would have mom calling the doctors. After the first aid, she would start the regimen of giving me ginger tea, making me take steam every now and then and gently ruffle my hair when I complained of discomfort. This continued well into my adulthood. Mother worked. After a nine to five job, with an hour long lunch break in which she would rush home to be with me, she would hold me close at night, her warmth lulling me to sleep no matter how sick I were. That would also mean she could not sleep well. But she never mentioned it, I only came to know now. Today, a sneeze means I have to have an aspirin and continue working or approach my boss tentatively to see if I can take the day off.
While I still hold my independence dear, the resentment at being the “doll” of my family has been replaced by a sense of immense gratitude. In a world torn with heartache, I received more love than I deserved. I have no words to thank my parents, who just left for their native state for good. The umbilical cord has been cut, and I feel like I am out of the womb for the first time. I feel naked.
All I can do is make sure my daughter gets what I got, loads of love. I ruffle her lovely curls the way my mother did, I hold her close at night the way I was held, I show her stars at night, the way my father did.
One day, I hope to see her as a strong and honest person, like my mother.
Sounds strange, at least it did to people who knew our family, but then that’s the way parents can be with daughters. Though I basked in the affection, I always nursed the desire to break free and assert my individuality.
I wanted to be a woman, not a little girl. After University, I spent years doing just what I thought would reinforce my individuality. All the protection and pampering fanned a rebellious spirit that grew fiercer every day, till I had a daughter.
Watching the precious little bundle with awe, I felt a million emotions tugging my heartstrings. As I touched her gently, afraid of even turning over at night for fear of hurting her, I saw myself as the baby and my mother cradling me in her arms, like I was doing with my baby.
Finally I realized what I meant to her. All those times when I was stopped from staying out late, when my dad would peer suspiciously at the guys I met, when my mother would fuss about my hair, my skin, my report card……..everything, replayed in my mind.
As I went through the taxing moments that come with motherhood, forcing myself to stay awake at night when my infant daughter chose to, getting up bleary eyed the next morning to cook her breakfast, wash her, change her, rock her to sleep till my back hurt……………part of my mind viewed my mother in the same situation, with me in her arms.
Then I finally asked myself, “was it so bad being her darling?” There may have been moments, especially in my teens when she might have overdone the protection. But then, it was meant to make sure I met no harm.
A sneeze from me would have mom calling the doctors. After the first aid, she would start the regimen of giving me ginger tea, making me take steam every now and then and gently ruffle my hair when I complained of discomfort. This continued well into my adulthood. Mother worked. After a nine to five job, with an hour long lunch break in which she would rush home to be with me, she would hold me close at night, her warmth lulling me to sleep no matter how sick I were. That would also mean she could not sleep well. But she never mentioned it, I only came to know now. Today, a sneeze means I have to have an aspirin and continue working or approach my boss tentatively to see if I can take the day off.
While I still hold my independence dear, the resentment at being the “doll” of my family has been replaced by a sense of immense gratitude. In a world torn with heartache, I received more love than I deserved. I have no words to thank my parents, who just left for their native state for good. The umbilical cord has been cut, and I feel like I am out of the womb for the first time. I feel naked.
All I can do is make sure my daughter gets what I got, loads of love. I ruffle her lovely curls the way my mother did, I hold her close at night the way I was held, I show her stars at night, the way my father did.
One day, I hope to see her as a strong and honest person, like my mother.
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