What’s the topic of this write-up? What should the topic I am writing about be? Whoa, I don’t have a subject, a topic… Yet, I have begun typing on the keyboard expecting to either get the best or the worst or nothing out of me. Let’s start…I had always wished that I was born a man. But fate has something store for me, I guess…It’s a dream (though it didn’t seem like a dream…)
It was a dark night when I was on my way back from the Electronics City in Bangalore to Domlur (the place where I stay) through Madiwala. It was 23:30 hours. There was office transportation at that time in Electronics City, but I preferred to walk. I don’t know what made me walk, but I loved it. The distance was a mere 11 kms. A shortcut cut over the flyover, quiet safe, with police patrol vans frequently passing by. Not very crowded all day for the right things and all night for the wrong things. Hey, people, no, no, no… This is still going in the right direction… Just go on reading…
Now I know what the title of this story can be. “The Society UNSEEN”. Throughout my write-up, I am going to make sure that whoever out there reads this gets into what the title means exactly.
The walk started from the bus stop at Madiwala and I really don’t know where all I walked in the coming hours. But, trust me. This was an experience one would personally never want to have. However, when one sees something like this, it would be felt deep within. At the end of it all, I asked myself, “What am I giving to my life?”
Okay, in the first mile of walking, I passed by the areas where you see homes as big or small as your balcony for sure, or to the maximum, the restroom in our luxurious office. The people living here are below middle class or as said, they are the people of the third group of income. They have dreams in their eyes (not that they were sleepy), but I could see a feeling of yearning. As they say, a little bit more from life.
There were children playing, women doing dishes, and men chatting after a long day of laborious work, having a puff with their neighbors. There was an exchange of glances between them and me, and all I could offer was the tiniest of smiles. Moving on, I came through the very famous and busy street in Madiwala Road. (Those in Bangalore would surely know this place).
Next few miles, I passed through broad, clean lanes with lush green trees canopying. Then, they were not just homes, bungalows or mini palaces with intriguing trance like architecture. Colossal space for more than 8 C-class BMW’s n Volkswagens. Lights out. Pin drop silence, with occasional chowkidaar’s whistle and stick beat. Ohh, the houses or castles…I wish I owned at least ONE.
I would not have had been surprised if I had seen this kind of rush during the day, because it is obvious with the kind of shopping there during daytime. It’s very famous for shopping. And the famous mosque makes it even more famous. But, at 11.30 p.m., it’s too late to shop. I then realized that I was in the wrong place at a very wrong time, surrounded by many wrong people.
Hey, hang on. Did I just say wrong people? Oops, I am sorry. Nope, they are no wrong people; they are right people, but life brought them there into a wrong place. Now that I was there and it was always a wish of mine to talk to those people (the sex workers/ pros /the other gender, whatever names society has given them), to know about them on their personal levels, I wanted to speak to them.
Strike one… A badly dressed woman, quite aged, asked me whether I was interested. I was very embarrassed then. I said “No, not me. I am just returning home.” I walked a bit ahead, there was this woman walking towards me, and the first lady who had approached me yelled out, “Sister, what happened is that this guy is not interested.” I had a thought. Anyway, it was 23:45 hours. They were out business and there were not many left walking through. So, I started with a very short, planned conversation that went on for 25 minutes. I am positive that it was 25 minutes. I started with a pause, a very big pause. Believe me; they do care who you are. There were no introductions. After some taunts and looks, I broke the silence of two and a half minutes and spoke out with a sense of confusing words, which I still didn’t understand. I just spoke thereafter. I said or rather asked, “Since when?” I asked the first woman who had spoken to me. She laughed with paan in her mouth and said, “Why do you want to know? Will you write?” I replied, “No, but you never know. I may write sometime.” They were slowly getting accustomed to me enquiring about their life and they had no problems with it. Cool for me. By this time, there were five of them and just one me. Two were very young and the others had surely crossed into their thirties.
I just asked then the same thing. “What happened to you that you had to come to this?” One spoke like a rebel. She was one of the third sex types. She said “We don’t stay here; we come only on Friday and Saturday.” That was her story. She earned through the buses running between Madiwala, Majestic, BTM and various outskirts of so called advanced metropolitan Bangalore. Another one was a married woman whose husband had left her long ago. They said that their being there was not a matter of choice; they were there to earn money.
I had to leave soon as it was getting very late, and I still had to walk to my flat. I was fine being late for once, at least for this eye-opener and personal experience, one that to date I had only heard of. One of them told me that they were not interested and cried initially, but they felt more secure here than in there earlier life. They had great bonding with each other. They were each other’s strength, and when I asked how the government was fighting it out, they responded saying some NGO’s and women welfare people visited them regularly to fight for their rights. I was happy and content that at least something was happening to save these people from this dark side of life. They do earn, but they burn; they burn from within and they want their freedom. I was stunned, and all the way back I thought about how I always curse about where I am, what I am doing in life, what crazy things are happening with my life; but what about these people who are a part of our society? They too have all the rights. They have rights to breathe in the world we live in. All around us we see people; some are happy, some are not, some have money, some don’t, some care, some dare, some smile, some crib. Wherever we are, whatever we do, we are always unhappy with life.
I was woken by the alarm…I couldn’t believe that I was merely dreaming…Its still lingering in my mind. Even 3 cups of black coffee couldn’t get the flash backs out of my mind…It really felt like bona fide.
Hey folks, we, in this society, should not raise our brows to all this. We earn well (I know that it may not be very good, but still…). I say, and I am justifying my life, I am somewhere in that comfort zone where not many people are right now. It is always known that youth is the face of the future and tomorrow. When is that future and tomorrow going to arrive? When are we actually going to step out of our comfort zones and do something that is expected from us? We say we are not doing what we wanted to do in life (the reason is a sense of the secure life we live). Yes friends, even I am included in this list.
Barriers need to be broken. One productive step for the society by you in your life will surely bring about a revolution, if not to the world, at least to yourself for sure. Whatever you do, whatever you get, you always feel dissatisfied. Life is really beautiful and wherever you are, there is a reason behind it. Just try finding that reason.
This read might have been a waste of quite some minutes of your life or may make a difference. However, if it does make you feel what I wanted to convey somewhere, I will be content. I am no pro in writing, but no writing goes in vain. I am still finding my reason in this world; I hope you all find yours.
I am a sensitive and proud Indian woman, simply fighting hard for my reason of existence here in this beautiful yet fanatical world.
No comments:
Post a Comment