Categories
Stories

The Fort

By Dr (Major) Nalini Janardhanan

“Hi Nandini… you are still with the text books? Don’t you get bored? Why are you always busy with studies? See we are planning a picnic. Do you want to join? ”

Nandini’s concentration was disturbed and she got annoyed. Her friends, Mini and Renu, were looking at her in anticipation. To their dismay she replied, “Sorry, I am not coming, I am left with enormous  amount of studies. Don’t you both remember exams are next week? ”

“We do not want to hear anything.  Today you have to come with us. You will be enthralled to see our picnic location. You know we are going to that ancient Fort on the hilltop.” Mini said.

Nandini’s face brightened with a smile. She always wanted to visit that fort. The old fort on the hill was a historical monument.

Nandini and her friends Mini, Renu, Suma and Rajani were excited when they started their journey uphill along the narrow path towards the fort. The majestic fort was seen standing tall atop the hill. Whenever Nandini  glanced at the fort, an unknown force had seemed to draw her towards it.

“Oh,  what a strenuous climb! We are exhausted and literally gasping for breath. Let us rest for a while, okay? ” Renu  suggested. Nandini and her friends relaxed on the lush green lawn in front of the fort.

There was an eerie silence with just distant cooing of pigeons at the hilltop. Suddenly some of them flew away flapping their wings. Nandini was startled but chose to look past it. Melodious bhajans and chants with ringing of temple bells could be heard from the valley downhill. Sunset was close. The sky was painted in hues of red, crimson and purple. Within minutes dark clouds converged in welcoming the calm night. Nandini could feel a chilling hollowness in the air. There was a bizarre feel to the breeze that grew cooler as they climbed.

“Friends let us get back before it is too dark,” Nandini spoke in a tense voice.

“Look at Nandini, all frightened and sweating. Are there any ghosts here, Nandini? ” Suma teased her with a wink and grin.

“Of course, a spirit will come and take our Nandini away. A spirit of a handsome young man, isn’t it Nandini? ” Others laughed when Rajani said this.

“Stop it! Please! Let us just quickly see the fort and head back at the earliest,” Nandini retorted.

They reached the fort entrance. The main gate was open. The cobble stoned pathway leading to the monument was adorned with trees and bushes on either side.  The heavy antique iron door had an enchanting brass handle with tiny contemporary bells hanging from it.

Nandini felt an uncanny presence around herself. The air had a sweet fragrance of evening primrose flowers, though there were none in the vicinity.

“You know girls? This fort is haunted by the spirit of a Prince! It is believed that he attracts beautiful girls! People reported hearing strange sounds and music from this fort. But nobody has seen the ghost of the Prince. Today is a full moon night. The Prince may just walk in…spooky, no?” Mini whispered.

Nandini felt an unknown presence in the courtyard. And a strange fear was enfolding her in its grips. They entered the fort. The fragrance of sandalwood and roses wafted to Nandini’s nostrils. The atmosphere was serene and silent. For a brief moment, she felt as if a pair of eyes were following her.

“Oh it is nothing… probably a figment of my imagination.” Nandini convinced herself and rushed to catch up with her friends.

She reached the courtyard. The open space appeared radiant under the moonlight. The calmness of the night swept through her being like a newlywed bride creating a romantic ambience.

Moving into the main quarters, Nandini continued feeling the presence of the unknown eyes. She shuddered when a cool breeze embraced her. Next moment she felt the gentle touch of an unknown breath caressing her cheeks like a solace.

“Girls, you know something? The Prince used to sleep here and it is claimed that people can still hear the tunes of Gandharv Veena from a distance on moonlit nights! Isn’t that interesting?”

“I so wish I could meet the Prince,” chuckled Rajani. For a scary moment Nandini felt a chill down her spine. What if I had a spooky encounter tonight?

Nandini was looking at the rich design and architectural details which were discretely lighted with concealed bulbs that lit up the darkness of the rooms as the sun set. They had been installed by the archaeological department that maintained ancient buildings. The other girls went on to explore the rest of old fort.

This time suddenly a feathery touch fondled her and gently held her hand and whispered into her ears, “Nandini, can’t you see me? This is me! Have you forgotten me? ”

“Who was that? Who whispered in my ears?  Girls, it is not funny,” Nandini turned around suddenly but there was nobody around.  “Nandini! You are just being silly now. You are imagining things now,” she reprimanded herself.

There was a primeval majestic Veena at one of the corners. Nandini was fond of musical instruments. She ran her fingers through the rusted strings. A low pitched musical note echoed and she felt a soft kiss on her cheeks. She turned around in shock. The room had ornately carved sculptures of courtesans holding lamps.

Instantaneously the lamps lit up on their own. An unknown, unseen force led her to the featherbed in the centre and she sat there. It was like a fantasy castle… tantalizing music of sitar and veena… fleeting melodies of court music playing in the background. Wind chimes were ringing softly. She was astonished to see a handsome prince lying on the bed decorated with flowers. He was looking at her with anticipation — as if he was waiting for her. She fell for him the very moment she saw him. It was love at first sight!

Lovebirds were cooing at a distance. Romantic melodies enraptured her senses. It was the night of lovers, the night of the union of two souls in love. The prince embraced and kissed her. A symphony of love notes wafted in the air. Nandini closed her eyes. Her mind drowned in the oblivion of romance. She flew like a bird in the sky and then settled down on the branch of a tree with her lover bird.

“Love birds…. see how cute!” Suma exclaimed.

“Ok everyone, come let us go back now. What happened  Nandini? Now you don’t seem to be in hurry. It is getting dark. Let us head back to the hostel.” Her friends called out to her.

“No! Where is my prince? I want to sit here for some more time. I can’t go back without meeting my Prince,” Nandini murmured.

“What is wrong with this girl? Come Nandini. ” They dragged her out of the mysterious quarter.

In a calm, low tone she heard him again, “Nandu, why are you getting upset? We are inseparable darling. I was always with you. I am here for you. We are eternally bound. I waited for you over so many decades. I knew you would come for me. Now that we are together, please don’t think of leaving me and going. I can’t bear the sorrow of our separation ever again. We were made for each other Nandu.”

Those words echoed in her ears while his loving fingers caressing her hair… She could feel him… Her unknown lover.

Nandini was forced to depart from her strange reality. Others dragged her out. They were waiting for her. On her way back, she felt euphoric. She seemed to be lost in a trance. Her face was glowing with love. Her lips had a sweet smile. Her eyes were half closed in ecstasy as unknown lips caressed her like soft flower petals. She felt like a feather floating in the air. She felt her passion simultaneously burn with the flames of a hot fire and cool her soul like dew drops that enveloped her heart and soul.

She could feel the longing and deep affection of her lover. Both of them flew towards the horizon like a pair of golden love birds. Her soul had yearned to merge with his soul. His captivating smile, dazzling personality, mesmerising words and eloquent eyes drew her towards him magically. She could feel the warm breath and heartbeats of her Prince — the heart which was beating for her. There was a haunting eeriness in the evening winds.

She gradually started feeling like a princess. She wished her dream would never end or was it real? She wondered.

When Nandini  finally reached below the hill, she turned around to take a last glance at the fort. The fort seemed to be glowing with a mystifying aura. Amid all that was strange, she could see the silhouette of her Prince waving at her.

A cool breeze grazed her cheeks. A soft voice whispered in her ears again, “I will ever be yours. You are and will always be my princess. ”

The regal fort was looming against the dark blue sky — the fort of unrevealed stories, the fort of unrequited love, the fort with mysterious secrets.

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Dr. (Major) Nalini Janardhanan is a Family Medicine Specialist who served in Indian Army Medical Corps as an Army Medical Officer in the rank of Major. She is a popular  writer of Kerala who got Katha Award and a writer of many medical books for which she got IMA Sahithya Award. She is an All India Radio and Doordarshan approved artist of Ghazals and Bhajans[Light Music].She is felicitated with many awards for her contributions towards society as a doctor,singer, writer ,army officer and for her social service.

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Categories
Essay

Chipping Away At Time’s Edifice

By Dustin Pickering

#Minnesota, Sketch by Dustin Pickering

“…history is potent enough to deliver, on time, in the medium to long run, most of the possible scenarios, and to eventually bury the bad guy.”

Nassim Nicolas Taleb, Fooled by Randomness

This essay assumes a personal and historical tone during time of global unrest. It is my response to the murder of George Floyd and seeks to re-imagine what could be from what is.

My great grandfather on my dad’s side loved Black people. He was respected in the small Mississippi town of Monticello where he frequented Black churches at night. As a Southern Baptist, it was an odd thing for him during that period to appreciate the Black community. This was during a time prior to the Civil Rights Era of the 1960’s.

My grandmother grew up in that era and married at age 13. Her husband was involved with Klansmen. She told me stories about violence against Blacks including an incident where she saw a Black man run into a field followed by an angry mob of white men that included the town sheriff. The sheriff told her not to worry about what was going on. She told me in confidence that when the Civil Rights Act made it possible for Blacks to run for office, she voted for a Black woman running in a local election. She told me stories of Blacks being chased from sidewalks and vapidly discouraged from smiling casually at white women, treated as second-class citizens, jazz clubs being raided, Black musicians portrayed as negative influences on youth and women for smoking marijuana, and newspapers with severely racist headlines. The picture was distant to me other than history books. She told me about the first time she witnessed a sit-in. Her shock was outrun by her admiration. She owned the Autobiography of Malcolm X as told to Alex Haley.

These stories will come as no surprise to Blacks, I’m sure. The Black community has suffered repression by white supremacists and societal conditions imposed on them for hundreds of years in the United States. It seems unjust that even Nature is not even-handed. For instance, the COVID-19 virus and AIDS disproportionately affected Black communities. I attended a short discussion with Tantra Zawadi, an activist and poet, several years ago during which she showed a documentary film about the suffering of Black people due to the AIDS virus. I asked her why she thought it hurt her community particularly. She responded that the Black community has learned to not care for itself. That is a long and frightening discussion.

***

It is often assumed that the American Civil War resolved the problems created by slavery. President Lincoln is reported as stating, “I am not, nor ever have been, in favor of bringing about in any way the social and political equality of the white and black races … I am not nor ever have been in favor of making voters or jurors of Negroes, nor of qualifying them to hold office, nor to intermarry with white people; and I will say in addition to this that there is a physical difference between the white and black races which I believe will forever forbid the two races from living together on terms of social and political equality. And inasmuch as they cannot so live, while they do remain together there must be a position of superior and inferior, and I as much as any other man am in favor of having the superior position assigned to the white race.” This was quoted from his debates with Sen. Stephen Douglas on September 18, 1858. This statement was made in defense against the Democrats who believed Lincoln would abolish slavery, what was then a radical suggestion.

Frederick Douglass said of class struggle, “Where justice is denied, where poverty is enforced, where ignorance prevails, and where any one class is made to feel that society is an organized conspiracy to oppress, rob and degrade them, neither persons nor property will be safe.”

The Black Codes of the Reconstruction era did just this. Even before the Civil War, such codes were designed to protect the institution of slavery. Blacks were expected to turn their guns over to white men upon the white man’s request. Through convict leasing, private parties could employ the free labor of convicts. This practice provided immense revenue to southern states. Time Magazine writes, “Prison privatization accelerated after the Civil War. The reason for turning penitentiaries over to companies was similar to states’ justifications for using private prisons today: prison populations were soaring, and they couldn’t afford to run their penitentiaries themselves.” In fact, the Thirteenth Amendment abolishes slavery except as punishment for a crime. Privatized prisons historically targeted Black males. African American families still suffer from policies such as the Drug War. The 1986 Anti-Drug Abuse Act created tougher mandatory sentences for possession of crack, a drug that was cheaper and easy to transport than powdered cocaine, though not much different in substance. Media hype of the 1980’s created the illusion of a “crack epidemic”, thus leading to the tougher sentencing law. This law was amended by the 2010 Fair Sentencing Act. The Sentencing Project Records the racial disparities of incarceration.

Some statements from The Sentencing Project:

“One contributing factor to the disparity in arrest rates is that racial minorities commit certain crimes at higher rates. Specifically, data suggests that black Americans—particularly males—tend to commit violent and property crimes at higher rates than other racial groups. Other studies, however, demonstrate that higher crime rates are better explained by socioeconomic factors than race: extremely disadvantaged neighborhoods experience higher rates of crime regardless of racial composition. Because African Americans constitute a disproportionate share of those living in poverty in the United States, they are more likely to reside in low-income communities in which socioeconomic factors contribute to higher crime rates.”

“The United States government’s War on Drugs has perhaps contributed more than any other single factor to the racial disparities in the criminal justice system.”

***

We continue to remind one another to “beat our swords into ploughshares.” We must be hungry.

***

In the 19th century prior to the outbreak of the American Civil War, factions of anti-immigrant sentiment developed and coalesced into the Know Nothing Party. They were generally working-class nativists who resented Irish and German Catholics for economic reasons. They came from industrialized cities in the North and spread into the South. The Party was founded in 1844 and rose to prominence in 1853 until the Dred Scott decision and John Brown’s raid proved slavery was a central issue to the nation rather than immigration. John Wilkes Booth was a member.

Once the Kansas-Nebraska Act (1854) replaced congressional edict with popular sovereignty regarding slavery in territories included in the Louisiana Purchase, what is now known as the Republican Party emerged in the North among anti-slavery advocates and Freesoil debaters. Nativists in the South became entrenched in the Know Nothing cause. Such nativist sentiment evolved into the strict anti-immigration policy in the 1920’s that was oddly lax on northwestern European flow into the United States.

It is a commonly understood fact of history that the northern economy was less dependent on slave labor, and more on the surplus capital provided by taxing the products of slave labor. In Hylton v. US (1796), Justice Patterson wrote, “The constitution declares, that a capitation tax is a direct tax; and both in theory and practice, a tax on land is deemed to be a direct tax… The provision was made in favor of the southern states; they possessed a large number of slaves; they had extensive tracts of territory, thinly settled, and not very productive. A majority of the states had but few slaves, and several of them a limited territory, well settled, and in a high state of cultivation. The southern states, if no provision had been introduced in the constitution, would have been wholly at the mercy of the other states. Congress in such case, might tax slaves, at discretion or arbitrarily, and land in every part of the Union, after the same rate or measure: so much a head, in the first instance, and so much an acre, in the second. To guard them against imposition, in these particulars, was the reason of introducing the clause in the constitution.” (bold emphasis is the essayists)  

In 1895, the Pollack case redefined direct taxation to include taxes on property and income, and the 16th Amendment restored the original definition of taxation whereby to allow the progressive income tax and other measures.

The northern industrialized economy continued to exploit Black labor. According to thehenryford.org, “No single reason can sufficiently explain why in a brief period between 1910 and 1920, nearly half a million Southern blacks moved from farms, villages, towns and cities to the North, starting what would ultimately be a 50-year migration of millions. What would be known as the Great Migration was the result of a combination of fundamental social, political and economic structural problems in the South and an exploding Northern economy. Southern blacks streamed in the thousands and hundreds of thousands throughout the industrial cities of the north to fill the work rolls of factories desperate for cheap labor.” The population of Detroit nearly doubled between the years 1910-20 with a significant increase in the Black population. The Great Migration provided companies like Ford Motors with cheap labor from African Americans.

Clearly slavery shaped the United States economy and was a major catalyst of dispute as well as change. Some may argue it was necessary for the New World; however, religious groups such as the Mennonites were abolitionists as far back as 1688. Along with immigration and taxation, today’s Republican Party has utilized these antiquated hostilities; yet, the Democrats have convinced a segment of voters with other reasons. They became the party of ‘civil rights.’ Encyclopedia Britannica defines civil rights asguarantees of equal social opportunities and equal protection under the law, regardless of race, religion, or other personal characteristics.” A July 12, 1964 article in the New York Times states, “…the pressure exerted by militant Negroes had become so great that many businessmen had dropped racial barriers in their establishments. Many others were waiting only for the excuse provided by the new law.” The spirit of the times was changing to oblige equal rights. Some may argue that law does not guarantee equality or fair treatment. However, Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King stated in a rebuttal to Goldwater’s “change of heart, not legislation” approach that he agreed with Goldwater, and although legislation cannot make a man love him it can in fact prevent him from lynching him.

We should not define bigotry, xenophobia, and racial injustice along party or regional lines as the usual contemporary narratives have it. My grandmother and I used to argue about the Old South in contrast to the “New South.” A few years ago, Newsweek ran a cover article along those lines. The changing attitudes of young people and the decline of traditional narratives favoring “states’ rights” were the article’s focus. After reading, I called my grandmother to discuss it with her.

She didn’t seem to agree that the South was changing significantly. She often spoke against the Democrats and their effect on the South historically. Democrats caused enormous civil unrest during the Reconstruction Era, including at the Battle of Liberty Place where white supremacists defeated US troops in an attempted coup against elected governor William Pitt Kellogg. Kellogg was considered a “carpetbagger” by white southern Democrats because of his years collecting customs at the Port of New Orleans. The White League, as the paramilitary white supremacist force was known, intimidated Blacks to prevent them from voting—no poll tax or literacy tests! Reconstruction era Democrats used violence and intimidation to oppose Black emancipation! The grandson of a Confederate soldier, President Lyndon Baines Johnson who passed the Civil Rights Act of 1964, supposedly remarked, “These Negroes, they’re getting pretty uppity these days and that’s a problem for us since they’ve got something now they never had before, the political pull to back up their uppityness. Now we’ve got to do something about this, we’ve got to give them a little something, just enough to quiet them down, not enough to make a difference. For if we don’t move at all, then their allies will line up against us and there’ll be no way of stopping them, we’ll lose the filibuster and there’ll be no way of putting a brake on all sorts of wild legislation. It’ll be Reconstruction all over again.” It is sometimes said President Johnson was simply navigating the political realm wisely, much like President Lincoln.

This began the era of “Southern Strategy”. The term “dog whistle” was used to indicate the new rhetoric of “state’s rights” employed by the GOP. “You start out in 1954 by saying, ‘Nigger, nigger, nigger’. By 1968 you can’t say ‘nigger’—that hurts you. Backfires. So you say stuff like forced busingstates’ rights and all that stuff. You’re getting so abstract now [that] you’re talking about cutting taxes, and all these things you’re talking about are totally economic things and a byproduct of them is [that] blacks get hurt worse than whites,” Lee Atwater stated to explain states’ rights. Atwater further states, “But Reagan did not have to do a southern strategy for two reasons. Number one, race was not a dominant issue. And number two, the mainstream issues in this campaign had been, quote, southern issues since way back in the sixties. So Reagan goes out and campaigns on the issues of economics and of national defense. The whole campaign was devoid of any kind of racism, any kind of reference.” Does making race a central issue hurt or help the cause of equal justice? Have we forgotten the importance of racial dynamics in shaping this country?

I remember as a child in the Reagan 80’s I was tutored to read and write by a Black woman who came to love me as her own. This was in Mississippi, the heart of the Dixiecrat struggle only decades before.

***

In 2013, a high school in Jacksonville, FLA initiated a name change. It was originally named after Confederate general Nathan B. Forrest who was known to have cut off the arms of surrendered black soldiers. My father was at the forefront of keeping the name. I reluctantly signed a petition he created to keep the school’s name even though I strongly disagreed with it. The school’s African-American student population grew to over half the student body. The school used a Confederate flag in its pep rallies. I can see why the name, which was suggested by the Daughters of the Confederacy in the 1950’s, would upset Black students. Nathan Bedford Forrest was also the first Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan. I signed the petition in a lukewarm decision to support my family, believing it was a lost cause. I was later told that the petition would not be used because only current students and their families’ voices mattered in the decision process. My father was irate.

I agree with the decision to change the school’s name. Who wants to be subjected to seeing the symbols of racism—watch videos from the Civil Rights era—symbols used to oppress and intimidate Blacks, or have a school honored after the KKK’s first Grand Wizard who was not even from Florida? I learned of my own temerity and indecision during this dispute. While the petition had few signatories generally, I was one of them. My decision to sign went against my conscience.

The high school is now known as Westside High School.

***

As a matter of general observation, it seems that political grievances are not resolved only politically. 

Continuous police brutality against Blacks throughout history from Emmitt Till to Amadou Diallo, from Rep. John Lewis to George Floyd, is a serious concern. Blacks are 2.5 times as likely to face police violence than other racial groups. In 2019, 1,098 incidents of police homicide were recorded. According to mappingpoliceviolence.org, Black people were 24 percent of those homicides while only being 13 percent of the population. In 2017, 1,117 police homicides occurred with 27 percent of them being Blacks. According to a National Institute of Justice study, 50.6 percent of police surveyed believed that it is not unusual for police to turn a blind eye to police misconduct and disagreed that police report abuses of authority at 58.5 percent of those surveyed (Police Attitudes Toward Abuse of Authority, 2000). This study notes that 65.6 percent of those surveyed do not believe the “code of silence” is necessary to good policing. This suggests that in spite of the numbers, our police forces have integrity.

The Black community even retaliates against other Blacks, but Black violent crime is more likely to be interracial. Some solutions to these problems have been suggested. A February 4, 2017 NPR article reports that “as the ration of black officers in police departments rose – up to a certain threshold – so did the number of fatal encounters between officers and black residents… The tipping point appears to be 25 percent. When black officers reach that ratio in the force, the rate of fatal police-involved incidents levels off. The study also found that once a police department became about 40 percent black, the trendline flipped – the more black officers a department has after that point, the less likely the incidence of fatal encounters with black people.” Varieties of strain theory suggest that criminal activity could be due to strain on families, institutional and societal demands on the individual, the Ferguson effect (increased distrust of police due to police violence), and other factors. The National Review reports, “In reality, a randomly selected black man is overwhelmingly unlikely to be victim of police violence — and though white men experience such violence even less often, the disparity is consistent with the racial gap in violent crime, suggesting that the role of racial bias is small. The media’s acceptance of the false narrative poisons the relations between law enforcement and black communities throughout the country and results in violent protests that destroy property and sometimes even claim lives.” The data at mappingpoliceviolence.org notes that Black Americans killed by police are more likely to be unarmed. The broken windows approach encouraged in the 1994 Crime Bill puts undue pressures on poorer communities through increased policing of them. Some suggest juvenile delinquency is caused by the readiness of illegitimate opportunities compared to honest work.

Bloomberg reports a novel addition in this national conversation. Sarah Holder writes in “The City that Remade Its Police Force” that community policing has enabled peaceful protest. Holder writes, “Homicides in Camden [New Jersey] reached 67 in 2012; the figure for 2019 was 25.” With the assistance of New York University’s Policing Department, the police in Camden developed a new manual for use-of-force. (The manual can be read here.) Camden is hoping the rest of the country’s forces follow suit.

***

It seems in recent years there has been some improvement for the Black community.  Graduation levels improved under the Obama administration and Black unemployment is at historical lows under the Trump administration (prior to COVID-19). Economist Walter Williams in The State Against Blacks notes how government policies such as minimum wage and affirmative action have worsened conditions and discrimination. Since the book was written in 1982, unemployment among Black youth is still about 50 percent. Redlining began under FDR by housing authorities has also contributed to impoverishment of Black families. The Community Reinvestment Act, passed in the 1970’s to combat redlining, is even said to have played a role in the Great Recession of 2008 by encouraging subprime leasing.

The riots and demonstrations going on in the United States today as a reaction against the murder of George Floyd, an unarmed Black man who was not resisting arrest and cried for his life while an individual officer’s knee clamped on his neck, are not historical anomalies. The problems faced by the African American community are rooted in a history that affects us all as Americans. The cheapening of Black lives, the destruction of their communities, and the ignorance prevailing concerning these matters and their causes should be openly discussed.

***

Aside from institutional violence, other policies have impacted the Black community disproportionately.

Conservatives believe abortion is rooted in the eugenics cause. As evidence they mention Margaret Sanger, a eugenicist and founder of Planned Parenthood. According to a 2017 study by American Journal of Public Health, black women had the highest rates of abortion even though white women had more of them.

The study, which also notes a decline in the number of abortions in the USA between 2008-14 says, White women accounted for the largest share of abortions among the 4 racial and ethnic groups examined (38.7%), although they had the lowest abortion rate: 10.0 per 1000. Black women were overrepresented among abortion patients and had the highest abortion rate: 27.1 per 1000.” It has been noted that clinics tend to be in poorer communities, granting easier access to minorities who tend to be economically disadvantaged.  Sanger herself notes the reason for her activism: “If THE WOMAN REBEL were allowed to publish with impunity elementary and fundamental truths concerning personal liberty and how to obtain it, the birth control movement would become a movement of tremendous power in the emancipation of the working class.” (from “Suppression”) Abortion is a socioeconomic issue more than a race issue. The mistake is easily made when we forget that race and class intersect in the United States.

In spite of these facts, Sanger wrote in “The Eugenic Value of Birth Control Propaganda”, “As an advocate of Birth Control, I wish to take advantage of the present opportunity to point out that the unbalance between the birth rate of the ‘unfit’ and the ‘fit’, admittedly the greatest present menace to civilization, can never be rectified by the inauguration of a cradle competition between these two classes. In this matter, the example of the inferior classes, the fertility of the feeble-minded, the mentally defective, the poverty-stricken classes, should not be held up for emulation to the mentally and physically fit though less fertile parents of the educated and well-to-do classes.” While it is true that the poor tend to have larger birth rates with less means at their disposal to care for the children, this passage indicates Sanger’s early commitment to eugenics.

California’s prison system employed the decision of Buck v. Bell to forcibly sterilize 148 female prisoners without consent between 2006-10. Huffington Post writes, “In the past, sterilization of vulnerable populations in the name of ‘human betterment’ was carried out with legal authority and the backing of political elites. What current and past practices share is the assumption that some women by virtue of their class position, sexual behavior, or ethnic identity are socially unfit to reproduce and parent.” (“Sterilization Abuse in State Prisons: Time to Break with California’s Long Eugenics Patterns”, 7/23/2013) PBS.org states, “While California’s eugenics programs were driven in part by anti-Asian and anti-Mexican prejudice, Southern states also employed sterilization as a means of controlling African American populations.” (“Unwanted Eugenics and Sterilization Programs in the United States”, 1/29/ 2016)

However, Coretta Scott King had this to say about Margaret Sanger upon accepting the Margaret Sanger Award for Human Rights on behalf of her husband: “There is a striking kinship between our movement and Margaret Sanger’s early efforts.  …  Our sure beginning in the struggle for equality by non-violent direct action may not have been so resolute without the tradition established by Margaret Sanger and people like her.” NPR recognizes in their Race Card Project that “black babies cost less to adopt” because of supply and demand. In other words, there are more black children prepared for adoption and less interest in adopting them.

***

Why have we come this far without questioning ourselves, white friends, white family, white society? It seems when the world turns a mirror to us, for us to look at ourselves, we would rather forget, argue, debate, make excuses.

I am not any better. I admit. I am not any better. It is a tough thing to look at yourself and say, “I can do better. I can encourage more equity.”

***

Don’t get me wrong. This isn’t about the United States. It isn’t about capitalism or socialism. Research South Africa, for instance, and find that the violence against white people is a result of a system that clearly is in favor of white people. Even post-Apartheid, Blacks are being shafted of opportunities. School books are free for white children. White farmers are wealthier and rely on the work of Black people.

This is an issue with humanity. This is an issue with the world. This is not an issue with specific groups, countries, or factions. I framed this essay in the context of my country, the USA, because this is where I see the most immediate effects of the problem. Being in the center of European imperialism and colonialism from the beginning, the United States is responsible for the lack of equity faced today.

In Timbuktu, Islamist insurgents torched two libraries containing historic manuscripts in 2013. Some of the material in the libraries dates back to the 13th century. On the edge of the Sahara, Africa preserves some of its vital history. In a battle for civilization, extremists torch the buildings. These documents include important translations of Plato, Hippocrates, and other Western thinkers, as well as writings on medicine, art, and philosophy. There are also Medieval copies of the Qur’an. Many of the manuscripts were evacuated with financial help from multiple organizations such as the Ford Foundation founded by Edsel and Henry Ford in 1936. Recalling my comments on Ford Motors earlier, perhaps we have come full circle and things are improving although only slightly? Are Blacks being recognized as independent, fully competent individuals now as compared to the Civil War era?

***

It is a difficult and sobering thing to let go of power. In order to see the reflection of one’s skin and the haughtiness of one’s attitude and acts, one must look into the eyes of another’s experiences.

***

Capitalism, emerging from the products of slavery through rapid industrialization, left many people out. Since the founding of the United States under the words “All men are created equal, entitled to life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness” there have been struggles to make this ideal into reality. Once John Jay, founding father, argued that ownership of property should be the sole criteria in considering the right to vote. The values of a capitalist society include the right to the product of one’s labor, free enterprise, and to do with one’s property what one decides in a fair and just manner.

The US Constitution declares we have a right to security in our persons and property. The US Constitution also declares we have a right to freedom of speech, religion, association, and peaceful petition. The world has been inspired by this model of democratic republicanism. The product of many noble minds put together through rational argumentation, the American federalist system provides a positive model for the world in struggles for freedom, as well as great abundance. With its checks and balances, both across government and the economy, the American system is constructed to encourage fairness and rational decision-making among free parties. The right to utilize one’s gifts is the epitome of justice. Human action, not time, will bring these ideals to greater fruition.

The American system is not inherently segregationist, but we still await justice to wash away this culture of supremacy entirely.

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The author thanks Dr. Reza Parchizadeh, Dr. Troy Camplin, and henry 7. reneau, jr. for their editorial contributions and guidance. 

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Dustin Pickering is the founder of Transcendent Zero Press and editor-in-chief of Harbinger Asylum. He has authored several poetry collections, a short story collection, and a novella. He is a Pushcart nominee and was a finalist in Adelaide Literary Journal’s short story contest in 2018. He is a former contributor to Huffington Post. 

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Categories
Poetry

We All Can’t Breathe

By Mutiu Olawiyu

Mutiu Olawuyi (popularly called the Jungle Poet) is an international award-winning poet –  2013 World Poetry Empowered Poet Awardee, Canada, Honorary Professor of International Art Academy, Volos Greece; World Poetry Cultural Ambassador (2014) – Vancouver – Canada; and Master of Literary Innovation (2019) – World Poetry Conference, Bathinda Punjab, India . He is the producer and host of ArtFlakes on CBA TV, the Voice of East Africa and he is also the Editor-in-Chief of Parkchester Times and MCR newspapers (Print and Online) based in Bronx, New York, USA. He has authored numerous books of poetry (Among them are American Literary Legends and Other Poems [2010], Thoughts from the Jungle [2012], 9/11 Poetry [2012], and The Journey to the Archangels [2013]) and has edited numerous international anthologies, journals and magazines. Mutiu is a teacher, English language and literature curriculum developer, freelance writer/editor, literary critic and inventor of a new form of poetry called 9eleven (a poem of 9 lines written with 11 syllables) and the first writer of a story without verb – The Blotted Pawpaw (published 2013 by Bharat College in India). He is also an editor for The Criterion International Journal in English based in India. Mutiu has some of his poems, short stories and research papers published  in online and offline journals and magazines in India, Ireland, England, Canada, Greece, Nigeria and USA. Finally, some of his works have been translated to Arabic, French, Esperantos, Malayalam, Telugu and Hungarian.   

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Categories
Slices from Life

What waits for Rohingyas?

By Saifur Rahman Saif

Rohingya people, who have no identity of their own, are now facing another danger. The pandemic of COVID-19 took away one of the Rohingyas, who found shelter at a camp at Cox’s Bazar in Bangladesh on the wake of genocide in their own land in Myanmar.

United News of Bangladesh reported that the man died from coronavirus infection while undergoing treatment at the isolation centre at Ukhiya camp in Cox’s Bazar on Monday night.

Referring to Abu Toha MRH Bhuiyan, who works as a health coordinator at the Refugee, Relief and Rehabilitation Commission, the news agency stated that the deceased could not be identified immediately but he was a 71-year-old man.

It was the first confirmed case of death of a Rohingya refugee in Bangladesh. Bangladesh is now home for over one million Rohingyas, who fled atrocities in Myanmar to Bangladesh.

In my earlier article in  Countercurrents, I tried to draw attention of the world community so that they would come forward to save Rohingyas from probable contamination of COVID -19. I don’t know whether anybody heard my appeal. In fact, the Rohingyas are no longer safe now from the devastation of COVID-19. We don’t know what is waiting for the densely populated Rohingyas. I also don’t know who will save Rohingyas from further deaths? Is it the Bangladesh government or the world community?

Super power USA is now facing manifold adversity- destructions of COVID-19, street demonstrations across the country and, so on. Many other powerful countriesare also in peril today. And Bangladesh, with 709 confirmed case of death from COVID-19 and 52,445 infected, is has failed to control the spread of the coronavirus.

The Gono Forum came up with the allegation on Tuesday as its president Kamal Hossain and general secretary Reza Kibria in a joint statement said that although World Health Organisation on March 11 declared COVID-19 a pandemic, the government announced general holidays in the last week of the month.

They also said that although Bangladesh had enough time to determine national strategy, the government failed to implement a fruitful strategy, New Age reported.

The Gono Forum leaders said that the rate of COVID-19 tests in the country was very low and people had no confidence on government’s information on COVID-19 infections and deaths.

They also said that the late announcement of public holiday amid relaxation put impacted people’s lives negatively as it failed to control the infections.

They said that only a small part of government aids reached to the poor and vulnerable due to corruption and inefficiency while lakhs of labourers and working class people faced unemployment.

The leaders said that withdrawal of public holidays ignoring recommendations of national technical advisory committee had created much anxiety among the people and the situation was worsening for the lack of adequate number of tests and mismanagement in the health sector.

In this situation, I cannot think of a future for the Rohingyas, at least not the kind I really wished for.

Saifur Rahman Saif is a Bangladeshi journalist. He works at New Age, a popular newspaper. He contributed a story in Freelance Success Stories published simultaneously from the USA and Canada. He can be reached at saifnewage@gmail.com

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First Published in Countercurrents.org

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Categories
Musings

Observations at the Airport

By J.O. Haselhoef

Chicago O’Hare Airport

Chicago O’Hare’s international terminal offers street theatre.

I arrived recently at Terminal 5 to meet a friend, coming from Kathmandu, Nepal, via Abu Dhabi, UAE. Henry sent numerous texts once he landed as to where I might meet him and his luggage. He encouraged me to wait in the quiet of my car till he arrived. True, it was our nation’s busiest airport and often chaotic. But I refused. It was the drama of the arrivals gate that fuelled my 90-minute drive — not souvenirs that he brought back from his time in Kathmandu, Nepal.

The entertainment started immediately. Two middle-aged women from India, dressed in hot-pink saris, walked toward me and tried to exit through the automatic door to their left at Chicago O’Hare’s Terminal Five. Those doors would have been correct in India. But at this American airport’s international arrivals gate, it was the wrong door. It was my entrance, not their exit. I feared my step would trigger the glass portal to swing into their faces; I took a step back. They saw my look of fear and sensed their mistake. They, too, stepped back. We stood on either side of the glass, in a standoff. What should happen next? A porter, watching the narrative unfold, ran to their help and guided them to the right side of the hallway and the proper exit door. As we passed one another, we looked and smiled.

I found Henry’s arrival gate inside. The passengers on the connecting flight from Abu Dhabi began their travel two or three days before, perhaps in a mountainous village or maybe an apartment in a city of 20 million. They came not just from Nepal but India, the Middle East, and all of Africa.

The flight brought many ethnicities, cultures and religions together as they walked the lengthy concourse from the plane, passed through immigration, and gathered their belongings at baggage claim.

Families and friends waited. We served as a kind of reward for the travellers, standing patiently, excitedly, behind two sets of restricting ropes and a gap of 20 feet. Many of our impromptu group pushed towards the front to get a better first view of a loved one’s face — not unlike my father with his brother.           

There was room to move behind the group of us waiting. A young woman, who wore a Muslim headscarf, pushed a baby carriage in a small circle. She kept her eyes focused on the baggage area. Her arms went up in a double wave when she saw the person she waited for. She clutched the handles and cried. A few moments later, she walked with more vigour while she pushed the pram. 

 A passenger claimed the first bag from the flight and walked toward the rope barrier. His family rushed into the exit way to embrace him and clogged the entrance funnel.

A small man negotiated his way through that tight exit sleeve. A tall woman grabbed him and they shared a passionate kiss. They turned to go and caught me staring at their togetherness. They smiled. Guilty, I smiled too.                 

I looked back to the woman with the baby carriage. Her traveller had not yet joined her. She stopped moving in a small circle and rocked the carriage in one place instead. I moved closer and asked how old the infant was. “Three weeks,” she told me. “His father has never seen him.” She told me he had not been in the U.S. for two years.

That didn’t make sense. “What about nine months ago?” I asked.

 “Oh!” She giggled. “Yes! I went to Jordan to see him.” The couple flew to the U.S. where she was a citizen, but he was not. Officials stopped him in Chicago and sent him back to Jordan.

This time, he went through immigration in Abu Dhabi, so they knew there would not be difficulties. “He will get through this time,” she said.

 We stood together, waiting, discussing baby names, immigration processes, when the child began to cry. “He’s hungry,” she said as she changed the angle of the pacifier and rocked him faster. “But I doubt I have time to nurse him.” 

Just then, she saw her husband leave the baggage area and start through the funnel. Politely, she excused herself and wished me well. Again, I couldn’t help myself as I watched this moment of intimacy. Like with my father and his brother, the moment was full of joy.

Finally, I saw Henry head in my direction. He wheeled one large roller bag with his right hand and, with his left, carried a duffel bag. He grimaced as he tried to manipulate his way around a family reuniting in the middle of the narrow walkway. He looked tired, dark circles lay below his eyes. After our hug, we walked the distance to the car lot and he complained to me about his long-haul flight. He started with the frustrating behaviours of his seatmates — the women talking incessantly followed by the man across the aisle snoring loudly. He continued about a child kicking his seat in the row behind him. He described the difficulties flying without a common language.  And he ended with, “The airline served the worst curry!”

I expected him to be positive, given all the thumbs up he had posted on Facebook during his visit, but 48 hours without sleep and 14 hours in one seat interrupted that flow. He was tired and intolerant. 

He flew more than 7,000 miles. I drove only 60. We both spent time with the same passengers. Oddly, mine was the savoury souvenir.

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 J.O. Haselhoef is a social artist who writes and travels. Her work appears in Swamp Ape Review, Re-Creating Our Common Chord, Evening Street Press, and Fiction Southeast. Her book, GIVE & TAKE, Doing Our Damnedest NOT to be a Charity in Haiti was published in 2015. She is online at http://www.JOHaselhoef.com.

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Categories
Poetry

Taste of Ashes & The Toffee Wrappers

by Parneet Jaggi

Taste of Ashes

In a remote village
amidst silent hills of the Himalayas,
a tale of the ashes lures every passerby.
Smoke lighting up the azure sky
in glittery patches
invites waste landers to  picnic spots.
Patches of land covered with ashes-
that taste like jaggery,
offering not just sweetness,
but  ethereal elation of mind and spirit.
Each day fires turn into ashes.
Each day lovers consume their splashy attires to
liberate of the two
to become one.
Taste of their ashes surpasses all tastes. 

The Toffee Wrappers

Stripping the toffee wrappers
I undressed all
whims, colours, glaze,
coats of sweetness
thrust by automated machinery
of prodigal minds.
Now toffees at  the core
remain delectable
to be eaten till death.
Wrappers dropped down on the road
to be trampled and crushed,
so that  they do not creep into  other lives.
The heart feels light.

Dr. Parneet Jaggi is an Associate Professor, a bilingual poet, editor, critic and novelist. She has four collections of English poems and two research books. Her name appears in the Directory of Writers of America’s – Poets and Writers. She was honoured with ‘Star Ambassador of World Poetry’ award by Philosophique Poetica, India, 2019. She was declared ‘Poet of the Year 2019’ and ‘Critic of the Year 2019’ by UK’s poetry website, Destinypoets. She won the Wingword Prize 2020 for her Punjabi poem. She has co-edited two books- Poets & Poetry: Spaces Within & Without and Dynamics of Poetry: The Said and The Unsaid. Her first historical fiction (co-authored) The Call of the Citadel is ready for release in 2020. She is the Secretary of Galaxy International Foundation, India, an organization that promotes literature and social activism.

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Categories
Musings

Flash Fiction: The Discovery

By Sushant Thapa   

Ray copied all the questions from the question paper and looked out of the window. Twenty minutes had passed, and he wasn’t able to answer any question. Mathematics had always been very difficult for him. He always failed in mathematics but passed other subjects. He managed to get promoted to higher classes. He had reached the highest class of school with the lowest grade in mathematics.

“What do you expect out of me?” he would question his mother in an arrogant manner.

“Why don’t you study mathematics during your exams?” his mother would ask.

“Even if I study it, I wouldn’t make it,” he would reply, and scribble poetry.

He had a diary in which he wrote poems. On top of every poem, he would write proverbs, and those proverbs related to his poetry. Writing poems was the only virtue he was gifted with. He wasn’t good at sports either. During the whole duration of a game of football, he would not get a chance to touch the ball — leave alone to kick it.

Ray would question his existence in his poems. He would lament about his life, the life which he had not seen nor lived. He created mountains of words and he lived his life vicariously through his poetry. The thought of writing poems made him feel alive.

Many times in the examination hall he would scribble poetry in rough sheets. His class teacher who was also the examiner was aware that Ray could only copy questions in mathematics but solving them correctly was another matter. He was not the only one who was weak in mathematics; there were many of them in his group. But he was the only one who wrote poetry, and that made all the difference.

Ray would try to solve the questions in mathematics, but his answers never matched with the answers at the back of his book.

Poetry was his only hope.

How fragile his life was without it? Reflections in poetry were like life itself. Poetry could reflect happiness, pain and illusion in life. Mathematics was very abstract for him. The answers never matched and sometimes he doubted the questions too.

On the other hand, poetry also questioned his existence, but always provided him with answers. It made him think and ponder upon the questions of life. And the best thing about poetry was that answers were different for each person and they need not match and be the same. This openness made all the difference.

Ray was finding answers to life in poetry and the answers were his own. The answers did not need to match with the answers in the books. It was unlike the mathematics they taught in school in every sense.

Poetry could be contemplative in nature but mathematics in school was derivative in nature — derived from facts and laws in form of numbers.  However, while trying to solve math problems, he glimpsed poetry could be like mathematics and only the ways of finding or reaching conclusions were different. He felt mathematics and poetry were two different paths to examine life and to prove that life exists. The process and methods might be different, but the conclusion was always similar. Both the subjects had a similar derivative – to explain life around us.

He even felt that zero, the smallest number in mathematics could also be meaningful. Zero was capable of having meaning on its own – it could mean nothingness. Yet, when combined with other numbers it could still be meaningful. Similarly, in poetry words were capable of providing infinitesimal meaning when they were on their own but when combined with other words, they could provide infinite meanings.

Mathematics explained the laws of universe in numbers and poetry explained it in words. Mathematics could elaborate a new dimension of time and space. Poetry could also elaborate a new dimension of time, thoughts and space. Senses could be unbound with words and with numbers too.

Mathematics surpassed time in its calculation and poetry was immortal in words. Mathematics could calculate in numbers the wholeness of the universe: poetry could describe the idea of the universe in words. Mathematics helped to create inventions with precision: poetry also invents with words – with brevity and precision.

Ray was only trying to solve the equation of life and draw conclusions in his own way. He felt and saw the subtle differences in both the subjects and yet both had some strains of similarity.

Poetry had brought him to limelight in his class and in school. Since he was good at poetry his teacher felt the urge to help him with his mathematics. He was the same examiner who always noticed Ray while he copied questions in the examination hall.

Ray had begun by copying questions of mathematics, but eventually he was all set to find his answers too. It took him time to find his answers through numbers, but eventually he succeeded to pass his mathematics exam of tenth grade. The difference worked out pretty well for him.

Ultimately, Ray realised the difference between poetry and mathematics. The difference which he realised brought different modes from life together and produced a meaningful ending for him. His teacher read few lines of poetry from Ray’s diary to the class:

For, what is it that Poetry can do?

It can make tremble a single leaf of a tree among many, and make you its master

It can let you climb on clouds while you are on the ground and are finding your stand

When your heart aches and you find pain in others

When you stumble and see others falling too ….

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Sushant Thapa is an M.A. in English Literature from Jawaharlal Nehru University in New Delhi, India. His poems, essays, short stories and flash fictions are published in Republica Daily, The Writer’s Club, Kitaab.org, firewordsdaily.com, Sahitya Post, Udghosh Daily of Biratnagar and Borderless Journal. Sushant revels in rock music, books, movies and poetry from his home in Biratnagar, Nepal.

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Categories
Poetry

Birds Cry

By Melissa A Chappell

What do the birds cry

when the sun sinks upon a killing,

and the taken life feeds the hungering, blood-rich soil of a nation,

as it has for centuries.

What do the birds cry

over this blood that will not lay silent,

but runs restless, a river unencumbered, through the cindered streets.

What did the birds cry

when in such strange times

men drew up other men by ropes

to hang in trees?

What do the birds cry

when after so many words have been written,

so many speeches delivered,

and so many proclamations proclaimed,

that the sun still sinks upon killings unnumbered,

and the soil continues in its greed.

Cry, you birds, what do you cry?

“Silence, silence!

Until justice rises on the wing,

cry silence.”

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Melissa A. Chappell is a native of South Carolina living on land passed down through her family for over 120 years. She is greatly inspired by the land and music. She plays several instruments, among them an 8 course Renaissance lute. She shares her life with her family and two miniature schnauzers. She recently published Dreams in Isolation: The World in Shadow: Poems of Reconciliation and Hope with Alien Buddha Press.

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Categories
Musings

“I have reached an age when, if someone tells me to wear socks, I don’t have to” : Einstein

By G.Srinivasan

Personal experience is always a milestone to reminisce in life as its memories evoke mixed feelings of euphoria or exasperation, depending upon the incident that wrought that at the first instance. Though this one occurred a couple of years ago, it flashes in my mind quite often, pushing me to set my thoughts on paper so that I could relieve the feelings I sustained and shift the same to readers for them to partake of the pleasure or pain such narratives impart. With this preliminary let me begin at the beginning.       

On a sultry forenoon I boarded a suburban train at the Park Town traversing between Beach Station to Thiruvanmiyur a couple of years ago in the summer when I visited Chennai, Tamil Nadu from Delhi. For a person given to enlivening the evening of existence from the fragrantly sweet blast of the past to derive simple pleasure in such journeys, this trip too was nostalgic and reminiscent of the days I used to travel decades ago between Egmore to Tambaram in the suburban train. I would go to meet a faculty member in the Madras Christian College (MCC) once a fortnight in my pursuit of a post-graduation in English. I would also meet and catch up with  friends and relatives who were dispersed across the city in those halcyon days with a little income but a long laundry list of expenses.

The generous academic volunteered to give me wrinkles on how to prepare for the examination untutored as I was then working as a state government employee gathering statistics on the small scale industries in Chennai and its outskirts. He had also been unacquainted with me till my former head of the English Department in Madura College, from where I graduated, introduced us. Throughout my more than three scores of years, I was always a beneficiary of the kindness of strangers, though they are a fast vanishing breed under the blue domed umbrella.

In the current day, most have no time to talk face to face. They are content with selfies, besides chatting online and, occasionally, talking on their smart-phones. Well, this digression from the main track of my journey in the suburban train aside, what transpired subsequently during my less than half-an-hour trip that it remained memorable?

As I had a small handbag and the train was not over-crowded enough to intimidate passengers entering the carriage, I got in. I spotted the last row where a few tech-savvy young fellows going to their shift-duty somewhere in Taramani (the IT hub) area, were in the process of settling themselves. I found a seat vacant between two gentlemen. I went to occupy it but one person on the right side told me that the seat was reserved for his friend who would be there soon!

Other seats in the compartment were occupied and a few people were still pouring in when I thought that the common practice of the first-come-first served commuter was being turned topsy-turvy by this chap who was making a reservation for his own crony. But he was unrelenting in not letting me occupy the vacant seat, obdurately obstreperous in his rage and resentment   Exasperated, I coolly asked him ‘empa ni oru ambilaya?’ (In just common parlance in the vernacular, it meant ‘are you a man?).

This set off a flutter in the dovecot and the person so addressed got enraged enough to threateningly question if I could bear even one blow from him for having questioned his manhood?  If a youngman is asked whether he is a man, the immediate inference perceived by an impressionable youth is a direct assault on his virility!

Even as the verbal punch and counterpunch got under way in the humid weather, I sat sedately between the two gentlemen and occupied the treasured seat. But not before asking the youth (who challenged me that I could not bear one blow from him) whether he would stomach his dad to be treated in the fashion they were treating me. This made every one aghast and the person who threatened to thrash me was left speechless.

When I was a news agency journalist in the early 1990s in Delhi, I told him how the top official of the Election Commission was peremptorily asked by a journalist at a news conference whether the chief election commissioner was “a man or a Congressman?”  Since he put a pause between man and a Congressman, the official was livid with anger as he misconstrued it. That was the last question in the press conference and the  matter did not assume any uglier shape to the detriment of all the ones assembled there.

I purposefully recounted this to the intimidating youths. Probably, they would have have misunderstood that famous verse of the Scottish bard, Robert Burns, “A Man’s A Man For A’ That” (a man is a man for all that). Burns spoke of egalitarianism as the hallmark of manhood but modern man equates that to his being virile and robust to fight anyone who cocks a snook at him sans any second-thought!

Then I placidly put before him and his friends the issue in perspective of what I meant when I questioned his being a man, it was a comment on his basic civic responsibility to be gentle, kind and generous in spirit to show respect to people who had transited towards the more ancient stage of existence. They deserved and get reserved seats as senior citizens in public carriers, supported by the government itself.

Heroism is not only any act of bravery but also about being affable, gentle and generous in spirit and in demeanor especially when you are strong. I also told him that I was no match for him; leave aside the combined heft of his muscular chums who could make mincemeat of me. None of the youth went into an offensive mode but kept silent on my plain-speaking. I apologised to the young man but advised him not to hurt elders in public places when civility is an option.

As I reached the end of my journey, the person who threatened to beat me himself, apologised with others in his orchestra and bid me goodbye. I felt relieved that nothing untoward happened in the heat of arguments, compounded by the hot and humid weather!

Did not the oldest philosopher Aristotle say ages ago aptly, “it is the characteristic of the magnanimous man to ask no favor but to be ready to do kindness to others?”  Let us not dry up the milk of human kindness in simple gestures to the old without recognizing that youth is but evanescent and human values are eternal.  

G Srinivasan is a free-lance journalist from Delhi.

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Categories
Poetry

Spectacles

By Himadri Lahiri

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In the worst of times my specs too have betrayed.

Only the day before yesterday

it fell from my hand, lost its shape and swayed.

Though the lenses remained intact    

the frame lost its right angles, to tell you the fact.

It being the worst of times, you cannot visit an optician

and get it mended – or go for a new acquisition.

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So I continue wearing my specs bent.

And lo! Visions become unbelievably indecent.

White becomes black, blackness receives a jolt.

One who has been a friend so long seems a foe –

he appears with a false show.

Stranger still, how can one elected in a fair poll

inevitably turn into a mole?

Philanthropes, I believe, are god’s messengers.

How then are they trapped in messy affairs?

They appear as crooked as my neighbour

who for me holds nothing but a sabre.

Hilariously, men and women with sure stigma

are wonderful people – how it happens is an enigma –  

who run errands for the aged

and reach out to the caged

during the pandemic, the worst of times!

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These visions reversed

must have something to do with the specs perverse –

since its fall it behaves strange.

Hope, you’ll excuse me for the change,

for I have nothing to do with the detriment.

Blame it all on the instrument.

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Bio-noteHimadri Lahiri is former Professor, Department of English and Culture Studies, University of Burdwan, West Bengal. Currently, he is Professor of English at the School of Humanities, Netaji Subhas Open University, Kolkata. He has written extensively on Diaspora Studies, Postcolonial Studies and Indian English Literature. His latest publication is Diaspora Theory and Transnationalism (Hyderabad: Orient Blackswan, 2019).  Contemporary Indian English Poetry and Drama (Newcastle on Tyne: Cambridge Scholars, 2019), co-edited by him, has also been published recently. He writes book reviews for newspapers and academic journals. He writes poems at his leisure hours.    

   

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