was violence on a beautiful evening start of the week, planned with such care, and now my head’s a mess.
Had always wondered how it ‘d feel to be on the receiving end of actual infamy, and physical abuse.
Sure it was a misunderstanding. But Im angry and this is a knee jerk blog. No I’ll never know how to write a sugar blog, thats not my call.
Sure I shouldnt be angry,. its an insensible thing to do. Be angry and sin not. Thats why Im writng here, so I wont go out and be monster woman ;
when I do finally go out the door I’ll wear sweet lip balm and kow tow, watch me if you re here.
Orrrrrrr maybe I’ll re re re write the script Ive been killing my self over. Pleaasssse allow me strong words Mz Bliog. I mean Blog.
Ive watched tapes of women being shut up and thrashed around by moral police and self appointed prophets more than eeeenuff.
Sure these guys did not know what they were doing, or maybe they did. Maybe it was racial. And they didnot like that I was a woman and wore my hair the way I do. Maybe their women are treated differently. Hey I’d love to see what they were really thinking when they roughed up my neck last Sunday , to the sound of words in another language, I’ll never know.
We girls were brought up to never never speak up against elders and older saints. Never mind I’m a saint too… right ? No ?
We all grew up so sheltered. The biggest thing that’d ever happened to anyone of us those early years was the Bay of Bengal cyclone , Mr Naidu’s lunar cycles that left him yelling thru the window at all of us about the moon about to make a statement ;
sometimes there was a political mess going on somewhere, news about things happening around the world, but not here not here, the parents would reassure us.
Then there were these religious tangles and going to worship became a thing you slowly started to worry about and we werent all that easy about touting our ‘ faith’. everyone had their rights, and fair enough.
90s, there were the riots and sure I remember the Kebab corner, night of the maha -aartis, before one of two communal groups went on rampage against the other.
Noe, a friend and I were having kebabs in a little Place at the corner next to the Kinny’s Shoes and Chaat-masala stalls : our lane was called Four Bungalows, though heaven knew what Bungalows were ever left after builders had gone and done their thing with constructions.
A lady in a veil came running upto our floor with the few tables ; she disappeared into an inner room. There was a mob was at the door, ground level asking for match sticks the waiter said. There was that silence of a crowd waiting. And then they moved on. Always baffled me how they just moved on. A tailors shop was burnt down. The details are still acrid with news of burning bodies in street corners …
Hatred, violence, know what, these things are so rabid we can eat each other up once you re caught in it, and need justification. You never really get it, till its your jaw thats manhandled. Till you’re called names in public. Till 2 men tear your scalp and push you around knowing you will need guts to cry out loud.
The last thing I expected was to know any of the above, first hand.
The greatest temptation was/ is to kick back. and later, plan well aimed kicks at the shin. Elbow jabs. Anything to scrub away the ghastly images, the rough hands.
Dear God, what does it take to think like You, be Your Hands and Feet.
Maybe it was the best thing that ever happened to me.
Maybe I’m just being born. Uh Ms Bliog ?