Nightmare on Juhi's Street

LHM


This story is by my colleague Juhi Chaudhary. She literally "dreamt" it up one night. I like it because it's so detailed. It has colors, faces, names, sounds, everything a Hollywood movie has. Do you all have such vivid dreams?



I really don't know how it started. I guess it started with the news of my friend Ari coming to Delhi. However excited, I couldn't meet him once he hit the town. It was only when his companion Raz joined him here, that I got a chance to meet them and decided to escort them to my home. We boarded a blueline bus and while riding it, Raz and I suddenly started to get the feeling as if we were riding a tram in Milan. Soon, the concrete road turned into a cobbled street. We could feel the Old world whiz by... but somehow Ari was giving us irritated looks. Probably, the transition wasn't complete. He could see loads of kachra dher with the back of the cows shitting around. Raz and I were shouting out of the windows in ecstasy ... ''It looks like UK...It is beautiful'... O man!! Delhi is beautiful!' It was beautiful! I tried to pep up Ari by showing him some European cows on the roads.. I didn't understand then that why he gave me worst of his anger-filled look.. after all, the cow backs were so beautiful! Finally the tram stopped right at my house gate. It would still take me a few years to understand why I was the only one who got down from the train (from this point our 'Italian tram' changes to a 'train'). Probably I forgot that i had invited them for dinner (it was still daytime!). I stood at my house and bade them goodbye happily... while Ari was looking back at me in shock from the train window.. but thankfully Raz was lost in her own ecastic world and cajoled the driver into giving them a free trip of this European tour! ( I am sure Ari that all you wanted to do was to kill both of us). We were too happy! But I didn't know that things would shape for worse. Or they were already shaping..

As I turned around to enter my house, suddenly it turned night! I could see the womenfolk of my house in hoods (like death-eaters of Harry potter) kneeling in darkness in their black robes and holding a small transistor. Some news was running about vanishing people, allegedly being kidnapped by the aliens and then released back again mysteriously, only to find some of their organs missing. There had been such a strike again. Everyone was talking in hushed up voices. I saw the reporter on the transistor (not on the TV!) And Bingo! I got the inspiration to choose the broadcast journalism as my career!

Then I found myself wearing a nice dress with stilettos standing at a Peepal Tree with my sister. I looked back and realized that my mom and other woman were huddling against one another in the car in their black robes. The tree was shaking under the fierce moist winds. The enormity of the situation suddenly dawned on me. I realized that the women were scared to get out of the car in the stormy night. So they had chosen me and my sister to perform the ritual of lighting a lamp at the peepal tree to ward off aliens. We were without cover! And wanted to finish this off before they struck on us... I lighted one matchstick after the other... it seemed that it took me ages to struggle with the matchstick.. finally after performing this solemn duty.. I looked back to check if my mom and aunts were safe in the car.... and suddenly "EVACUATE THE CAR!" Everyone darted out of the car! We tried to look through the confusion and to discover a cop marketing MBA guy wearing a casual shirt smiling wickedly, his gold teeth glistening in the night, and shouting slogans at us ' NEXT COULD BE YOU'. He turned out to be a brand marketing guy who was advertising his company's new anti-aliens car! He demonstrated new steel cars that could disrupt the satellite signals of the aliens. Before I could overcome my fear, a soft and yet firm voice of a cop told us that he is right. Aliens had established the signal with the normal cars and could easily track them on their maps and could strike. These anti-alien cars worked like ghost cars and remained hidden on the galaxical map! Of course, this broadened the smile of the marketing guy who started demonstrating his magical cars. While the womenfolk were engrossed with that, I neared to the cop and looked at his familiar face. He was my long lost love Captain Albert Louis, well polished, Sauvé, extremely handsome. I could feel his breath. It took me back to the time when I loved him dearly only to discover one day that he was in love with some other lady! On seeing him, I couldn't resist and inched to get closer.... when there was a sudden screeeeeeching sound!!!!! a lot of fumes.. cosmic red rays.. Aliens have struck again! Captain Louis disappeared in the darkness..


Suddenly the area was filled with floodlights...and soon the area was filled with CNN-IBN reporters...trying to cover the scene. Out of a sudden, I thought of talking to them about my prospects as a journalist in future. As I walked towards the CNN-IBN main van to meet the reporter( he happened to be the same guy who promised me to grant me an internship with the channel earlier), suddenly a steel- frog like alien dropped accidentally from the spaceship into his van next to him!! I guess the alien was as confused as the reporter was. But on seeing me, this guy thought of demonstrating his interviewing abilities! He started posing questions about the alien's lifestyle and his motive behind the strike etc.. The alien just pointed his red long pipe at him and squeezed out all his bones!!! The next thing that I saw was the reporter limping with the folded skin like a rubber, being ushered in the ambulance by Captain Louis. The scene was bit funny. The alien was gone! But what was left behind was a vacant post at the news channel...and I was instantly granted the post of an investigative reporter!! I was the only person on earth who was happy at that time. I secretly thanked that alien!

Captain Louis appeared again and told me that the new discovery was that these aliens were basically doing their research studies on humans on earth and so they were collecting various organs of different people across the world! And the scariest part was these aliens were making a contact and tracing people who had accounts on the Orkut!! The aliens had cracked through the Orkut website.

I rushed. But I found myself travelling in the Eurostar train with my family, friends and around hundred people from all parts of the world. We were all holding special plastic wands with sparks like diwali phuljharis. I couldn't understand what was happening. Then I realized that this was the last train of earth in which the selected few earthlings were travelling to protect themselves from he aliens. The aliens hadn't left any part of the world untouched. While taking a round in the train coaches, I could see some of the people limping with missing bones, liver, kidneys etc. But they were all surviving inspite of that. Suddenly, a fear gripped me.. I realized that I was the only healthiest female in the train. In the middle of the crowd, I saw my sister and my friend Madhu working on laptop near a window. They seemed to be very indifferent and pepped up. On seeing me, they told me to delete my account from Orkut immediately else the aliens would locate the train! I told them not to login the account as aliens would have immediately cached my account. But they were determined to delete my orkut profile and they logged on the orkut! They didn't seem to be scared and told me that aliens don't kill. They just take out the organs which according to them was acceptable. I was damn scared as I didn't want to lose a single organ of mine.

Then as thought, the worst happened..as my sister was moving the cursor to delete my profile, an image of a spaceship suddenly appeared next to the cursor and started following it. It started moving along with the cursor. My sister tried to dodge the spaceship with the cursor, while I was yelling in scare. Just before she could click on the 'delete tab', the spaceship image caught the cursor and the screen started flashing in red colours. The spaceship icon started hovering on my image on the website. 'We were caught! We heard a loud ear-deafening supersonic sound. We looked through the window. The night sky had turned red. I could see a part of the large spaceship (identical to the image on internet) positioned above our moving train. There was a chaos! My sister and friend were still unnerved about it. I started running in panic in the train against the direction of the rest of the people.

I was hoping that someone would break the contact with the spaceship somehow. Then I heard the whistle and saw Captain Louis yelling in the train at the mob to restore the peace. He looked very serious and angry. I was running for my life. Suddenly he pulled me from the mob and patted me gently to calm me down. He put his arms around my shoulders while walking with me smilingly. I don't know what happened after that… but I found some comfort with him.

Malti: from Sex Worker to Peer Educator

LHM



By Sanjeev Kumar*

I came into contact with Malti four years ago during my work on rehabilitation of sex workers in the industrial city of Kanpur, India. My team was rebuffed more than four times when we attempted to establish contacts with the women as they believed we were law enforcement officers. But when we gained the confidence of women like Malti, we found out their golden souls and how bitter and hard life could be for women like her.

Malti is a 40 year old female sex worker at Kanpur. She belongs to the bediya community, whose traditional job is public entertainment at festive occasions. The ancestors of this community had migrated to Bhillaur in Kanpur from Rajasthan long ago.

The premature death of her husband was the beginning of troubles in Malti’s life. Harassed by her close relatives she had to leave Bhillaur with her two children, aged five and seven. She reached the city of Kanpur barefoot. She had no money to feed her children. She still hanged on to the hope that the city will somehow sustain her and her children. The hope soared when she met a woman she had known casually. This woman was working in a troupe of traditional dancers and musicians, locally known as Nautanki. The woman went out of her way to help her to give her a shelter and arrange work for her in the Nautanki.


The wages she earned from the Nautanki was not enough to feed her children, so she began borrowing money. As she was young and beautiful, many male colleagues were attracted towards her. They tried to befriend her by providing emotional support and loans. Soon she realized that all those overtures of help were for physical relationships.

Not used to stresses of big city life, being alone and in a highly vulnerable state of mind, she fell for a colleague and developed physical relationships with him. A moral barrier had been crossed and flood gates of a different life opened. For a while she felt guilty but then she began enjoying physical relationship which was no longer confined to one person but several other members of the troupe. She began to enjoy and crave sex with many men, more so because the men offered her good money.

Thus gradually Malti entered the sex trade. Her colleagues in the troupe also convinced her that there was no harm in it as it provided livelihood and emotional support. She started soliciting customers on her own and also associated herself with the network of pimps (who charged 30% commission). The earnings were good and ranged anything from Rs. 50 to 200 per client. This was several years ago. The income was sufficient as an allurement for a woman in her situation to keep in the profession.

Her clients mostly included truck and auto drivers, petty shopkeepers, factory workers and rickshaw pullers. She usually had sex in her own house, and her two growing children became mute witnesses to this. The result was obvious; her daughter is already in the sex trade and is paid quite high, between Rs 1500 to 2000 per day. She hardly supports her mother. Her second daughter is handicapped.

Some of her clients also had group sex with her in other locations. She found this very painful as people indulging in it were sex maniacs. It was also a humiliating experience, which could only be tolerated in a state of emotional numbness, which was needed and achieved only through alcohol and drugs. Using these substances she felt confident, open and also enjoyed the act. So, professional compulsions gradually introduced her to smoking, alcohol and drugs and she became dependent on them.

All these years of her working as a sex worker, neither she nor the clients she entertained were aware of ‘safe sex practices’. What she got and cared for was money and what she lost was her identity and self respect. She was shy and avoided mixing with women outside the community of sex workers. She could never gather enough courage to go to a medical practitioner for common ailments and she could never face society. She became more and more secluded and withdrawn.

Age began to catch up and the number of clients dwindled. She became overly dependent on middlemen who began to pay her less and less. She had to shift her residence to a filthy area of the city, devoid of even basic amenities. The place was full of petty crime and sex trade. There were times when she felt that her own value as a woman had severely degenerated.

When we came into contact with Malti, she was pregnant. Initially she was suspicious of us. She considered us to be government agents, out to nab women of low morals. The kindness, sympathy and understanding and respect shown to her by the team, despite her being in the sex trade, changed her outlook and she began to confide in them. After several sessions of counseling, learning of safe sex practices and medical attention, Malti has now become highly confident and self respecting. She is now aware of the dangers of sexually transmitted diseases including AIDS. It has not been easy to bring about this transformation. Her most transforming experience was interaction with similarly placed women who had found a new lease of life after working with the team. The women now openly discuss condom use, RTI / STI and HIV / AIDS etc.

Though still continuing in the trade, Malti is now conscious of the need for hygiene and safe sex. She is confident enough to seek help of health service providers, when need arises. She discusses messages related to safe sex with her other friends. While negotiating with clients she insists on condom use. Very often she finds resistance from the clients and even takes risks of losing them to younger sex workers, but she never gives up. She is happy that a condom depot is being established in her area and there is easy accessibility to condoms. As a peer educator volunteer, she has referred dozens of suspected cases of RTI/STI and even minor problems to Government hospitals and counseling centres. Malti gets herself and her daughter checked for sexually transmitted diseases.
Malti is a different woman now. She has regained self-esteem and her identity as a woman. She is aware that being a sex worker does not deprive her of her rights and debar her from doing her duties. She appreciates the efforts of the team in transforming her into a woman with hopes, desires and self-esteem. She feels privileged when somebody visits her house and has discussions with her.

“Till nine months back I was a drug addict and alcoholic. But since I came into contact with people from your organization, I have completely stopped drugs and smoking”, says Malti triumphantly. With no alternative employment in sight as yet, Malti has reconciled to her condition, but hopes to change it one day.

*Sanjeev Kumar is President, Sarvarth, an upcoming NGO. He can be reached at
sanjeev.snarottam@gmail.com

A post - after three weeks

LHM

After a few weeks, I come back again. With a brilliant, real life tale - from a gentleman who knows how ugly life's underbelly can be. Hope you like it.

Jaimon Joseph

LHM

Today - I'm putting up a prayer - in pictures. We Catholics pray to Our Lady - mother of Jesus. Repeating the Hail Mary ten times - makes a decade. And saying five decades - completes one turn of the rosary. You might have seen the rosary, a set of prayer beads with a cross at one end - hanging from the rear view mirrors of cars, from the cassocks of priests and nuns and around the necks of especially devout Christian women. Nowadays - we don't see men wearing the rosary too much, maybe they're shy. But my mother's father - an imposing hulk of a man who could wrestle anyone to the ground, would always have a rosary around his neck. At times of crisis, he'd say the rosary repeatedly, unashamedly - and Mother Mary always gave him success, whenever he called on her. These photos I have put here - were sent to me by my father a couple of weeks ago. It feels peaceful to look at them - hope you like them too.

What a home needs most

LHM

This is a story that my wife told me today morning. I'm just penning it down for her. This is Deepti Jaimon's official first blog people! Do have a read - it's a simple tale. But I really like it.

There's a knock on the door. The lady of the house opens it. Three strangers are waiting at the gate. They tell her they've come from afar - after a very close friend of her's insisted they pay her a visit. But the lady is not a fool. She tells them her husband's not at home. And that she can't let anyone in - without his permission. That's fine - the strangers tell her . And they agree to wait at the tea stall just across the road.

The husband walks in about an hour later. The lady tells him everything - she obviously suspects the strangers are thugs. The husband tells her to call them in anyway. The lay's doubtful - but she does as she's told. But the strangers politely refuse. All three of us won't come in together - they say. Pick just one of us. They tell her their names - Money, Success and Love.

The lady is now confused. She goes back and asks her family for advice. Her mother in law tells her to ask for Money. We definitely need some, since you didn't get any from your father - she smirks. Her husband tells her to call Success in. If he could help me with this project I am doing - we'll be set for the rest of our lives, he tells her.

The lady's not too happy with their advice. When she goes back to the strangers - it's Love she invites to come home. But when she leads him back to her door - she finds Money and Success are already having tea with the family. She can't understand what's going on - till Love smiles and says - Lady, if you'd asked for either of my friends - the rest of us would have stayed outside your door. But you asked for me - and my friends don't let me go alone anywhere!

The Palm Bridge

LHM

It was the month of June. The sky wore her black mantle, trees began to shake their branches in the fast blowing wind. Birds chirped and flew into their nests. Streaks of lightning emerged continuously, followed by the mighty roar of thunder. The dark clouds broke into heavy down pour filling the streams and rivers with water coloured red with the mud washed down from the hills in the east. Puddles formed everywhere, scores of naked children plunging into the cool waters and jumping into the puddles. ponds became full with fresh water. Paddy fields became a long stretch of flowing water, welcoming fish escaping from the rushing rivers in search of quieter breeding places. Boys rode their makeshift boats made of huge banana trunks, paddling them with bamboo poles in the vast ocean gifted by the benign monsoon.

Going to school in the wet season, loathsome to many kids, was a pleasure for the maidens of Aarukara. School was, in fact second home to us, as all children were treated kindly and without any distinction by our teachers. Ours was a school only for girls, managed by Catholic nuns. Facing our school was the boy's school, run by priests. Boys and girls, from different villages, had to reach their schools on foot, treading miles and miles of hilly terrain, cris-crossed with rivers in spate connected to land by wooden bridges. The bridges were mostly made of bamboo poles, tied together with coir ropes and suspended across trees with the help of strong steel wires. Most of such bridges were made by the collective labour and contribution of the parents of school going children. Smaller streams were bridged by single coconut or even Arecanut palms, culled from plantations that were more than half-a-century old.

The sight of well clad village kids, with well scrubbed faces, oiled and neatly combed hair, bundle of books under their arms, crossing these low slung bridges that twisted and swayed in cool gusts of Kerala’s monsoon wind, in their morning march towards school is a pleasing experience. There is a lot of chatter and laughter in the air, emerging specially from the young lasses with long black hair plaited in two and adorned with jasmine flowers.

On that fateful day of June 15th, the "thick five", as they were called, left for school separately in two's and three's. Mother had prepared a quick omlette and packed my lunch in an aluminum tiffin box. Holding my books and tiffin with the elbow, I opened my umbrella and moved to my cousin Nisha's house. Nisha was given to habitual depression, ever since her previous examination. Fearing failure, she, along with her friend had run away from home and boarded a train to Madras. Providence had brought them back home through the agency of a old gentleman who was traveling in the same train. Sensing the girls were in trouble, the gentleman took the girls to his home in Madras, gave them food and put them back the next day, on a train going to Trivandrum. He and his wife had warned the girls of the dangers lurking behind them in a strange place and convinced them to go home at the earliest. One can well imagine the emotional trauma and social stigma the then teen aged girls families had to go through in a close-knit village group. Though relieved at the return of his daughter safe and sound, Nisha's father, a strict disciplinarian, showered verbal abuse and physical torture on the little girl. Even more unbearable was the cat calls and the snide remarks by the schoolboys on our daily march to school. Nisha, the lively, bubbling, vivacious girl was never the same thereafter and withdrew into a cocoon, by shunning friends. I was the only companion whose company she did not detest.

We set out for school around 8 in the morning. After a short while, it began to rain cats and dogs. We reached a small stream with an Arecanut palm bridge. Strong currents of water were about to touch the palm bridge. We looked at the flushing, leaping, frothing, mud red water flowing under the bridge with trepidation. There was no question of going back home, for Nisha's father was sure to skin her alive for bunking class. Holding the books and the umbrella in our left arms, we climbed up the bridge, holding the steel wire tied to trees on both banks with our right hands. The palm began to wobble and sway. Praying to all the saints we were aware of, we somehow made it to the other bank and reached school half an hour late, fully drenched and shivering from head to toe. Sister Emma, our headmistress was kind enough to let us in and gave a pair of change of clothes to wear.

At the sign of inclement weather worsening, headmistress declared that school would be closed by lunch. She advised us to leave school at the earliest sign of the rain weakening. Even after a wait of half an hour, there was no sign of improvement. From the school itself, we could hear the roar of the flowing water and see uprooted trees and logs being carried away by the rushing waters. Our teachers asked us to wait for some more time to leave school so that the ferocity of the monsoons weakens a bit. There was no sign of any respite even after a wait of half an hour. One by one, the girls ventured to go back home. The "thick five" finally decided to make their move and started walking towards the stream. Nisha was last in tow. The sound of the water striking against our umbrellas and the roar of the stream was so deafening that we had to make ourselves heard. Though it was only past two, it had become as dark as night. The flashing streams of lightning and the loud thunder that followed gave such a tremor to our hearts. At every lightning, we ejaculated the names of Jesus, Mary, Joseph or Rama Rama or Allah O Akbar.

As we approached the stream with the palm bridge, the sight of the strong current sent a chill down each of our spines. There were a group of boys from the other school were already on the bridge. They did not seem in the least to be overawed by the situation. They were in fact, enjoying themselves, shouting at the top of their voices, singing cinema songs, parodying their teachers. We hesitantly looked at the swelling columns of water barely touching the palm bridge, unsure of whether to cross the stream or wait for some more time. Suddenly, Nisha came forward, neatly folded up her long skirt upto her knees, held up the books and umbrella in her right hand and climbed over the bridge, holding the supporting wires with her right hand. As soon as she reached the centre, the boys in front emitted a howl of shouts akin to the voices made by foxes and some of them began to sing a lewd film tune. Nisha felt giddy, lost her balance and plunged into the swirling water. As was inevitable, the current swept Nisha downstream. Even while being tossed about by the water, she held on to her books and umbrella tightly. As we the frightened girls were looking at poor Nisha not knowing what to do, one of the boys, who we considered to be one of the naughtiest, threw away his books and jumped into the water and tried to swim towards Nisha. But before he could catch up with her, the current swept him off to the other side. Nisha somehow was able to reach near the bank some distance downstream where she caught hold of a protruding root of a large Jackfruit tree. We shouted at Nisha to throw her books away and hold on to the roots with both her hands, but she continued to hold on to her books.

In the meantime a boatman downstream had saved the boy who had jumped into the stream to save Nisha. Soon the boatman, along with a large group of worried villagers came and fished out Nisha from the swirling waters. The books and the umbrella were still under Nisha's tight grip.

Nisha later told us that if she had lost her books, she would have had a severe thrashing from her father.

Lilly Joseph

Day 3 on the blogging trail

LHM

This story was written by my mom. It's like Drama in Real Life. How life in a sleepy Kerala village could suddenly become a game between life and death. It's a true story.

Jaimon Joseph