The Unplanned Laphing 

It was not our summer vacation, but a trip that had been in chats for a long time. It’s one thing going with your family and a better thing to go without them (exempting the fact that you must act like an adult). But this thought was soon ruined when the group of five girls, were faced with the struggles of not being a princess.

Now a few facts about female travel- It’s a ruckus. From taking permission from your parents to actually traveling alone in India, you feel terrorized, alone, and anxious all the time. Especially when your parents have listened to a billion cases of rape, harassment, and snatching. But my parents have always motivated me to go out, provided there must be a man “to protect me”. The case is always different when it comes to my brother, he just needs to inform my parents that he is leaving and the rest is taken care of. I have always wondered- Do we as a society fail to empower women, or are women actually under threat 24*7?

It took a huge range of disputes to travel from Goa back to the hills near Delhi, but after careful consideration- Mussorie was decided. We changed our mode of transportation from bus to train, adhering to the concerns of our parents. We booked tickets from different parts of India but the aim was one- We needed an escape. After a night stay at our friend’s house and not sleeping the whole night, we took our compartment-sized bags and started the journey towards the station. Now like any other, group, we had two main goals- To find an escape and to party.

We seemed to have found solace as we stepped into the train station and the next thing on the agenda was smoking. Like any other day of smoking in Delhi, we were ready to be stared at but not ready for the fine we would have to give if caught smoking at the station.

The railway station- a place no less than the representation of the whole essence of India. It has people who break laws, make laws, and amend them according to their own wishes. On the right, I saw a snack shop that was calling me with an old and overprized sandwich, and on my left I could feel the rotten smell of railway toilets making its way to the sandwiches. I moved my eyes and saw a person having gutka, one rolling a joint, but no one was smoking. Being a woman, and that to a woman in India, I took the heads up and went straight to our seats.

We struggled, laughed, relaxed, and in the end reached our Zostel (A hostel for wanderers and to make new friends). We kept our luggage and were deciding on what to do first, go for a walk, eat, or relax. So, we chose to smoke a cigarette. We were greeted by the Zostel host who told us about a group tour that was going to the Dalai Hills. We were interested, but there were two genuine problems- Most of us did not have any riding experience in the mountains, and it would be impossible for a group of five girls to get ready within half an hour and with just one washroom. So, we passed the tour and smoked instead.

After resting and taking a billion pictures, we decided to go to Landour Bakery. One of the top-notch places to visit in Mussoorie. It is known for being the home to one of the greatest writers- Ruskin Bond and for selling overpriced maggies. Less money, no transportation, and five unfit females did not make a good combination. “We should keep walking and see where we go”- Never trust a person who says this because they would make you trek the most beautiful and exotic uphill hike. But we did trust her, so we started our hike. After 5 minutes, we saw a group of cab drivers and were ready to pay them anything to be taken up without any walks. But my friend kept on saying- We should keep walking and see where we go. So, we did. It was already half-past soon and the landscape had started changing its shape with the rising altitude. With fewer shops, more mountains, and semi-covering black clouds, it felt like I was regaining my sanity.

 After twenty minutes of struggle and zero breath, we finally asked a cab driver. Taking inspiration from Sarojini Nagar and our inner Delhites we bargained. “No problem bhaiya, we will go on our own.” I said triggering the male ego of the driver and he said- “Haa jao jao madam, hum bhi dekhte hai.” This male ego was enough to unite us back and make us walk 10 Kilometers straight uphill.

We struggled, cried, smoked, watched some of the most beautiful sceneries, and reached Lal Tibba, which served as the first checkpoint for reaching Landour Bakery and even the last for us. It’s a small town at an altitude that has small 4- 5 shops selling the same food items and one exciting pub kinda restaurant. The only difference between these shops was how well the shopkeepers were talking to you. After resting our breathless lungs, the first thing to do was eat. We ordered momos, maggie, and coffee. “Aye, have you guys tried Laphing?” I asked this question and all my friends were just curious to eat it. Provided I asked that question because I saw a cute café on the way to our dreading quest. I tried my first Laphing in Delhi in a small place called Majnu Ka Tila. I went there for the first time with my overly excited Mom who had made a list of things to try and made me try this. It was cold, extremely spicy, but finger-licking good.

When it started getting darker, like any other female in India, we started our drive back from a less populated and lonely place back to Mall Road- a place essentially made to fool tourists where you find expensive pieces that are traded from Delhi just to be sold to us at higher costs. But the only thought I had was to have a plate of Laphing. I managed to interest everyone in that plate and we stopped. Unfortunately, it was a Dog’s café. Now a fact about me, I don’t hate animals, but I am just scared to admit I get scared. Two of my friends started petting the owner’s dog.

I am not the type who asks people to wash their hands after touching a dog, but I am also not the one who pets dogs, so I focused on Laphing. Small yellow-colored rolls, filled with wai-wai noodles and a mixture of other spicy ingredients which made me question why I was actually missing this from in Bangalore. We ordered two plates over a chit-chatty session with the host and finished it in no time. They all thanked me for the Laphing and hated me for just ordering two plates. But it was getting darker, and so it was time to reach back.

We climbed back to the Mall road, exchanged a few puffs of vape, and waited in line to get our Domino's order. Now our goals had changed- get back to Zostel, eat, smoke, and drink. So, we did exactly that and woke up the next morning with a hangover. The next day was about going to Dalai Hills, the part of the trek some of us dreaded the most.

Five girls, hungover, with gifts, stomachs all full, and one diary?? start their trek to a hike (yet again). But this time the trek was much more populated and smaller. “Bhai, Laphing”- said all of us together looking at a woman, but we were already full that an additional layer of food would end us all in the washroom. Yet again, our ego was challenged by a shopkeeper who asked us to wait till the rain stopped, but we continued the trek, to see “The Dalai Hills”. An epitome of beauty at a peak, enclosed with mountains, a chilly breeze, and some tourists all around. It was the right place for me to sit, smoke a cigarette, and talk about art. So, I sat with one of my friends who was done taking a lot of pictures and we discussed the random thoughts of looking at two mountains and the broken houses built on them.

Submerged between the mountains, craving for art, we all got a realization of being grown up and coming on trips without our parents. Life as a woman is already very hard, I feel with the number of restrictions imposed fairly from our parents. Their scare and worries are justified, but what is not really justified is the freedom that is snatched from us. Looking to at the views and free clouds shining under the sunlight made me envy them. So, I took the time to open my notebook, write, and sketch something for memory. The chilly breeze felt like peace, the peace I get after eating biryani and listening to my favorite track.

"It looks like a pathway."

“It looks like your conscious and subconscious mind.” And the discussions went along. Until, it was time to grab a tea, maggie, and go back from where we started. We roamed a bit on the Mall Road, this time taking a newer route, and saw the same Laphing shop. It took no time for us to take two plates of Laphing again and enjoy it with the rain. At this point, Laphing became our sixth member of the trip. We are independent girls but we need to get back on time. So, we boarded our train back to Delhi, with the thought of getting back from our escape. But aren’t escapes meant to take you back to reality?

None of us wanted to hear the answer to that. We got anxious, fought a little, smoked a lot, said goodbyes, and transported back to reality.

 

 Homecoming?

Refuging from Unsolicited India to India

“We have to go to the other side.” A phrase that can change your life. What would you choose? You might take a second and absorb what is really happening. But this is not what my great-grandmother did. She took everything she could, leaving all her jewelry and livelong’s savings behind, and started her journey to the “other side” with three kids.

On her way from unsolicited India (now known as Pakistan) to India, she had no food, no money, and no security. Two of her kids lost their lives on the way to finding a new home, but her only hope was to protect her third kid. All this happened as early as 1947 and even before when the talks of partition and the consequences had already started to show. I reconnected with all these stories through my grandparents and great-grandparents. I have no idea how much truth lies behind this journey, but who would even know how much is true when you are subjected to the atrocities of Partition?

Why did this partition happen? Would the refugees get a place to stay? Will this ever end? Or is it going to get worse? All these questions had different answers: the Indian answer, the Pakistani answer, the British answer. But nobody had the answer that would suffice the realities of life then.

My family and the thousand other families who were serious subject to these problems had their own answers. Their problems did end for a bit but, the repercussions never stopped. 

The human mind works in two different directions that is truth or false, and distinguishes between these processes by engaging multiple cognitive processes and brain regions. The prefrontal cortex helps with reasoning and judgment, while the hippocampus recalls relevant memories to check facts. The anterior cingulate cortex detects contradictions or inconsistencies, signaling potential errors, and the amygdala processes emotional responses, which can provide instinctive clues when something feels wrong. These areas work to assess information and recognize falsehoods critically.

But when you are exposed to a varied range of trauma or sequential bad experiences, your brain fails to understand what’s true or not. It creates no distinction between factual and non-factual parts, and we as humans, care the least. We were busy taking sides of which side of the partition to pick and whether our religion and race would get a place. This is what happened to my grandmother’s father who like millions, lost a knowledge of what was true or false. He left his land in Pakistan by burying all his jewelry in the soil. When he came to India after 1947 and settled down, he went back to Pakistan after a few years with his friend to look for their buried gold. Pakistan, a country he did not know though he had known it when it was not Pakistan. Reaching a place, you called home but seeing a billion other families budding there, he knew he did not just go there for the gold but also for the satisfaction of being back home. His friend got his jewelry but when he reached there, he realized the memory of where he left his gold had faded away. He saw houses built on his own land and failed to clearly distinguish between what was true and false. Then, a policeman came and got his friend his gold back, but my grandmother’s father was completely lost.

Imagine living in a place that is not really your home but you are forced to call it home to start a new life altogether. With no hope my great-grandparents, had to start a life in India. They had no start, no vision, but just one aim- survival.

They first settled in Kurk where they were given shelter in refugee tents, then traveled to Rohtak, then to Samhalka, and after being unemployed for days, came to Delhi in search of work. People then and even now, call us refugees. But we identify ourselves as fighters- who dared to survive one of the biggest revolutions in the world.

But this was just not it. What started as a bare announcement as news- Dusri tarah jana hai, soon became a place for terror. The Indian subcontinent became a place for war. Over the night, civilized citizens turned into demented killers and killers turned into rapists. This gave rise to a communal war. If a hundred men were reported killed by one community, the other community made sure that it doubled the score. There were no holds barred on what was and what was wrong. No one was spared. Children, women, and even the old had to face the repercussions of this set fire. This was just the start of the communal wars that were to begin. It was not just India or Pakistan anymore. It was Hindu, Muslims, Punjabis, Gujaratis, Marwaris, Kashmiris, and many other religions that turned back against each other.

The lifestyle, economy, and culture faced a huge pushback. The development under British rule was ruined by this partition. A war between Hindu and Muslim- it just started with this but ended up consuming every part of the society including Sikhs, Rajputs, Sindhis, Punjabis, and many more.

And if you ask me today, whether these repercussions ended or not, my answer would be no. We are subjected to “partitioned products”, “Pakistanis”, and even “half Indians”. And to be honest, my family has not yet figured out what to call themselves as well. Even after staying in India for over 70 years, and having a well-established business, we have not been able to call this place our home.

Whenever as an adult I have an ancestral discussion with my friends and hear them bragging about their grandparents having their roots in Delhi and India since the very start, I realize how my family must have felt. They are Indians who are still called immigrants. And how can one accept or call a space home that hasn’t even accepted them properly?

The trauma of resettling and starting your life all over again is something that the decision-makers of partition forgot to think of properly. My grandparents would still shed tears while recollecting memories of partition war and their pain would scream through their eyes. After some time, ‘refugee’ was not just a term for us, but a word that casts all our emotions. The minds of people stopped understanding what’s true and what’s false and there was just one feeling that left unsaid- Is it homecoming?

There, behind barbed wire, on one side, lay India, and behind more barbed wire, on the other side, lay Pakistan. In between, on a bit of earth, which had no name, we laid- fighters.

This was my story, what's yours?

Write to me at poorvik35@gmail.com

A Photo Walk through the City of Widows

Finding Solace in God

 She wants to be a boss woman, and balance everything but how often does the world of discrimination let her do that? She is subjected to discrimination and labels, quite frequently. Women- a not-so-debatable topic, but her rights and freedom are often questioned more. But why do women have to face these stereotypes? Are they responsible for being visibly invisible or do we as a society fail to acknowledge them?

Fazal Sheikh’s photographic series, Moksha, takes us through the lanes of widowhood in Vrindavan. His photographs are deeply linked to how women are seen after the loss of their husbands. Vrindavan- the city of Widows and spirituality holds home to more than 20,000 widows The widows here deeply feel that only submission to God can help them get Moksha, or liberation from the endless cycle of life and death. 

When I saw the photographs for the first time, I felt disconnected from what was being shown. Set against the sullied dull white walls, these photographs made my mood slightly grey. It felt like the photographs of some women hiding their identities under a shawl. They were running away from the glimpses of the world under the cover provided to them by society. But as you read about the photographs, you realize that it's just not a coverup of their identity but a metaphor for protecting them from the outside world in the name of God.

The colors, background, and atmosphere of these photographs are a true representation of what Widows in Vrindavan looks like. Their names are covered under the name of God and their identities are overshadowed by the dullness of Indian society. The Moksha series aka liberation, becomes the true mission of these women because they have been told from the start that life is nothing without their better half. The colors and contrast portrayed in this series are the shades of white and the hues of grey depicting how life shifts from colorful glory towards white and they end up adjusting to a new space and turning grey.

The artist, Fazal Sheikh ties who different sides of the widowhood of Vrindavan. Number one, the one that looks into the camera but is covered and handicapped enough to make a choice, and the other that has agreed upon that this is going to be her life. What I saw here at first, was just two people covered in shawls but later I noticed the drape of every drop of the silhouette and how it falls on the shoulders of the widows, covers their faces with nothing to observe, and melts well with their body posture. The artist tries to represent the true identities of these widows with their way of living and succeeds in doing so. When I observed these photographs long enough, I could feel these women respecting their quietness and choosing to willfully step away from societal norms.

Widows who come to Vrindavan voluntarily or involuntarily, come under the assumption that Lord Krishna will take care of them and alleviate their sorrows. Their identities and personalities are made to believe that life with a man is only complete and without a man can only be complete when God steps in. But in reality, widows are seen as a threat to the caste hierarchy and their sexual union with another man could potentially pollute their race and name. Why would otherwise the union of a man be highly promoted but that of a woman be called a form of pollution? Or the surplus of women is a potential cause of threat and added liability.

Women, work, and wealth- 3 W’s that are often judged in Indian society. And if they are bought together, they might still require digene for digestion. Women who were already under the microscope of a failed society when raised their voices to become equal in wealth and work were pushed back with one medium or the other. This is not just the problem of a failed society but also of failed laws that govern women. Hierarchy is seen through the lens of a man, so ultimately when the point for the distribution of power and justice comes it is automatically descended to a man than a woman.

With ⁠around 15-20 thousand windows chanting and praying to God, Vrindavan also provides a home to the widows who their own families have pushed out. They can be seen leading a basic life as guided by their Gurus, family, and friends, with the aspiration that they will have dignity when they shift to Vrindavan. The age group of these women varies in a range, from early 20’s to early 80’s, there are some who are even underage and pushed here.

According to their status, they would either rent a space, live in an ashram, or on the roads. They are allotted a small space, bed, and a cupboard to hold the baggage of their past. With zero to almost no contact with their past, they come here to relive their lives in white sarees (a predefined color for widowhood). They form bonds with fellow widows and are submerged under the vision of one spiritual God. They are aging women; having spent the prime of their lives in the roles of wife, daughter-in-law, and mothers which mostly entailed submitting their lives to something else. It was considered a part of their duty as a good Hindu woman. Poverty, old age, and its associated malnourishment wore out the widows over several years, but there has been no opinion or vision for them. The contrast between blacks and greys in the photograph highlights the true conditions of these widows.

A woman is seen as complete only under the guardianship of a male- a brother, husband, or father. And this dictates her life. From being told, “tum to paraye ghar ki ho jaoge” to “byah hogaya tumhara?”, a woman has always been seen as a subject to burden. Even when they get married, they are held responsible for the well-being of their husbands. Then, comes the traditions like Karwa Chauth that put forward a similar notion that a wife is responsible for her husband’s well-being. Some people say that it promotes gender roles and is regressive, while some feel it's about dedication, love, and strength. When I asked my mother, why she keeps a no-water fast for my father, she replied, “It’s an old tradition. If it makes my family happy and gives your father a little more life, I will keep it”. When I counter-argued- Then, why does Papa not keep it, she hesitated and said, “Only women keep it.” This mindset of putting everything on a woman’s shoulder is not what we were told recently but has been in the books for a long time. Then, comes additional duties of women, taking care of their family, and what happens to them after death.

This is linked directly to the lineage of God and how women have always been perceived as a subject to injustice, inequality, and liability. The goddess Sati, also known as Dakshayani, is directly associated with the concept of sati. When her father insulted Lord Shiva, Sati immolated herself in protest, which is often seen as a symbolic origin of the practice of Sati. Even Goddess Renuka was accused of infidelity by society after the loss of her husband. What happens to a woman when her spouse dies is still a matter of debate, giving rise to customs like Sati and Widowhood.

Sati started in the early centuries and became prevalent during the 10^th and 12^th centuries. Its main belief is- a widow should immolate herself on her husband’s funeral pyre. This practice can be traced back to Bengal, as a measure for the warrior and royal classes to prevent widows from being captured and abused by invaders. But soon this custom became popular all over India as a practice where hundreds of women would throw themselves into fires just to pay homage to their dying husbands.  Although, now it's just a form of patriarchy that has been banned. But does this series of women proving themselves right, stop here? The answer is- No. It only starts there and then comes another practice called Niyoga where a childless widow is married to a close relative of her husband to ensure that the family line continues and the wife is provided with social and economic security. This brings us back to the point that women are seen as invisible and incompetent without a man.

All these practices raise answers to common practice- Widowhood and how it is seen as a complex and deeply intertwined social complexity in the Indian content. The history of widowhood in India is complex and deeply intertwined with the society's social, cultural, and religious fabric. The treatment of widows has evolved significantly over the centuries, influenced by religious texts, societal norms, and colonial as well as post-colonial reforms. The practice of sati, while related, represents a specific and extreme aspect of widowhood.

Fazal’s photos are a shred of evidence of how women are still subjected to a life where they are seen as a threat and have to live under restrictions. Their mindset has been built in a way that they find solace in the lies built by the people for God. But is it wrong to find solace in something? Fazal’s photos also portray one thing which is the quietness and peace of finding solace in something. Vrindavan which survives on two things- temples and widows, continues to remain the place of rest for people and widows throughout the Globe. But when and where in this society will a woman actually find her solace?

For more such stories, subscribe to this blog!

Thank you for reading, write to me at @poorvik35@gmail.com