My love

You survived a hurricane. Probably have survived many such over the years. For months, you inched through bitter cold. When the trees around you did their routine of shedding leaves, sprouting flowers and assuming their spring colours, you took your time, letting them all enjoy their glory. And yet, those monstrous winds could not fell you.

When these yellow flowers sprouted all over your branches, I couldn't help but feel thrilled.

Thank you my dearest, for sheltering my baby out there. Thank you for being the rock of my life.

I still wonder if my li'l one is a she or he. I still long to receive the bundle of joy in my hands, cradle the thing, hold it to my bosom, sing lullabies...

For now, the swishing of winds and chirping of birds in your hearth are its only soothers. And these yellow flowers, clothe my li'l one that most expensive silks of the world cannot. Tiaras ornate and studded with diamonds pale in front of such beauty that decorates my darling cuddle-joy.

I wrap myself in a Comforter for a guilt-free second at the thought of ye flowers. I sleepy easy a wink dreaming of leaves aplenty to wrap you my dearest - surrogacy is tough! And you come out trumps.

Service and something like it

Am just back from a not-so-good dinner experience at our neighbourhood eating out Mecca.

I am wondering though, not to make of the whole episode.

For starters, we decided to try out a new restaurant on Oak Tree Road, New Jersey, after some haggling. It's about half an hour away, and the most tempting of places to visit. Buoyed by the idea of at least a dinner to take a from routine, considering we did not make any long weekend plans for Memorial Day, I dreamt of a romantic dinner.

The restaurant is one of those well-established ones in these parts. Hyped for a start. Its ambience is inviting too. We ignored the buffet. And settled for the serviced area.

The young woman waiting at our table waited patiently as we flitted between our choice of dishes. Hubby settled for his non-vegetarian biryani, while I swayed from Idiyappam to `Bendakaya Pulusu'. Our host said their Idiyappam would not come with the conventional coconut gravy, but sauce alone.


So Pulusu or Okra Sambar it was to be.

My hubby asked her something that I could not hear clearly about. But it was obvious he asked her about where she came from.

``I am from Karachi,'' she replied. For her North-east Asian looks, I thought she was from Assam.

``Actually from Nepal,'' she said. And instantly connected. ``A close friend of mine is from Assam, so I thought you're from Assam,'' I said.

And in the small talk that followed, she said dishes other than the Idiyappam were better. I settled for a starter called Punugulu, which I was not aware existed as an Andhra dish till it popped up on that menu.

Imagine our delight when they started off by serving some fried papad with chutney!

Wow! `Hope they do not charge for this!' I thought. Punugulu, actually a spiced dumpling made of rice flour. I remember having eaten this before, not knowing its name. Its a mini-bonda without the stuffing, to put it crudely. Somewhat sour, it tasted alright, but I was delighted to try something different from the same old Paneer Tikkas and Manchurians that I would normally order.

Hubby and I got chatting over Punugulu. And the dishes arrived. The volume was so big we wondered if we can get through with the food.

We did not get through with all the food. As we began eating, hubby's face fell. He struggled through some spoonfuls and said the meat was not cooked well. On my plate, the okra curry tasted somewhat raw, and definitely not like Sambar.

I helped myself to some Raita that was served to him and managed to down some rice into my throat.

When our host watched us not eat much, she came by and remarked. ``What happened? Something wrong with the dish? You haven't eaten much!''

``Meat was not cooked well. Please let the cook know,'' my hubby replied. She instantly suggested replacement. But considering he does not eat much anyways, he refused.

She apologised profusely and said, ``Brother, please accept it. I can pack you another biryani.''

``Non-vegetarian is not allowed in our home,'' smiled hubby.

``I am a vegetarian,'' I pitched in.

She smiled and left. We waited for the bill bit.

And with all the hopes of a romantic dinner drowned by disastrous food, we made some small talk between ourselves, and laughed a little. A gentleman, probably the kitchen supervisor,  asked us if everything was good.

Hubby repeated the same comments.

A few minutes later, while I packed the left-over Okra curry to take home, our host brought a brown bag.

``You have to take this and please accept our apology brother! It is vegetarian biryani,'' she persuaded. Hubby became grim. Too embarrassed, he said, ``we don't eat much!''

When she persuaded further, he said he would accept the food only if they took cash in return. But she continued pestering, generously calling him `bhaiya'.

``Aapka din kharab ho gaya. This is all we can do. Please come back to our restaurant,'' she went on.

I tried telling her we would not eat much. ``You can use it over the next two days,'' she did not give up.

Unable to take the oddness of the whole situation, I looked at my husband who was stuck between anger and embarrassment. ``She called you her brother. Just take it. It's okay.''

He reluctantly nodded. And as the host left the table, he tucked in a $10 note under an empty glass.

Even as we left, she and her colleague apologised profusely. As we moved to our car, I tried reasoning with him that it was alright, hinting he looked more grim than he should have been.

``The food was pathetic. I am not a cook, but I eat well,'' he went on.

``It's not her fault. She went out of her way to make you feel better,'' I reasoned.

``I know it is not her fault. I have nothing against her. She was doing her duty well, which is why I left that bigger tip,'' said he.

``It's because of people like her that restaurants like these survive,'' I said.

Will we go back to that restaurant again? ``No way. I am not coming here ever,'' he said. For me, it is more of a confusion.

What do you do about a place that has such wonderful ambience, great interiors and such dedicated people who serve well, but has pathetic food? After all, is food not the driving USP of a food-selling place?

But then, it would have been easy for us to label the place pathetic, if the staff did not serve well. When something goes wrong, the easiest thing is to blame. Instead, the staff went of their way to compensate, almost leaving us feel guilty about mentioning bad food.

Service is a matter of choice. I am not sure if I will go back to that restaurant. But I am bound not to forget the attitude of the staff taking responsibility.

It made all the difference for one night!

When spring reassures

This afternoon, my eyes lit up when I saw the shabby little blooms on my maple tree.

My maple tree, even if it does not belong to me. Trees cannot be owned by humans, is it not? They belong to God Nature. My maple tree still, because it prompts me to stare out of my window, at it, through it, and often turns a mere runway for my thoughts-flight to take off.

My maple tree, 'coz it nestles my li'l one who went out of me some months ago.

My maple tree, that I prayed hard for not to fall in Sandy winds, but stay strong through that madness. For a selfish reason. For my li'l one.

I had hoped then, that the still green leaves would turn yellow, or may be golden-red or brown, and fall off naturally. Instead, those leaves that bless my li'l one died on the branches, battered in those monster winds that night, and fell off, dry.

Some branches fell on to the green grass. Many simply drooped down from the velocity madness of a single night. People lost homes. People lost lives.

Tears came not even if my heart ached, but I wondered every day after that night, about the plight of my li'l one who was still there.

``Don't worry. That li'l one is everywhere around you, not just on the tree,'' hubby tried convincing. But how could I help those sleepless nights when all I was bothered about was about the genderless baby of a soul out there?

Winter came. Chill arrived. Snow. Rain. Rain. Snow. Intermittent. When there were no leaves, that white blanket did the needful, perching on those branches, at their intersections, and at the roots. Somehow, snow did its bit to reassure me everything was fine with the li'l one.

My maple tree does stand strong...branching out not above its trunk, but at the root. Like a bouquet. The trouble with being strong is, having to stay like that.

``Angels are here dearest. You're okay.'' Am hugging my baby tight. Never mind the snow melting off into a million drops. Once in a while, it's good to feel comfort that oodles of chocolate fail to give. Bless you dearest.

This afternoon though, my eyes lit up and a delightful yelp escaped my lips. My body danced. Buds that had sprung up a few days back and dotted every branch in their burnt-red hues finally gave way to blooms. Golden white. Silky. Happy.

Not a dramatic bloom. Nearly oblivious. But what a happy moment! At no time in life have I waited so listlessly for spring to arrive. Four months in hope of a season. Spring, that brings its blooms. Spring, that will soon bring leaves after these blooms come and go.

Leaves, that will shelter my li'l one more. Leaves that will bless my baby afresh. Tendrils tender in their touch. Leaves that will give my baby shade. Leaves that will not speak a word, but sway in the breeze to say, ``All is well''. Bless.

Leaves.Tree. Dreams. Hope. That afternoon when my li'l one went out of me to settle there, when my body writhed in pain, when tears refused to stay put, ``Don't go,'' I cried to my baby. ``I'll protect you.''

My maple tree became a reluctant surrogate. For eternity. Those pure white passing clouds over the plains that I talked to from the cab window - on my return home from the gynaec - they only led me to my maple tree eventually.

I shudder to think of the day I may have to leave this window, and my maple tree. I cringe in fear when an axe should fall on its trunk that withstood a hundred storms. Wonder what will happen to my li'l one. Pray.

This afternoon though, my heart leapt, elated. 'Tis the time for spring.

Killed and hushed up...as we speak

Am not talking of India alone. There is a feudal world operating out there, that deems women as mere machines that produce kids...nay `sons'. God decided to create man and woman. A lot of men decide to create only `men', and initiate a mindset among their women for that too. If women get lucky to be born, they make sure those women are killed, inside the womb, outside the womb, on the roads, in buses, at homes, others' homes...anywhere. They are killed, in the name of `burden', in the name of God, in the name of money, in the name of `caste', class, `honour', `shame', love, hate....just about everything.

My friend Hema, who is an incredibly brave woman herself, chased the following story for a whole year, because villagers would not talk. Hats off to her persistence. The woman in me cries at these brutal murders.

Here is the link to her piece that appeared in Vijaya Karnataka
http://vijaykarnataka.indiatimes.com/articleshow/17364714.cms

Here is the translation:

Born to die...lost in the woods

H. Hemalatha

“Akka, this time too it is a girl…whatever we did, the child did not die…we left it near the ant hill…’’ said a woman casually. For a moment, the women who were pulling out weeds in the turmeric field froze.

A barely audible sigh emanated from them. When they heard a loud voice demanding to know why no work was going on, their working hands resumed their activity again…pulling out weeds.

This is not a new in Sundaralli, Martalli, Jaageri, Koodluru, Kavalli, P.J. Palya, Raamapura and many other villages in Kollegal taluk of Chamarajanagar district.  Killing of baby girls. It is an open secret.  In many villages of Kollegal taluk, female infanticide has been going on incessantly for decades.  If you go in search of such people or incidents, no one will give you a straight answer.

Try rephrasing the `killing’ question, and Jeevika (name changed) says, ” What can one do? There are no girl children in our village….they die soon after birth….they are fine one day and gone the next….if one girl child is born, they rejoice.  The second girl child is also somehow tolerated; if the third is also a girl, they do not let it live, they kill the child.  They kill it with a hammer or something else.  They take it to the fields and bury it there.”

Before Jeevika says anything else, the others in the group try to hush her up.  They feel it is none of their business. They do not want to be caught on the wrong foot, if things went awry.

The first born of Sonam who lives in Martahalli is a girl.  At the time of birth of her second child, she waited with bated breath to know the child’s sex.  The minute she knew it was a girl, she burst into tears. When asked why she cried, she said, ``If all the children are girls, where will we get the money to take care of them? Feeding them is itself a big task, can one educate them? We need money for their marriage too.  If we think of the difficulties that lie ahead, I feel this is far better,” wiping her tears, implying the baby will get killed.

‘Which mother would want her child to die? If we say we want a girl child, they will throw us out. If I do not listen to my mother-in-law and husband, can I live? Many times, we do not know what they do or how they do it,” she wailed, helpless.

Both the men and women work.  Half the household earnings get thrown into the drinking habit of men.  Not only do they spend their money, they snatch away money from wives too.  Physical abuse is common.  Running a household is extremely difficult. 

When these women are asked if they would want to keep the child, they look vacantly into space; silence is their answer. When the same issue is raked up, the woman rues, ``Will we be able to live if we oppose family? All are our people, there are not outsiders. How can we speak against them? It is not possible.” 

Walking around these villages, we mostly see groups of boys moving around. There are no girls to be seen.

The village women say, “We do not get brides for our boys. We go to Shira, Tumkur to find brides.  Our children say that if we keep killing all the girl children, it is obviously going to pose problems when boys want to get married”. 

“That there are no girls available for marriage is proof enough for the existence of female infanticide and foeticide since decades.  If a girl child is born, the child is taken home, much against our wishes, within two hours of being born.  Often, the new mother comes alone for the check-up. This should be questioned.  The new mother says that the child died all of a sudden.  This is infanticide, but it cannot be proved, we are helpless,” says the doctor at the Primary Health Centre. 

Through the National Rural Health Mission scheme, many deliveries are conducted at the primary health centre.  Such killings happen in spite of Asha workers and NARs regularly visiting and keeping an eye on pregnancies.

“On village visits, we talk to people.  We explain to them about the facilities provided for the girl child.  We threaten them saying that infanticide is punishable by law.  The killings have come down in number compared to few years before. But they have not stopped completely.  We should cleverly convert them to our way of thinking.  Else, they will not even let us anywhere near the villages,” says a health worker from Palya.

Literacy levels have significantly increased in the State, to to 75.60%.  The 33% reservation women has ensured that in villages and village Gram Panchayats, there are women members.  But, there are not many, even among those women whose infants meet their end, who raise their voice against this practice of murdering girls. 

While going around these villages, you see a population that does not view infanticide as a crime, let alone an offence.

How do they do it?

Generally, an elderly woman kills the girl child. The infant is fed with some powdered seeds, by mixing paddy grains in oil, throttling the child with a rope, wrapping it in damp cloth and exposing it to cold weather, and so on. 

Often times, the half-dead children are left near ant hills, buried in the fields and thus silently finished off. They take care to see that people outside the house are not aware of the child’s delivery. They go to great lengths to make everything look normal.  Many families where such killings have taken place, have gone off to Tamilnadu. Once time has passed enough and faded public memory, they return to their villages.

Where have all the girls gone?

When you calculate the gender ratio of children below six years of age in Chamarajanagar district, there has been a significant decrease.  For 48,854 boys, there are only 46,005 girls.  In the 2001 census, for every 1000 boys, there were 964 girls.  National level statistics show that  a decade back, if there 927 girls for every 1000 boys, today, there are 914 girl children. 

From 1991, though there has been an increase in the gender ratio, as far as the 0-6 age group is concerned, census reports sa that since 1961, the number of girl children has steadily decreased. 

What does the law say?

Femal infanticide was banned in the 19^th century.  In 1805, among the Jadeja clan of the Saurashtra Rajputs, it was seen that there was an increase in female infanticide.  In 1808, there were no girl children in a village in Uttar Pradesh.  The chief officer of Baroda, Alexander Walker called a meeting of the village elders, and made them sign a letter admitting their guilt in continuing the practice of female infanticide, and that they would not do it henceforth.  In 1870, a law prohibiting female infanticide was passed by the British Government.  In 1898, this was considered a crime. 

The Indian Penal Code considers infanticide, homicide.  All the laws that are applicable to homicide apply to these cases too.  Section 318 says keeping the birth of a child secret and secretly burying the body is a punishable offence. 

Table: There has been a significant decrease in the female:male ratio in seven districts.  Chamarajanagar leads the statistics on this front. (based on Census reports)

Districts	2001	2011	Percentage of decrease
Chamarajanagar	964	942	-      22
Davanagere	946	931	-      15
Raichur	964	949	-      15
Chitradurga	946	939	-      13
Haveri	957	945	-      12
Bagalkot	940	929	-       11
Yadgir	952	942	-      10

The last word

Female infanticide takes place in other parts of the world too. In Arab countries and China, this is more in number.  During 200 BC, the practice of female infanticide was so rampant that among the 6,000 families that lived in Delphi, less than 1 percent of people had two girl children, according to the political sociologist, R.J. Rumel, who has mentioned this in his book “Death by Government”. 

Come to think of it, perhaps Goddess Seeta escaped infanticide as a child – Janaka finding her buried in a pot in the ground. 

Attempts at saving girl children do get reflected in an incident at Ramapura of Kollegal district about 10 months ago.  When a young couple who had come to the Primary Health Centre of Ramapura had their fourth girl child, they urgently packed up to return home from the hospital. 

The doctor, who was aware that female infanticide took place in these parts, got alert and advised the young couple against it.  Simultaneously, the doctor alerted the Child Welfare Committee of the District. Members of the Committee rushed to the sport and counselled the couple. 

“Even after talking to them for more than an hour, they insisted that they be sent home.  Finally, the mother said that they did not want the child.  We convinced them that if they did not need the child, they should not harm it, but hand it over to us.  We got the child and have left it in the child care centre.  We have the satisfaction of saving the life of a girl child,” says Lochana, the President of the Chamarajanagar Child Welfare Committee.