THE KHAPS  

It quite apparent that the Khap panchayat is having troubles adjusting to modern India, where young adults no longer walk the commands of their elders. In most cases, the elders have very little say in important issues such as that of marriage. After all, in a world that is continuously changing and developing, the least one can do is to let the others choose their own spouses. Delicate issues such as love and marriage should best be left to the person who is about to enter the institution of marriage. Because later on in life, if the person chosen by the elders turns out to be unbearable, no one would meddle in the couple’s affairs and in the end, it will one of spouses suffering because of what others consider, ‘tradition’. And in most cases, it is the woman who suffers the greatest, being still considered ‘inferior’ and ‘helpless’. In most households, back in the olden times, if a couple was ill-matched, it would always be the woman who would be half-beaten to death, being tortured beyond belief. The husband, on the other hand, would be venting out his anger by beating his wife blue-black, cursing his luck at the top of his voice, and probably drinking himself to sleep.

 

It is important for the Khap panchayat to understand that if a person is old enough to marry, then it is obvious that person is also old enough to choose her/his own spouse. It is also important to note that if they decide not to meddle in the issues of an ill-matched couple, then they should turn a blind eye to the issues and decision of a couple who have married for the sake of being with the person she or he loves, as well. A person, in today’s times, simply cannot be with a person she/he hardly knows. A courtship of several months is simply not sufficient to get to know a person well. The concept of love marriage, one that the Khap panchayat detest so badly, is in reality a fair way of keeping domestic violence, humiliation and divorce under control.

 

One of the most important changes that the Khap panchayat should go through is a change of mindset. Not only them, but everyone who thinks that choosing partners is the best that they could possible do for their children, or who think that a woman is incomplete without the support of a ‘male member’.  In the first case, it is perhaps the worst thing that they could do for their children, and that is to force them into marriage. In the second case, it may be possible for women to be physically weaker than men, but the same concept cannot, and should not, be applied with respect to women’s mental strength.

 

In today’s times, women seem to apply more brains than the men folk. Given a chance, they can do wonders and surpass the men by shocking degrees. Despite many of the elders themselves experiencing an erratic marriage, they still fail to understand the harm that they, often unconsciously, inflict upon their own children. Inspite of being forced into marriage themselves, they fail to see the wrongness of the act, as the consequences are often disturbing. Thus, the Khap panchayat needs to understand the importance and existence of love in marriage, that of keeping the marriage healthy and steady. They need to understand that they cannot force young people to do their bidding in every single issue. They need to open up, embrace modern times, and not interfere in marriages that have been solemnized with the consent of the two individuals involved.



WHOM TO BLAME 

She steps out of her house and locks the door carefully. Carefully clothed to protect her from the winter chills, she is comfortably huddled up in a woollen muffler. Alone in the street, no street light is able to ease her hurried footsteps. She anxiously looks around her to see if she is being followed. An occasional car, zooming past her, would reveal peering eyes through the glass window. She walks frantically to the bus stop, a growing fear gnawing at her heart. After waiting for a long time and braving eve-teasers, the bus finally comes to her rescue: an empty one. She mounts that bus, hardly realizing that it would be a ride that would leave a huge impact on her, not only mentally, but physically and emotionally as well.

Little do we realize that more or less, every woman has been eve-teased, molested or sexually assaulted some time or the other. What harm do the poor girls do to the molesters, that she be man-handled that way? Does she ‘dress inappropriately’? Does she commit the sin of not covering herself properly? Or is she so beautiful that those men could, so easily, give in to nature’s desires? But the truth is, it has got nothing to do with either the girl’s dressing sense, or her physical beauty. It is the result of the uncontrolled feelings that the man has towards his victim, that the woman is forcefully subjected to such kind of violence. But it is not the tender love that he feels for her; it is, rather, the ‘tenderness’ projected in its worst form. And when the deed is done, many put the blame on that poor girl, very conveniently dismissing the man’s role in this horrendous act. What is so difficult to understand that the women are not the ones who invite rapes on themselves? What is so difficult to grasp that it is, most often always, the man who is at fault. If this disregard to the sanctity of womanhood is not barbarous, then what is, we wonder? In any case, why should the girls be restricted? What is their fault? Why should they bear the brunt of something that has not been caused because of them? Why is the woman blamed just for the sake of convenience?   

Tomorrow anyone can be in this situation. It could be you, me or some girl who we are close to. Or it could be a young woman who lives far off and has no connections with us whatsoever. But does that give us the feeling of safety that ultimately allows us to move about late at night, with so many watchful eyes that hold us as their prey? I say no. But, unfortunately, it surely impedes upon our movements, our sense of safety or our way of dressing. If she is to be blamed each and every time then God bless her and her fellow sisters. For if the people hold her as the reason for the assault, then who be her consoler, who be her healer, who be her sharer? No one, but those few who are sensible enough not to blame the girl and put more pressure on her, who already had to go through such a horrid and painful experience. Extensive media coverage and lack of support would only leave a deeper scar. The blame-game policy has to change. It is not the woman’s fault, and I repeat it again and again. This siding with the wrongdoer has to end, once and for all.       

 

THE WORKING LADY

 

It’s Sunday night. She sets the alarm for 5 o’clock in the morning before going off to bed. She then lies down and shuts her eyes for a few minutes. A shrill noise wakes her up. She realizes its morning again. Stifling a yawn, she quickly climbs out of bed. Rolls her hair into a loose bun and drowsily makes her way to the kitchen. She starts off from where she’d ended the night before, cooking food for her children and husband.

It’s 5.30 in the morning. The alarm rings again. She carries the glass brimming with milk, to her daughters’ rooms, wakes them up with a gentle tone, and tells them to finish the milk before it gets cold.

It’s 6 o’clock now. She wakes her youngest daughter up, tells her to get ready for school. She then again makes her way back to the kitchen and continues to cook. She lays the table. Gets dressed up and then drops her daughter to the bus stop. When she comes back, she is welcomed by her husband, who is groggy with sleep himself. She finds her elder daughter getting ready for her classes. Irritated by the sight of the untidy room, she enters the kitchen again, begins to plan the food she would like to cook that day. Planning ends. Cooking begins.

It’s 11 o’clock. She’s done a lot of cooking. Has prepared lunch and is halfway through with the dinner. She is wide awake now. Her back hurts, eyes hurt, and muscles ache. But she must carry on. She comes out of the kitchen. Collects her bathroom essentials and goes for a bath. But even the bath fails to bring her any solace. She shampoo-es her hair into a lather, soaps the day’s dirt away. The bath ends. Washing begins.

It’s 12 noon. She’s alone in the house. No one to help her. She has done preparing all the meals. Has done the washing. She now enters every room, checks anything that seems out of order. With a sigh of relief, she decides to take a break. Exhausted beyond belief, that seems more so because of the advancing old-age, she collapses onto the bed. Seeking a quiet, peaceful nap. Alas, that was not to be. The door bell propels her to forgo her mid-day break.

It’s 3.15 in the afternoon. She is expecting her younger daughter to return from school any minute. The door bell rings, bringing the news of the arrival of her daughter. She lets her in, helps her with her bag. She serves her daughter food, watches her gobble it up. She then serves herself. After finishing everything on her plate, she semi-cleans the kitchen and goes to her bedroom for an afternoon siesta.

It’s 5pm. The house-maid is expected to knock any time soon. This expectation keeps her awake half the time. Finally the maid arrives. She supervises the house-maid’s work, criticises her now and then for missing a spot.

It is now 7 o’clock in the evening. Her ears stand up straight, like an alert dog’s, at the slightest noise made by an approaching car. Her uncanny assumption announces the arrival of her husband of 23 years. She pulls the door wide open. She takes the briefcase from her husband’s hand and wordlessly tells him to relax.

It’s 10.30 pm now. She serves dinner to everyone, serves herself last. She eats, nowadays often without savouring the taste. She clears the table. Cleans the dishes. Turns the kitchen lights off. Watches her daily soap operas.

It is 11 o’clock. Exhaustion knows no bounds. She retires to her bedroom, switches the light off. And tries to sleep.     

Each day is the same. There is hardly any activity that would help her distinguish one day from the other. There is hardly any respite. Sleep escapes her, provides her no comfort. Frequent arguments erupt, robbing her mind off any peace that could have accumulated over the day. This robotic human craves for a change in scenario. Doing an unpaid and most often, an unrecognised job, depresses her. She fondly remembers her days when she, too, had a job. A job that paid. A job that was recognised by all. Working tirelessly for years on end, she one those innumerable unsung heroes we oft hear about. She, is my mother.