In Empathy with a Poet as She Remembers June 1984

In Empathy with a Poet as She Remembers June 1984

By Sanjana

I remember the days of June 1984 vividly. I was in my twenties, working for a big corporate house and living in a large city. Soon after the assassination of the then Prime Minister of the country, we closed shops. We knew something bad was going to happen. There were no mobile phones then. Television existed, but only government channels were available. News came through radio and newspapers. I read about the atrocities. The city we lived in somehow managed to prevent aggression on its soil.

Horrendous stories emerged in the name of security. I know innocent people always suffer for the actions of the evil ones.

But how do we stop vengeance and destruction? No parent ever wants their children to be born into a chaotic condition of hatred and violence. Babies don’t choose to be born into a particular faith; we choose to bring them in. Once they are born, they are stuck.I have always believed that while we can’t correct the world, we can definitely correct our outlook, values, and tolerance levels at home, starting with our own family and close friends. When people argued about enhancing the education system in schools to propagate non-violence and tolerance, I maintained that home is the biggest training ground and school for that. When my close friend hugged me and cried because they had to cut their son’s hair for his own safety, as he was in a boarding school and there was violence targeted towards their community, I cried with her. Freedom to think and act is so important to me. Many incidents like this followed. Similar incidents occurred again in another country later when the long hair of this lad was mistaken for another religion, and a life was lost due to sheer ignorance.Each country, each faith, each belief, all are going through trauma.

It’s not easy to forgive and forget if your near and dear ones have suffered. Yet, I would say vengeance never brings peace—the peace that our next generations deserve.I shiver at the plight of the children that will be born after we are gone.

Can we forgive (not forget) one another for the betterment of their future? Let’s work on it together. Today, as I was cleaning my temple, I found several silver coins that people gifted us on various occasions as per our Indian culture. “Let me get rid of them,” I thought to myself. As I was sorting these, I couldn’t take my eyes off a coin that had Guru Nanak Ji on it and another one with a mosque that my husband and I had made to give as a gift to our muslim friends on our 25th anniversary. The energy that emerged from those two coins made me close my eyes and say silently, “Thank you.” The coins stayed where they were.

Such is the power of tolerance. Let’s bring our future generations to a better world. We don’t have to replace the monsters.

To the young, powerful poet: you have my best wishes as you seek justice for the lost lives.

“KALI”

“KALI”
By Sanjana

Years ago, my father-in-law wrote to my husband when his brother got engaged: “Your brother got engaged, the girl is fair,” highlighting her lighter skin.
We laughed it off then.
My parents treated me like a princess despite my dark skin.
Yet my father, out of love, would say, “Always wear different shades of pink; it will complement your complexion.”
My mother’s family wept when they saw my father—dark-skinned, unlike my fair mother.
When I lamented my skin color to friends, they responded, “You’re doing well despite your skin color, so be content.”
Years later, a successful friend with dark skin confided she never regretted her color but wished to experience being fair, even for a day. We both laughed.
My younger cousin tells me how I should have been in my twenties now because dark skin is celebrated.
Do you want to know the truth?The undercurrent of color phobia still runs deep in various strata of society.
“Kali,” the most powerful but dark-skinned female deity, is revered. None would dare to provoke or upset her for fear of repercussion. Yet, a real-life Kali is discriminated against. Can we drop this double standard?
From time immemorial, even in classic literature, a handsome man is described as “tall, dark, and handsome.” Why has no one described an attractive girl as “tall, dark, and beautiful?”The ever-popular phrase “beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder” undermines the true essence of beauty.
In a society where arranged marriages still prevail, the responsibility to correct the mindset of old-fashioned parents lies with the men as well.
In the spectrum of skin color, there is no dark or fair—it’s just you, a girl, a woman. Can we end this discrimination within our own race?
To all the girls of all skin types:
Bring out the “Kali” in you to destroy social prejudices with your brilliance. Turn the wind around and tame the malignancy of evil thoughts with your strength, just as “Ma Kali” would have done.

Dedicated to a beautiful girl who is finding it difficult  get a suitable boy because of her skin colour!

Atale of humanity accross borders

A Tale of Humanity Across Borders

By Sanjana Why do we always move with pre-conceived notions about certain nationalities and religions?

This is about Mumtazeu, the kind soul who tutored my son in Arabic at home as it was compulsory. He was a really poor person who didn’t care whose house he was coming to teach. Borders were not his concern. He was a teacher and a kind human being. In the culture I was born into, we were taught to respect teachers as they were defined as “Gurus.” I taught the same to my children. When my son went to receive him at the gate and saw him off when he left, Mumtazeu was emotional. Tea was served when he was at our house. He said, “I have never been to any other house belonging to a different nationality and religion.” He expressed his sadness at the rivalry the borders bring in.

Thus, he continued to teach for a year.

Once, at a dinner party I attended, I heard some ladies discussing the difficulty of finding an Arabic teacher for their children. They belonged to a different nationality. I offered my help. I knew Mumtazeu needed money; however, I never bothered to find out who these children were. I hardly knew those ladies. Having arranged the job for these three children, Mumtazeu called me, excited. He told me he was teaching the children of the ex-prime minister of his country. He couldn’t believe his destiny when the ex-prime minister sat across from him as he taught his pupils.

I gasped and told him his prayers were answered, as it was a pure coincidence. I told him, “The ex-prime minister will soon be ruling again and the boys you are teaching will follow suit, so your future could be pretty secure.”

He replied, “Different people are made of different stuff. In all probability, they won’t remember me.” He also mentioned that asking for a favor now would cost him his job. I saluted his wisdom.

Time passed, and the tuition for my son came to an end. He visited us after the results were out. He brought along two slices of pizza in a box for us, as that’s all he could afford. I controlled my tears of gratitude—such love and genuineness. The pizzas tasted better than the best gourmet food in the world.

As predicted, the boy he taught is now a big political leader vying for the topmost position in his country. I wonder about Mumtazeu’s whereabouts, as the telephone numbers he left with me stopped working, and it was so long ago.

Hope you are around, Mumtazeu, and in good health. We need people like you to teach us the true meaning of spirituality and religion.

In a world divided by borders and beliefs, let the boundless spirit of humanity prevail.