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Musings on Independence
Day
Ethel da Costa
One is truly free, if one has the money to support the freedom!
I’ve mentally removed myself from the slush of the city – man made and
government endorsed -- and taken my mind deep into the years of
childhood….safely cocooned within the bosoms of the green mountains, rich
with wild flowers and a hundred birds chirping a merry music to the sounds
of gurgling village streams. A picnic by the river deep inside the woods,
a splash of abandon into the cool streams, mock shrieks rending the air
when a sudden bite by an inquisitive fish would have us scampering to the
safety of the earth. Collecting bits of driftwood to make a fire to heat
up our lunch, following the trails created by wild boars up the mountain
stream, leaving our fishing rods tied to little boughs and desperately
hoping for a bite. The sight of a peacock doing his rounds of a casual
evening walk, or even a majestic tiger laying claim to a man-made tarred
road – and this I’ve seen with my own eyes -- by stopping traffic and us,
dead bolt in its path. In these havens -- safe no more now even in a
school -- a little girl was allegedly raped. At eight years, there are
impressions that the mind never forgets even as the body follows the
patterns laid down by Nature. Time heals, but not all wounds…I shudder to
think that we’ve come 56 years down the Independence war cry and the scars
are still showing, if not scratched deep to draw blood in the name of
religion whipped politics, time and again. There are no leaders to look up
to. There are no heroes. There are only myths.
So, what did the violence meted on the little girl herald? Column spaces
in some corner of newsprint. No flashy 40 point heading. No provocative
innuendos. No forensic history to flog. No rape theory to build. No cop to
thrash. No file-laden lawyer to hold press conferences. And I hope I don’t
sound crude because I feel so revolted -- no hymen to discuss? Is there a
discount on this little girl because she has no flashy name to back her,
no phoren blood to pooh-ha about (and I am not racist, though I know
foreigners are about Indians, here and worldwide) no rich parent to garner
public support, go to the newspapers and sob their story all over the
newsprint?
But then wait, where have all the collective bandwagon of activists
disappeared? Taking a break for the monsoon or nursing their sore throats
after crying foul all through summer? Is there no activist, otherwise
breast-beating their cause (or should I say, cross) on short-changed
womanhood at every given opportunity, platform, sympathetic journalist
(and thank god they don’t write columns) to catch the alleged rapist by
his throat and if need be, castrate him publicly? (Sure, the Court is
doing it, and yes, not all judges are corrupt!). Or is it, as a friend
assumes, a girl of eight is not a `woman’ and hence out of their terms of
reference, constitutions and bye-laws? If it is so, then are they a
pathetic group of people who selectively decide and connivingly plan to
hitch their wagon to causes/issues/rapes and hymens, guaranteed to
maximise their own agendas (and I’ve suspected this all along). I would
think that they should work, along with other preventive agencies, towards
ensuring that all schools in the State are safe for the children who
believe the premises are temples of knowledge and wisdom. If twisted minds
stalk the corridors of our schools, you can imagine the low levels our
education systems are stooping to.
Undoubtedly, there is a dire need for justice here, a need to highlight
the wrongs that takes place in the villages too – and this is no one stray
incident. Many go silent for fear of social ostracisation, hence helping
the crime and criminals perpetuate their sins as respectfully as possible.
We have to sensitise ourselves to issues that require us to look beyond
short gains or political affiliations and flog the monsters that prey on
innocent minds and bodies. If need be, fortify ourselves and seek justice
on our own steam.
But hold on, a nagging thought surfaces even as I leave my home for work.
I watch some burly, rag dirty labourers working on a new construction
nearby and the thought that children are defenseless against the power of
physical strength makes me almost retrace my step homewards. Or worse, the
thought that a child may not be safe with the new hired help we’re forced
to put up with, because we’re working mothers. So often, I’ve heard
stories of children being abused by the housekeeper in the absence of the
parents. These crimes go silent too, caught as we all are in our economic
inter-dependency.
I’ve often told my children to be vigilant against anybody trying to
befriend them outside the family circle of friends. The whys and the hows
are clearly laid out, in the bid that awareness is the first step towards
self-preservation. A democracy, as we learn from the examples set by the
world, is a long drawn battle for justice after the criminal has bolted.
If you’re loaded, even that can be bought for a price. You only have to
look at all the ministers in our cabinet, without getting outside the
boundaries of our state.
For a dose of homegrown paradox, our minister of environment seriously
believes that the good of the State and his bank balance is inversely
proportionate to the fall in tree cover. While the rest of the faithful
follow the Sabbath, the trees in my neighbourhood at St Inez-Tonca await
their death sentence.
This is one Independence day I intend to exercise my right of
non-cooperation.
Ethel da Costa
August 25, 2003
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