In Mangolpuri in outer Delhi, this morning, a Scorpio first crossed over the road divider breaking the cement railings and then rammed into a still Bullet motorcycle throwing down 25-year-old Sanjeet Khatra on the road. The white Scorpio, with four people in it, then reversed back and accelerated to hit him again. It kept ramming into him till Khatra was bleeding and dead on the road. A minute later, Pawan Garg came running out of the drivers seat and stood beside Khatra’s damaged body. “I have won the battle,” he shouted in anger.
Pawan Garg, 30, was then beaten by the people, who were walking on the road and saw it all happen. His wife, sister-in laws, and father came out of the Scorpio when people started breaking it and kept crying on the pavement. “He was beaten for a long time and the car was broken too but then police van came and took him away,” says Vijender, a betel leaf seller on the same road. Khatra was rushed to Sanjay Gandhi hospital where he was declared brought dead. Garg, according to police, was also taken to a hospital by the Police Control Room van, where from he absconded later.
In Kiradi, few kilometres from the spot, houses of Khatra and Garg, separated by a lane, stand facing each other, their shadows merging. Garg's house is locked and surrounded by policemen, and Khatra’s are mourning. “He was my best friend, we went to school together, college together and shared everything. My friend is dead,” Savita, Khatra’s sister said. Khatra had applied for a teacher’s job recently after after doing a course in Primary Teacher Training from a college in Janakpuri.
The family says that they had no animosity with the Garg’s except that there had been a couple of arguments over parking space in the lane. “There was a fight last year in November between them over their cars and since then there has been nothing. I don’t know why it happened,” Khatra’s mother, Shankuntala said. “My son used to tell me that Pawan always gave him spiteful looks and I used to tell him not to look back at him.” Outside, in the lane, Khatra’s silver grey Alto is parked.
Police sources, however, say that it was Garg's wife, Parul, who lay at the heart of the animosity. “It seems that the two had illicit relations and Garg had come to know about it. It is a crime of passion and there of dozens of eye witnesses who saw it happen,” said DCP Outer Delhi, Atul Katiyar. Khatra’s mother says that her son had no relation with Garg's wife and the two families hadnt talked to each other in a long time. Khatra’s older brother, Sudhir, however, said that Garg had doubts about his brother’s relation with Parul. “He sometimes used to say that my brother has some relations with his wife and sometimes even said that he had relations with his children but I used to tell him that it was only in his head,” said Sudhir Khatra.
Garg and Parul had a son and a daughter and Garg owned a utensil shop just outside his house.
Parul has recorded her statement with the police and so have other members of the family. Police are looking for Garg, who absconded from the hospital. “We are looking for him but it is highly shameful that he could abscond from the hospital and the police had no idea,” Katiyar said. Police sation Mongolpuri had earlier registered a case of death due to rash and negligent driving but later changed it to murder.
----------ENDS---------
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Sellling 10 rupees for 12- this is Old Delhi.
EXPRESS NEWS SERVICE
NEW DELHI, JUNE 9
On the side-walks of the congested Chandni Chowk, the old curiosity shop is selling new glittering coins. Sitting on the pavement, Arun Aggarawal, 31, sells Indian money to Indians and is making profit out of it. And he is not alone; all the money changers and old coin sellers are onto this new business and it is thriving. The new ten and five rupee-coins from the RBI which haven’t yet been seen in the open are being sold in Chandni Chowk for Rs 12 and Rs 7 respectively as a dozen policemen book some illegal bike parkers just metres away.
The till-now-unseen ten rupee coins dated as 2006 and 2008 issued by RBI have not been circulated till now and when people see the shiny steel and copper coloured coin all along Chandni Chowk, they can’t resist buying it. “It is unique and I will show this coin to everyone because no one has seen it yet. It first thought it was a fake but now I know it is real but that doesn’t mean I will spend it,” says Vineet Bhardawaj, 24, an Employee in a MNC, moments after buying two coins worth Rs 20 for 24. “I know it sounds stupid but this is a collector’s item.”
The ten-rupee-coin has been minted in 2006 but not yet seen in the market. The 8 grams bi-metallic coin with Nickel- Copper on one side and ferrous steel on the other designed by National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad with the theme of Unity in Diversity is the black markets open heaven right now. When asked by The Newsline why the coins had not been circulated properly in the market, Raghu Raj, spokesperson of the RBI said he had no idea that this was happening and refused to comment .
Outside the Geeta studio in Chandni Chowk, a thickset man in his fifties squats besides two bowls full of these new coins perched on a small table. First, the coins attract few people and the people attract more people and soon the entrance to the studio is barred and curiosity shop is in bloom. The discoloured Victoria’s are pushed back, Lincoln’s semi hidden and even the rusted ones are discarded. It is the new coins which are attracting crowds.
“Which country’s coin is this”? asks a interested Waseem Ahmad while looking at the bowls. His hands fiddle with the coins and he finally picks up one. “India ke hain, kaheen aur nahi milenge. Sirf hamare paas hain. (These are Indian and you wont find them anywhere other than me).” Ahmad, 31, a software designer buys one.
“We have never done so much business as we have in the last 20 days. I must have sold 10,000 coins till now and I am selling,” says an equally busy Aggarwal.
Aggarawal buys the coins from an agent for Rs 10.50 in bulk and sells it for 12 in retail. “The person who sells me the coins is an RBI employee and now everyone has his own agents and we are earning good money,” says Aggarwal.
----- ENDS-----
NEW DELHI, JUNE 9
On the side-walks of the congested Chandni Chowk, the old curiosity shop is selling new glittering coins. Sitting on the pavement, Arun Aggarawal, 31, sells Indian money to Indians and is making profit out of it. And he is not alone; all the money changers and old coin sellers are onto this new business and it is thriving. The new ten and five rupee-coins from the RBI which haven’t yet been seen in the open are being sold in Chandni Chowk for Rs 12 and Rs 7 respectively as a dozen policemen book some illegal bike parkers just metres away.
The till-now-unseen ten rupee coins dated as 2006 and 2008 issued by RBI have not been circulated till now and when people see the shiny steel and copper coloured coin all along Chandni Chowk, they can’t resist buying it. “It is unique and I will show this coin to everyone because no one has seen it yet. It first thought it was a fake but now I know it is real but that doesn’t mean I will spend it,” says Vineet Bhardawaj, 24, an Employee in a MNC, moments after buying two coins worth Rs 20 for 24. “I know it sounds stupid but this is a collector’s item.”
The ten-rupee-coin has been minted in 2006 but not yet seen in the market. The 8 grams bi-metallic coin with Nickel- Copper on one side and ferrous steel on the other designed by National Institute of Design, Ahmedabad with the theme of Unity in Diversity is the black markets open heaven right now. When asked by The Newsline why the coins had not been circulated properly in the market, Raghu Raj, spokesperson of the RBI said he had no idea that this was happening and refused to comment .
Outside the Geeta studio in Chandni Chowk, a thickset man in his fifties squats besides two bowls full of these new coins perched on a small table. First, the coins attract few people and the people attract more people and soon the entrance to the studio is barred and curiosity shop is in bloom. The discoloured Victoria’s are pushed back, Lincoln’s semi hidden and even the rusted ones are discarded. It is the new coins which are attracting crowds.
“Which country’s coin is this”? asks a interested Waseem Ahmad while looking at the bowls. His hands fiddle with the coins and he finally picks up one. “India ke hain, kaheen aur nahi milenge. Sirf hamare paas hain. (These are Indian and you wont find them anywhere other than me).” Ahmad, 31, a software designer buys one.
“We have never done so much business as we have in the last 20 days. I must have sold 10,000 coins till now and I am selling,” says an equally busy Aggarwal.
Aggarawal buys the coins from an agent for Rs 10.50 in bulk and sells it for 12 in retail. “The person who sells me the coins is an RBI employee and now everyone has his own agents and we are earning good money,” says Aggarwal.
----- ENDS-----
son kills father: father nails him after death.
ZAHID RAFIQ
NEW DELHI, JUNE 15
When Satish Prakash, 30, bludgeoned his reclusive father Raghubir Singh, 65, to death three days ago in Alipur area believing that his father had an extra-marital affair; he didn’t know that his father’s diary would help police to nail him out soon. In his small room, alongside perfume bottles, fairness creams, pornographic magazine, Singh maintained a diary recording everything that happened to him but there was no mention of any women. Alipur Police have arrested the son charged him with murder.
On June 13, police received a call from the Singh home saying that their father had been murdered and was lying dead in his room. When police came, they found blood splattered on the walls and dried up on the sheet. Sigh was lying dead on his bed with several injuries on his head, neck and ears.
Singh, a retired clerk with Comptroller and Auditor General’s office, lived his own home as a recluse. “His room had a separate entrance, and he cooked for himself even though his wife and family lived in the same house,” a police official said. “We came to know that he hardly ever talked to anyone in his family.”
The Singh family had a dispute over property among themselves and there were regular fights and quarrels before the night when Singh was finally murdered. Police often received calls from the family and usually from Singh himself who felt that his family wanted to kill him. “He called some days ago pleading us to come to his home because there was a quarrel. We went and he said that his family and he are at odds and they would kill him. We said that this is a family mater and what else could we do,” says the police official.
Some days later, Singh was murdered. Police found his well maintained diary, in which he had written who in his family were trying to kill him. “He thought that his son Satish Prakash might kill him but in the last entry in his diary, he was afraid of his grandson LIkesh, who he felt would kill him,” says police. When the police questioned the sons and other relatives, they say, they were already sure that someone among them had killed him. “His youngest son, Prakash, broke down soon and accepted that he along with his friend, Salim, had killed his father because he never cared for his mother and had an extramarital affair,” says Atul Katiyar, DCP Outer. Prakash and Salim convinced two more of their friends who entered into Singh’s room that night and covered his face with a pillow and bludgeoned him with a musli. Singh stopped resisting and breathing but his son didn’t stop till he was sure that his father was dead.
Police have registered a case of murder against the son and his friend Salim and are hunting for the other two accused.
IN his home, there is mourning for the son but none for the murdered father and in diaries, there is no hint of an extramarital affair but police believe that he might have skipped the part out.
------ENDS
NEW DELHI, JUNE 15
When Satish Prakash, 30, bludgeoned his reclusive father Raghubir Singh, 65, to death three days ago in Alipur area believing that his father had an extra-marital affair; he didn’t know that his father’s diary would help police to nail him out soon. In his small room, alongside perfume bottles, fairness creams, pornographic magazine, Singh maintained a diary recording everything that happened to him but there was no mention of any women. Alipur Police have arrested the son charged him with murder.
On June 13, police received a call from the Singh home saying that their father had been murdered and was lying dead in his room. When police came, they found blood splattered on the walls and dried up on the sheet. Sigh was lying dead on his bed with several injuries on his head, neck and ears.
Singh, a retired clerk with Comptroller and Auditor General’s office, lived his own home as a recluse. “His room had a separate entrance, and he cooked for himself even though his wife and family lived in the same house,” a police official said. “We came to know that he hardly ever talked to anyone in his family.”
The Singh family had a dispute over property among themselves and there were regular fights and quarrels before the night when Singh was finally murdered. Police often received calls from the family and usually from Singh himself who felt that his family wanted to kill him. “He called some days ago pleading us to come to his home because there was a quarrel. We went and he said that his family and he are at odds and they would kill him. We said that this is a family mater and what else could we do,” says the police official.
Some days later, Singh was murdered. Police found his well maintained diary, in which he had written who in his family were trying to kill him. “He thought that his son Satish Prakash might kill him but in the last entry in his diary, he was afraid of his grandson LIkesh, who he felt would kill him,” says police. When the police questioned the sons and other relatives, they say, they were already sure that someone among them had killed him. “His youngest son, Prakash, broke down soon and accepted that he along with his friend, Salim, had killed his father because he never cared for his mother and had an extramarital affair,” says Atul Katiyar, DCP Outer. Prakash and Salim convinced two more of their friends who entered into Singh’s room that night and covered his face with a pillow and bludgeoned him with a musli. Singh stopped resisting and breathing but his son didn’t stop till he was sure that his father was dead.
Police have registered a case of murder against the son and his friend Salim and are hunting for the other two accused.
IN his home, there is mourning for the son but none for the murdered father and in diaries, there is no hint of an extramarital affair but police believe that he might have skipped the part out.
------ENDS
Finally, the long novel of daryaganj ends in a sad way...
ZAHID RAFIQ
NEW DELHI, JUNE 22
This Sunday, Daryaganj just wasn’t its usual self. There were no yellowed texts stacked against the walls, no literature scattered and littered on the pavements, no hawkers shouting names of authors and no book lovers pushing their way through the bookish pavements. Daryaganj just wasn’t its usual self this Sunday and it might not be the same way ever again. As Daryaganj police decides to bring down the instances of pick pocketing and traffic congestion and MCD distances itself from the issue, the 45-year-old-book market for which people come even from other states faces the brunt.
“Police can close the market anytime if there is a law and order problem because of it. It is 45 years old but if state has the permission for the market once, it can as well take it back,” says DCP Central Jaspal Singh. Singh did not know that his subordinates had closed the market on Sunday though.
The around one-kilometer stretch of Delhi, which is the book lovers ‘Perian spring’, does not have any official permission but the book hawkers had been allowed to sit there every Sunday for the last four decades. But now, the Daryaganj police decided that it would not allow the market to be there in its present shape because of the traffic jams and crimes like pick pocketing and teasing of women.
The police say that it is hard to manage the market on Sundays because of so much rush. The SHO of Daryaganj police station is on a leave and the Additional SHO closed the market saying he was short of staff. “It is not only the book sellers but the cloth sellers and others have also come there. There are regular jams and eve teasing and they have started to use even the road for their goods,” says Adnl SHO, Daryaganj, Madan Lal.
The customers, many of who buy books only from here, some collect books, some art, and some even plan their visits to Delhi in a way that they could buy books here on Sunday left without a whimper this Sunday. Customers asked each other on the pavements as there was not even a single hawker to ask and when they heard that police had cleared the market, it is an immediate heartbreak. “This was one place where we could buy books really cheap and those books which we cant find anywhere. How can the police just come and close this market? We have come from 20 kilometers just to buy books,” says Pradeep Sharma, an MBA student.
Infact, the police hadn’t even told the hawkers that they would not be allowed to sell books on Sunday. “We came out in the morning with our sacks and an hour later, police came over and asked us to empty the pavement as it was because of us that the crime rate was increasing,” says Subhash Aggarwal, President of the Sunday Daryaganj Book Bazaar Association. The book bazaar employs around 250 people who sell books there.
There have been questions on this market even in the past and the issue is currently subjudice. The MCD says that it has nothing to do with this market and police can do what ever it wants to if it is a law and order problem. “We are not even in the picture. This market has no documents and is illegal and it has been allowed to be there only on humanitarian grounds. The police surely can close it,” says MCD spokesperson Deep Mathur.
For the ignorant customers who might be planning to come next Sunday, and the hawkers who have a stockpile of books in Godown, the future is uncertain.
-----------ENDS-------------
NEW DELHI, JUNE 22
This Sunday, Daryaganj just wasn’t its usual self. There were no yellowed texts stacked against the walls, no literature scattered and littered on the pavements, no hawkers shouting names of authors and no book lovers pushing their way through the bookish pavements. Daryaganj just wasn’t its usual self this Sunday and it might not be the same way ever again. As Daryaganj police decides to bring down the instances of pick pocketing and traffic congestion and MCD distances itself from the issue, the 45-year-old-book market for which people come even from other states faces the brunt.
“Police can close the market anytime if there is a law and order problem because of it. It is 45 years old but if state has the permission for the market once, it can as well take it back,” says DCP Central Jaspal Singh. Singh did not know that his subordinates had closed the market on Sunday though.
The around one-kilometer stretch of Delhi, which is the book lovers ‘Perian spring’, does not have any official permission but the book hawkers had been allowed to sit there every Sunday for the last four decades. But now, the Daryaganj police decided that it would not allow the market to be there in its present shape because of the traffic jams and crimes like pick pocketing and teasing of women.
The police say that it is hard to manage the market on Sundays because of so much rush. The SHO of Daryaganj police station is on a leave and the Additional SHO closed the market saying he was short of staff. “It is not only the book sellers but the cloth sellers and others have also come there. There are regular jams and eve teasing and they have started to use even the road for their goods,” says Adnl SHO, Daryaganj, Madan Lal.
The customers, many of who buy books only from here, some collect books, some art, and some even plan their visits to Delhi in a way that they could buy books here on Sunday left without a whimper this Sunday. Customers asked each other on the pavements as there was not even a single hawker to ask and when they heard that police had cleared the market, it is an immediate heartbreak. “This was one place where we could buy books really cheap and those books which we cant find anywhere. How can the police just come and close this market? We have come from 20 kilometers just to buy books,” says Pradeep Sharma, an MBA student.
Infact, the police hadn’t even told the hawkers that they would not be allowed to sell books on Sunday. “We came out in the morning with our sacks and an hour later, police came over and asked us to empty the pavement as it was because of us that the crime rate was increasing,” says Subhash Aggarwal, President of the Sunday Daryaganj Book Bazaar Association. The book bazaar employs around 250 people who sell books there.
There have been questions on this market even in the past and the issue is currently subjudice. The MCD says that it has nothing to do with this market and police can do what ever it wants to if it is a law and order problem. “We are not even in the picture. This market has no documents and is illegal and it has been allowed to be there only on humanitarian grounds. The police surely can close it,” says MCD spokesperson Deep Mathur.
For the ignorant customers who might be planning to come next Sunday, and the hawkers who have a stockpile of books in Godown, the future is uncertain.
-----------ENDS-------------
Friday, June 12, 2009
It rained here last afternoon after a long time. It wasnt the first time though, but strangely it felt so. I walked out and sat on the little ashy verandah with my feet against the rusted railing, and smoked. The sky turned grey, and the white Delhi summer light changed to those old kashmiri kerosene lamp lights. The cigarette felt hotter nnear my fingertips. I lit another.
The rain fell on the railing and broken drops flew over to me, wetting the cigatte. I dint mind. The leaves rustled and the sky gargled and for a moment i believed i was in Kashmir. A few girls walked by, and the wind blew, revealing a few already revealed legs, rumaginga few already rummaged thoughts and dammpning a few few already damped souls. I was in delhi, i remebered. And i remember Sohail's dilemna who was now standing by my side and talking about Kashmir too. His girlfriend left him, he told me one ight. "because she wanted to have sex," he said with a surprised look on his face. "You should have done that before her even asking for it," i replied shrugging my shoulders and sypathising with the girl.
How can you say this, zahid?
Why? What wrong did i say?
If you kill one man, you kill the whole humanity... If you fuck one woman, you fuck the whole humanity...
I spurted out my smoke and he laughed. We both did, for a long time afterwards.
"Wasnt i right?"
Of course, i said.
Now sohail was standing, his arms pressed against the railing, as if about to to do pushups. O yea, he has recently joined and gym. He loves it. Its unisex, and hez even made a few friends.
The rain fell on the railing and broken drops flew over to me, wetting the cigatte. I dint mind. The leaves rustled and the sky gargled and for a moment i believed i was in Kashmir. A few girls walked by, and the wind blew, revealing a few already revealed legs, rumaginga few already rummaged thoughts and dammpning a few few already damped souls. I was in delhi, i remebered. And i remember Sohail's dilemna who was now standing by my side and talking about Kashmir too. His girlfriend left him, he told me one ight. "because she wanted to have sex," he said with a surprised look on his face. "You should have done that before her even asking for it," i replied shrugging my shoulders and sypathising with the girl.
How can you say this, zahid?
Why? What wrong did i say?
If you kill one man, you kill the whole humanity... If you fuck one woman, you fuck the whole humanity...
I spurted out my smoke and he laughed. We both did, for a long time afterwards.
"Wasnt i right?"
Of course, i said.
Now sohail was standing, his arms pressed against the railing, as if about to to do pushups. O yea, he has recently joined and gym. He loves it. Its unisex, and hez even made a few friends.
Friday, April 24, 2009
A night in the maternity hospital in Srinagar
ZAHID RAFIQ
SRINAGAR, FEBRUARY 23
There is no crowd pushing forward to gate crash, no fake excuses by attendants to get inside, no obstinate denials by the security and no bribed entries later. The gates are flung open, men smoke on the porch and the benches. The dark moonless night has fallen and Lal Ded (LD) hospital, the valley’s biggest maternity hospital, is silent except for the dogs and few far away voices.
Pale light floats through the long corridors narrowed by people leaning against the walls, some sleeping on green, blue and red Styrofoam mats, and some chatting in whispers on the wooden benches. In the labour room on the first floor, women moan rhythmically in pain, calling their mothers and fathers as they would have called them once as children. The high pitched shrieks woven together with subtle moans float through the entire floor, and attendants pace uneasily through the corridor.
Saleema Jan, 62, squatting and leaning against the wall gently rocks herself, her palm covering her forehead as she mumbles a prayer. Her daughter Mehtab Bano is inside the labour room, crying out her name in an agonizing pitch. Saleema Jan is in pain outside.
“Adamas adam phatun, yehai che, gubra, qayaamat aasan (a human growing in a human and then separating: the pain, my son, is beyond words),” says Jan, the tips of her fore finger and thumb anxiously rubbing the corners of her dry lips, her tongue flickering out to wet the tiny fissures. “If my daughter sees that I am even weaker than her, she will loose all strength and can’t face this ordeal.”
Jan remembers the old days when she was afraid of going through the pain again after giving birth to two sons. But, the desire for a daughter made her bear all the agony again. “I used to be happy that I will have another child but then I would remember this moment when every muscle twitched in pain and my hands would shiver with the thought,” she says.
Twenty years ago, the rate of Caesarean deliveries was much less. Women would bear children without surgeries and sections. Jan delivered four babies, but never by a Caesarean section. “Back then, boad operation (major operation) caesareans were looked down upon and women who delivered after cesareans were thought of as lazy and weak,” she says. “But today most deliveries are by an operation in the theatre.”
According to a report published by a doctor in 2006, 85 percent of the deliveries in LD happen by caesareans. As per the WHO guidelines, not more than 15 percent of the total deliveries should happen by caesarean. The report cites “Adequate trial of labour not given to the pregnant women” as the main reason for the high cesarean rate in the hospital.
“If a woman gets a cesarean in her first delivery, it is almost sure that her second delivery will also come by a cesarean and the chances of a third child being born to the woman are negligible,” says a female gynecologist. The gynecologist says that women now demand cesareans because they do not want to go the pain. “I write on the medical records that the cesarean was demanded,” she says. She has herself had cesareans for her deliveries.
On the second floor, above the labour room, families wait on benches, and blankets. Cups of tea pass around. There are no shrieks, no moans here. Only faint sounds of occasional steps come from inside the Operation Theatre.
Fahmeeda Akhtar, 47, waits with a soft mink blanket on her lap. Her daughter is inside too, but under the knife undergoing a caesarean. “Vani gaeses bahaar haavun aemis shur sund (Now God should show her the blossoms of this child),” Fahmeeda says, her hands buried under the tiny mink blanket. Her son- in- law has gone out to buy a baby feeder and other things they would need in the post operative ward.
There is no waiting room for attendants to wait for their patients. It looks like a hostel corridor, young boys striking up old chats.
Outside the post-operative ward, Mohammad Shafi Dar, 29, removes his ankle-high fur shoes. He wears no socks. The skin of his toes is dead and white, and his feet smell. The woman sitting next to him pouts her lips and slides a couple of feet away. “I have removed my shoes after three days. My wife had some complicacy and I have not had a wink of sleep for the last four nights,” says Dar. Dar lives in Pulwama where government doctors denied treating her wife and he had to come here in the middle of the night three days ago. “They (government doctors) have started a nursing home near the hospital and they asked us to come there and pay 18000 rupees. They said they cannot do anything if we did not come to the nursing home.” Dar became father to a son this evening. Under creases of weariness and oil, his brown face lights up with the mention of his son. “Only women have the patience to undergo the childbirth. But, we have our own responsibilities and they are also painful too. I cannot share my wife’s pain, or I would have already done,” says Dar.
The bathrooms are stained and messy, and water trickles from the tap. The ceramic is yellowed and rusted: it should have been white once. Someone forgot to flush the commode.
Inside the wards, the lights are dimmed, and patients sleep on the beds- two on a bed. On some beds, husbands sleep with wives.
The floor is packed with the attendants, some sleeping with their lips agape, some hidden under the blankets looking like a sac, some snoring loudly and other irked by the grumbled noise. It is midnight and the warm corridors, by now, are covered with bodies of slumping old fathers, frail younger sisters, ageing mothers and anxious husbands- all sleeping on each other. It is warm, quiet and cozy.
The staircase back to the labour room is like an elevator to war zone- women holding their bellies up with both their hands, walking slowly, as if walking on water. A male nursing orderly carries around a pregnant woman in a wheel chair, her head thrust back, her teeth biting on her lower lip in pain, her hair open with slight traces of an old knot.
Two male orderlies walk in and out of the labour room, carrying in drugs, injections and other supplies. Mohammad Yousuf, 37, a male nursing orderly has been working in the labour room for five years. He doesn’t tell his friends that he works here- only his immediate family knows. “What should I tell I tell my friends that I work in labour room all day? They will make fun of me,” says Yousuf. Yousuf remembers the time when he first came to the labour room and he would carry the moans and agony with him to his home and his life outside. “Back then it was different but now I have seen so much. The moment I leave this room, I forget everything. I don’t even hear the shrieks anymore here. I have become used to it,” Yousuf says. “If I remember it, then, I won’t be able to do anything. If a woman remembers it, she will never give birth again.”
A young girl rushes out of the corridor, crying for her father. Inside, life is conceived of an agonizing ordeal. “Papa, sister gave birth to a boy,” she cries.
In the side corridor, Saleema Jan is still sitting, now on a blanket, chatting with two other mothers. They talk of old times, of village nurses and of their own pain, but with smiles. All of them are all grandmothers now.
--------ENDS-----
SRINAGAR, FEBRUARY 23
There is no crowd pushing forward to gate crash, no fake excuses by attendants to get inside, no obstinate denials by the security and no bribed entries later. The gates are flung open, men smoke on the porch and the benches. The dark moonless night has fallen and Lal Ded (LD) hospital, the valley’s biggest maternity hospital, is silent except for the dogs and few far away voices.
Pale light floats through the long corridors narrowed by people leaning against the walls, some sleeping on green, blue and red Styrofoam mats, and some chatting in whispers on the wooden benches. In the labour room on the first floor, women moan rhythmically in pain, calling their mothers and fathers as they would have called them once as children. The high pitched shrieks woven together with subtle moans float through the entire floor, and attendants pace uneasily through the corridor.
Saleema Jan, 62, squatting and leaning against the wall gently rocks herself, her palm covering her forehead as she mumbles a prayer. Her daughter Mehtab Bano is inside the labour room, crying out her name in an agonizing pitch. Saleema Jan is in pain outside.
“Adamas adam phatun, yehai che, gubra, qayaamat aasan (a human growing in a human and then separating: the pain, my son, is beyond words),” says Jan, the tips of her fore finger and thumb anxiously rubbing the corners of her dry lips, her tongue flickering out to wet the tiny fissures. “If my daughter sees that I am even weaker than her, she will loose all strength and can’t face this ordeal.”
Jan remembers the old days when she was afraid of going through the pain again after giving birth to two sons. But, the desire for a daughter made her bear all the agony again. “I used to be happy that I will have another child but then I would remember this moment when every muscle twitched in pain and my hands would shiver with the thought,” she says.
Twenty years ago, the rate of Caesarean deliveries was much less. Women would bear children without surgeries and sections. Jan delivered four babies, but never by a Caesarean section. “Back then, boad operation (major operation) caesareans were looked down upon and women who delivered after cesareans were thought of as lazy and weak,” she says. “But today most deliveries are by an operation in the theatre.”
According to a report published by a doctor in 2006, 85 percent of the deliveries in LD happen by caesareans. As per the WHO guidelines, not more than 15 percent of the total deliveries should happen by caesarean. The report cites “Adequate trial of labour not given to the pregnant women” as the main reason for the high cesarean rate in the hospital.
“If a woman gets a cesarean in her first delivery, it is almost sure that her second delivery will also come by a cesarean and the chances of a third child being born to the woman are negligible,” says a female gynecologist. The gynecologist says that women now demand cesareans because they do not want to go the pain. “I write on the medical records that the cesarean was demanded,” she says. She has herself had cesareans for her deliveries.
On the second floor, above the labour room, families wait on benches, and blankets. Cups of tea pass around. There are no shrieks, no moans here. Only faint sounds of occasional steps come from inside the Operation Theatre.
Fahmeeda Akhtar, 47, waits with a soft mink blanket on her lap. Her daughter is inside too, but under the knife undergoing a caesarean. “Vani gaeses bahaar haavun aemis shur sund (Now God should show her the blossoms of this child),” Fahmeeda says, her hands buried under the tiny mink blanket. Her son- in- law has gone out to buy a baby feeder and other things they would need in the post operative ward.
There is no waiting room for attendants to wait for their patients. It looks like a hostel corridor, young boys striking up old chats.
Outside the post-operative ward, Mohammad Shafi Dar, 29, removes his ankle-high fur shoes. He wears no socks. The skin of his toes is dead and white, and his feet smell. The woman sitting next to him pouts her lips and slides a couple of feet away. “I have removed my shoes after three days. My wife had some complicacy and I have not had a wink of sleep for the last four nights,” says Dar. Dar lives in Pulwama where government doctors denied treating her wife and he had to come here in the middle of the night three days ago. “They (government doctors) have started a nursing home near the hospital and they asked us to come there and pay 18000 rupees. They said they cannot do anything if we did not come to the nursing home.” Dar became father to a son this evening. Under creases of weariness and oil, his brown face lights up with the mention of his son. “Only women have the patience to undergo the childbirth. But, we have our own responsibilities and they are also painful too. I cannot share my wife’s pain, or I would have already done,” says Dar.
The bathrooms are stained and messy, and water trickles from the tap. The ceramic is yellowed and rusted: it should have been white once. Someone forgot to flush the commode.
Inside the wards, the lights are dimmed, and patients sleep on the beds- two on a bed. On some beds, husbands sleep with wives.
The floor is packed with the attendants, some sleeping with their lips agape, some hidden under the blankets looking like a sac, some snoring loudly and other irked by the grumbled noise. It is midnight and the warm corridors, by now, are covered with bodies of slumping old fathers, frail younger sisters, ageing mothers and anxious husbands- all sleeping on each other. It is warm, quiet and cozy.
The staircase back to the labour room is like an elevator to war zone- women holding their bellies up with both their hands, walking slowly, as if walking on water. A male nursing orderly carries around a pregnant woman in a wheel chair, her head thrust back, her teeth biting on her lower lip in pain, her hair open with slight traces of an old knot.
Two male orderlies walk in and out of the labour room, carrying in drugs, injections and other supplies. Mohammad Yousuf, 37, a male nursing orderly has been working in the labour room for five years. He doesn’t tell his friends that he works here- only his immediate family knows. “What should I tell I tell my friends that I work in labour room all day? They will make fun of me,” says Yousuf. Yousuf remembers the time when he first came to the labour room and he would carry the moans and agony with him to his home and his life outside. “Back then it was different but now I have seen so much. The moment I leave this room, I forget everything. I don’t even hear the shrieks anymore here. I have become used to it,” Yousuf says. “If I remember it, then, I won’t be able to do anything. If a woman remembers it, she will never give birth again.”
A young girl rushes out of the corridor, crying for her father. Inside, life is conceived of an agonizing ordeal. “Papa, sister gave birth to a boy,” she cries.
In the side corridor, Saleema Jan is still sitting, now on a blanket, chatting with two other mothers. They talk of old times, of village nurses and of their own pain, but with smiles. All of them are all grandmothers now.
--------ENDS-----
Friday, April 10, 2009
Better stones than bull
COUNTERPOINT
Better stones than bull
Hilal Ahmad reacts to We the primitive (Write Hand) by Ajaz ul Haque
For quite some time now, I have noticed Ajaz ul Haque’s writing on stone pelting, and several other contentious issues concerning Kashmiri society, suffused with a sort of mawkish sentimentality. Typical of that behaviour is that you often sweep a whole world of ideas and arguments, sometimes bizarre and irrational, but mostly unrelated to the issue in debate, to make a point. His first column was titled, in a Swiftseque manner, as “Stone Age… All Jammu Kashmir Stone Pelters Association.” Its plebeian play on words, however, brought a smile on my gloomy face. Though he advocates no further debate on the issue, funnily, he had a second take on stone pelting in his latest column We talk stones as world scales new highs! We talk stones because our world has been reduced to stones. I reckon 80000 or more gravestones are a lot of stones when you count them one by one in all the graveyards scattered across the state, in the marshes of Wullar and rocky mountains of Doda? And which world has scaled heights? The world that reduces to rubble in a few years an ancient civilization in Iraq on a flimsy suspicion, and leaves half a million dead, innocent children among them? These heights are too subjective for a ‘queer’ issue of throwing stones in downtown Srinagar, or rustic landscape of Bomai. These heights are better are left to those who have scaled them.
But I would heed to the advice he dispensed in the crispy staccato sentences of the Write Hand. He says we should not debate stone pelting at all, for even the discussion on the subject seems medieval and absurd. According to him throwing stones means destruction. And only the insane are insane enough to summon destruction upon themselves willfully. Stop. I would agree and let history decide if it was to fair for a people to throw stones at someone they believed had snatched their rights. The star intellectual of the Left, Tariq Ali, once famously remarked `if you have an ugly oppression, don’t expect a beautiful resistance’. Ali was, perhaps, talking about equivalence, not proportionality. Otherwise, the proportion with which you deal with a very sly and ugly usurpation would bring out `baddest’, maddest, and ugliest resistance from a completely dispossessed and enervated nation. And that would be its justification.
However, I don’t want to touch the religious or ‘common sensical’ aspects of the act of hurling a stone at a trooper who doesn’t allow you more ‘civilized’ form of resistance, that is, a demonstration. But I want to take issues with reasoning arrived at by Haque to pulverize stone throwing, stone throwers, supporters of stone throwing, and the imagined goblins-- the guides of stone throwers.
Haque brings in the subject of medieval thinkers. History tells us medieval thinkers were brought up, educated, and later nourished by the kings and commons for the sole purpose of discussing practical as well as abstract matters, the lawfulness of donkey flesh for example. It was probably because practical endeavors were left to practical men in a society highly stratified. A British character in a very popular movie tells his soldier friend that a British soldier wouldn’t die for the queen in the sweltering plains of India if he were to think on worthiness of the queen’s, and his own, life. Also, the medieval thinkers would not worry their ‘lazy and unfruitful minds’ about the war tactics of the crusaders who according to some intellectuals of those times comprised the entire brigandage of Europe assembled by the Pope. In return, the ordinary crusaders wouldn’t mind “open ended” hair splitting debates of the scholastic thinkers, if they were aware of such debates in the first place. The thinkers and the crusaders were unanimous about the need for confronting their Islamic enemies. For thinkers it was none of their goddamn business to discuss whether it was civilized or savage, biblical or heathenish, for besieged crusaders to hurl thousand pound rocks or barrels of scalding fuel on the soldiers of Salahuddin’s. It was the natural thing to do.
Growth of societies is an evolutionary process. Free societies now discuss whether they should elect a lesbian to rule a nation or not. Colonial societies, like Kashmir, on the other hand discuss whether they should throw stones at their tormentors or not. People aware of their colonial stranglehold wouldn’t have discussed it, had not the policemen and enlightened men thrust this discussion upon them. Thus it seems natural in the present scheme of things that some boys throw stones. If they use Kalashnikovs, they are branded as terrorists. You see people are never short of labels. Savage is one more term in this enlightened vocabulary. Although I believe savages would take great offense at the mention of this word, as they have tasted the encounter with the civilized world, which ravaged their lands with a gun in one hand and the bible in the other. Once free, and later ‘scaling a few heights’ the Lassas and Gullas of Nowhatta might in future discuss some delicate issues, like if it was fair---in ethical, moral, ideal, or intellectual sense---for some people to moonwalk as journalists while serving the government institutions.
Often it happens that when you run out of arguments, you turn to personalities. Shall one be branded as a police collaborator if his/her ideas on stone throwing perfectly gel with those of the city police chief who presided over shooting of dozens of boys in Srinagar last summer, while his counterpart in Jammu didn’t touch even those who waved communal flags from army trucks and set ablaze Kashmiri drivers? I would say, never. Similarly, when some people are arguing in favor of stone throwing how come they become the invisible monsters who, according to Haque, are “inciting ignorant” boys and keeping them in a state of darkness. Please refer to your own sermon in last Sunday’s column on how a newspaper is sanctified space for a healthy debate. If someone from London wants to refute the pronouncement of a cleric, why should he be invited to Kashmir for throwing stones to prove his sincerity?
It is again being highly presumptuous to label the stone throwing boys as a monolithic bunch of ignorant, illiterate, and uneducated creatures. I first threw stones at police when I was a 13 year old schoolboy. Though my reading those days was limited to a few borrowed Enid Blyton volumes, I was nevertheless preparing for a serious education. And I knew why I was throwing stones. My friends who have “scaled heights” in different fields in different parts of the world tried this “savagery” quite often in their lives before leaving this land. They don’t regret it. They merely think another generation is doing what it deems right. And these stone throwing boys would age like me, like my friends, and do whatever they are destined to do, except, perhaps, becoming pen pushers like me.
Further, if you read the statements of the police, they seem “concerned” that a sizable number of these boys were college going students who had parked their bikes on roadsides and then indulged in Kani Jang. When a 10-year old girl was raped by a soldier in Badarpayeen, Handwara some years back, Kashmir University students threw stones when they were not allowed to march peacefully beyond the gates of the University. Perhaps, they thought it natural to do so then, rather than writing an article in a newspaper with book-addled brains.
According to Haque’s interesting logic, the arguments of people who favor stone pelting might carry weight if they actually do what they preach. Means, thankfully, there is some scope for the “savages” to enter the world of the civilized. But if we look hard enough in the real world, rather than from the prism of half-learned, intellectual twaddle, we might actually find quite a number of people who have taught by example. Sheikh Aziz was shot near Chahal simply for requesting police and the CRPF troopers to allow the peaceful marchers to proceed ahead. I, and several other journalists who sometimes venture out of closets, were witness to the incident. Shakeel Bakshi was beaten blue for leading peaceful demonstrations. Nayeem Ahmad Khan was beaten in custody for the similar reasons. Geelani, emaciated by surgeries, led the demonstrations, urging the boys to maintain “Islamic decorum.” Masarat Alam, also a stone thrower in his youth and educated in the finest school of the Valley, has been jailed for as many times under the draconinan PSA as the number of articles-sans-substance written against stone throwing. What about Jalil Andrabi who tried to seek justice for his fellow people in the judiciary of those very people who pumped several bullets in his handsome body, and then dumped him in a dirty marsh? Look hard. You won’t have to ‘scale highs’ to find people who taught by example, and still are. Besides, it is a proposition fraught with danger of embarrassment. If Shakeel Bakshi does throw stones now, would Haque follow the suit?
Better stones than bull
Hilal Ahmad reacts to We the primitive (Write Hand) by Ajaz ul Haque
For quite some time now, I have noticed Ajaz ul Haque’s writing on stone pelting, and several other contentious issues concerning Kashmiri society, suffused with a sort of mawkish sentimentality. Typical of that behaviour is that you often sweep a whole world of ideas and arguments, sometimes bizarre and irrational, but mostly unrelated to the issue in debate, to make a point. His first column was titled, in a Swiftseque manner, as “Stone Age… All Jammu Kashmir Stone Pelters Association.” Its plebeian play on words, however, brought a smile on my gloomy face. Though he advocates no further debate on the issue, funnily, he had a second take on stone pelting in his latest column We talk stones as world scales new highs! We talk stones because our world has been reduced to stones. I reckon 80000 or more gravestones are a lot of stones when you count them one by one in all the graveyards scattered across the state, in the marshes of Wullar and rocky mountains of Doda? And which world has scaled heights? The world that reduces to rubble in a few years an ancient civilization in Iraq on a flimsy suspicion, and leaves half a million dead, innocent children among them? These heights are too subjective for a ‘queer’ issue of throwing stones in downtown Srinagar, or rustic landscape of Bomai. These heights are better are left to those who have scaled them.
But I would heed to the advice he dispensed in the crispy staccato sentences of the Write Hand. He says we should not debate stone pelting at all, for even the discussion on the subject seems medieval and absurd. According to him throwing stones means destruction. And only the insane are insane enough to summon destruction upon themselves willfully. Stop. I would agree and let history decide if it was to fair for a people to throw stones at someone they believed had snatched their rights. The star intellectual of the Left, Tariq Ali, once famously remarked `if you have an ugly oppression, don’t expect a beautiful resistance’. Ali was, perhaps, talking about equivalence, not proportionality. Otherwise, the proportion with which you deal with a very sly and ugly usurpation would bring out `baddest’, maddest, and ugliest resistance from a completely dispossessed and enervated nation. And that would be its justification.
However, I don’t want to touch the religious or ‘common sensical’ aspects of the act of hurling a stone at a trooper who doesn’t allow you more ‘civilized’ form of resistance, that is, a demonstration. But I want to take issues with reasoning arrived at by Haque to pulverize stone throwing, stone throwers, supporters of stone throwing, and the imagined goblins-- the guides of stone throwers.
Haque brings in the subject of medieval thinkers. History tells us medieval thinkers were brought up, educated, and later nourished by the kings and commons for the sole purpose of discussing practical as well as abstract matters, the lawfulness of donkey flesh for example. It was probably because practical endeavors were left to practical men in a society highly stratified. A British character in a very popular movie tells his soldier friend that a British soldier wouldn’t die for the queen in the sweltering plains of India if he were to think on worthiness of the queen’s, and his own, life. Also, the medieval thinkers would not worry their ‘lazy and unfruitful minds’ about the war tactics of the crusaders who according to some intellectuals of those times comprised the entire brigandage of Europe assembled by the Pope. In return, the ordinary crusaders wouldn’t mind “open ended” hair splitting debates of the scholastic thinkers, if they were aware of such debates in the first place. The thinkers and the crusaders were unanimous about the need for confronting their Islamic enemies. For thinkers it was none of their goddamn business to discuss whether it was civilized or savage, biblical or heathenish, for besieged crusaders to hurl thousand pound rocks or barrels of scalding fuel on the soldiers of Salahuddin’s. It was the natural thing to do.
Growth of societies is an evolutionary process. Free societies now discuss whether they should elect a lesbian to rule a nation or not. Colonial societies, like Kashmir, on the other hand discuss whether they should throw stones at their tormentors or not. People aware of their colonial stranglehold wouldn’t have discussed it, had not the policemen and enlightened men thrust this discussion upon them. Thus it seems natural in the present scheme of things that some boys throw stones. If they use Kalashnikovs, they are branded as terrorists. You see people are never short of labels. Savage is one more term in this enlightened vocabulary. Although I believe savages would take great offense at the mention of this word, as they have tasted the encounter with the civilized world, which ravaged their lands with a gun in one hand and the bible in the other. Once free, and later ‘scaling a few heights’ the Lassas and Gullas of Nowhatta might in future discuss some delicate issues, like if it was fair---in ethical, moral, ideal, or intellectual sense---for some people to moonwalk as journalists while serving the government institutions.
Often it happens that when you run out of arguments, you turn to personalities. Shall one be branded as a police collaborator if his/her ideas on stone throwing perfectly gel with those of the city police chief who presided over shooting of dozens of boys in Srinagar last summer, while his counterpart in Jammu didn’t touch even those who waved communal flags from army trucks and set ablaze Kashmiri drivers? I would say, never. Similarly, when some people are arguing in favor of stone throwing how come they become the invisible monsters who, according to Haque, are “inciting ignorant” boys and keeping them in a state of darkness. Please refer to your own sermon in last Sunday’s column on how a newspaper is sanctified space for a healthy debate. If someone from London wants to refute the pronouncement of a cleric, why should he be invited to Kashmir for throwing stones to prove his sincerity?
It is again being highly presumptuous to label the stone throwing boys as a monolithic bunch of ignorant, illiterate, and uneducated creatures. I first threw stones at police when I was a 13 year old schoolboy. Though my reading those days was limited to a few borrowed Enid Blyton volumes, I was nevertheless preparing for a serious education. And I knew why I was throwing stones. My friends who have “scaled heights” in different fields in different parts of the world tried this “savagery” quite often in their lives before leaving this land. They don’t regret it. They merely think another generation is doing what it deems right. And these stone throwing boys would age like me, like my friends, and do whatever they are destined to do, except, perhaps, becoming pen pushers like me.
Further, if you read the statements of the police, they seem “concerned” that a sizable number of these boys were college going students who had parked their bikes on roadsides and then indulged in Kani Jang. When a 10-year old girl was raped by a soldier in Badarpayeen, Handwara some years back, Kashmir University students threw stones when they were not allowed to march peacefully beyond the gates of the University. Perhaps, they thought it natural to do so then, rather than writing an article in a newspaper with book-addled brains.
According to Haque’s interesting logic, the arguments of people who favor stone pelting might carry weight if they actually do what they preach. Means, thankfully, there is some scope for the “savages” to enter the world of the civilized. But if we look hard enough in the real world, rather than from the prism of half-learned, intellectual twaddle, we might actually find quite a number of people who have taught by example. Sheikh Aziz was shot near Chahal simply for requesting police and the CRPF troopers to allow the peaceful marchers to proceed ahead. I, and several other journalists who sometimes venture out of closets, were witness to the incident. Shakeel Bakshi was beaten blue for leading peaceful demonstrations. Nayeem Ahmad Khan was beaten in custody for the similar reasons. Geelani, emaciated by surgeries, led the demonstrations, urging the boys to maintain “Islamic decorum.” Masarat Alam, also a stone thrower in his youth and educated in the finest school of the Valley, has been jailed for as many times under the draconinan PSA as the number of articles-sans-substance written against stone throwing. What about Jalil Andrabi who tried to seek justice for his fellow people in the judiciary of those very people who pumped several bullets in his handsome body, and then dumped him in a dirty marsh? Look hard. You won’t have to ‘scale highs’ to find people who taught by example, and still are. Besides, it is a proposition fraught with danger of embarrassment. If Shakeel Bakshi does throw stones now, would Haque follow the suit?
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