Spectrum

It was a retired police constable, in a train journey, who had cornered me in a gruelling debate. He had utter disrespect for the Journalist clans. He accused me and the likes of me. Of being biased, of having hunger for only false and sensational news. He brought to debate life examples- how the highest selling newspaper covers story about a techy falling to death from her posh apartment while ‘deliberately’ neglecting a poor women crushed by truck… burnt by her husband or killed by her paramour. “You sell news only to elite. Do you really have social responsibility?”

I very much knew about the “rotten tooth” he was talking about, yet could not agree with him- my professional affinity blocked my convictions and argued with him blindly.

“Kid I have seen many journalists in my life. They come to stations peck news that only sells and not those which are important,” he said. He was firing bullets and I was his ‘bull’s eye’

“Ears of journalists would erect to full attention the moment we say that few bar girls were arrested in the city… and the same ears would turn dead when we say five gamblers were arrested. ‘Sex’- is that such a big factor in selling newspaper?” his questions were becoming more harsh and provoking.

I could have ripped off his dignity, for I knew in and out of the police department. How it works, when it works and why it works! I could have put him to utter humiliation by showing him the Lokayuktha report on the number of police officials who were on the wrong side of their duty. Most of them accused of ‘CRIMES’ beyond acceptance. But I kept quiet, unaltered by his venomous words.

Seeing me un-reactive for minutes, he handed me a four page photocopy of a suicide note and a FIR attached along with it.

The summary of FIR: Victim, a widow, aged about 17 was found dead, with eighty per-cent deep burns, under mysterious circumstance. The prime facie evidence says that the victim set herself ablaze after soothing her four-month-old (female) infant to death. A case of unnatural death has been registered at the Earrabli taluk police station in Chitradurga. A suicide note was found in the house- alleging her brother-in-law and her in-laws as the reason for her death.

I turned to the suicide note. Written in Kannada with lot of grammatical and spelling mistakes was powerful enough to quake my heart.

“The Almighty will not forgive me for what I have done to my baby and what I am going to do now. For only HE has every right to give and take life and not me, but leaving my child in this world and in the hands of those inhuman people mean my child would suffer,” was how the suicide note started. I saw the date on the FIR, it stated 1997 December.

I looked at the police constable; his hands were trying to hide the tears from running down the cheeks. “Read the entire story. The villain is a Journalist,” he said. I requested him to sit next to me as I found it difficult to understand her writing.


“What had I done to the almighty, for He made me so weak and submissive? From the day of my birth he has been testing me, hurting me and failing me in all my attempts,” the police man read to me from the note.

“Victim’s father abandoned mother and four of her sisters after her birth. And at age of three her mother died of illness. The eldest sister looked after her for 10 years and then she started to earn her bread by working as maid,” the police official gave me this additional information, which was not inscribed in the suicide note.

Skipping the next three paragraphs, which the cop said was not that important, he started reading “I was not ready for marriage at the age of 15, but did I have a choice? NO. My wedding was just like a cattle trade, the groom whose demands were least got my hand. He was 13 years elder to me.

“My husband was a gentleman. On our ‘first night’ he promised me that he would keep me happy till end. He did not even touch me on that night saying ‘you are not yet ready for this’. He kept his promise at-least for some days.

“His affection and love changed me, the pressure from in-laws made me to surrender physically to him … not once but many. Our first baby boy was born still/dead on the very same day of our first wedding anniversary. He stood by me, protested against his parents for putting unwanted pressure on me,” the cop continued reading the suicide note.

“But, as it has been all through my life, happiness did not stay with me for more than one and half years. Five days after I gave him the good news of conceiving again, his death news was brought to me. Some-one had killed him. His body was found on the railway track near city (Chitradurga).

“My in-laws said the money lenders killed him as my husband could not repay them. While the police, who came to my doors twice, said he died in an accident. Truth never reached me.”


Looking into my eyes directly the police man said, “It was a murder.” He did not give any further description as who did it.

He turned to the third page, “I knew what death is and how to live with-out loved ones. More than my life I was worrying about the gift he had left in my womb. ”

“My in-laws distanced themselves from me saying that it was my unborn child, which is responsible for my husband’s untimely death.”


“My husband’s last gift to me was a baby girl. Healthy and beautiful she was,” tears were uncontrollable in the cops eyes. Handing over the papers in walked away rubbing his cheeks.’’

“Fifteen days after my child’s birth the money lender along with three of his men came asking for repaying the money my husband had taken from them. Rupees Five lakh was what they demanded. I never knew what my husband had done with that money? Where is that now?”


“Like a Faristha, sent by the Almighty himself, my brother-in-law came to my rescue. He had a verbal duel with the money lender. After 20 minutes of fight, with grudge in their heart and lips money lenders left us,” the next two lines of the note was distorted by drop of water, assuming it be tears, had spread the ink in original copy. The photocopy made it even hard to read.

“From that day on wards, his (brother in-law) arrival to my house became regular. He said, he has filed a murder case against the money lender and will fight them tooth to tooth. ‘I have good contacts with the police and politicians, so sister-in-law don’t worry, victory would be ours’ was the words he always said to me.”


“He played with my child and gave me money for the daily and child’s need every time he came home.”

“One night, he came to my house at around 10 in night and said ‘to fight the case I need some money’. He started searching my house, but did not get even a single paisa. His eyes had tears. A feel that if money is not arranged we would lose the case, was in him. Like a sister I went near him to console.”


“But what happened next, I can’t explain. Shame engulfs me.”

“He did not come to my house for two days after the shameful night. A man of money lender came to my house on the third morning and said that I need not pay anything to his boss and ordered me to take the case back.

“Neither did I know how to react to him nor the person to contact next. That evening brother –in -law came home with a box of sweets, flowers and fruits. He explained me how they are going to win the court case and our lawyer had forced the money lender to pay compensation to me.

“No matter how much I tried to distance myself from him, so much near did he come. While his right hand forced my mouth shut… his other hand undressed me. My own dress became a tool for him to mute my cry. The wounds carved by his nails and tooth were so deep that even weaning my child was next to impossible.

“My in-laws took no action against him, and instead blamed me of making false accusation on ‘God’ like man. ‘You have an illicit relationship with someone and putting that blame on our son’ was how they outcaste me.”

“Even last night he came home… raped me… threatened to kill my daughter and put that blame on me if I made an issue.

“Blood came in my nipples while weaning my child. That’s when I decided that living such a life is a sin and burning myself is the only way of washing away my sins,” was how she ended the note.

I tried to avoid eye contacting with the police official; else he would notice the tears in my eyes.


“Apart from the FIR, no progress has been made. The case was shut saying it was suicide because of financial problem and she could not bear her husband’s death,” said the cop. Even the original copy of this suicide note is destroyed he added.

***

PS: 1.) The names of the characters have been intentionally hidden. We tend to read religion by the mere mention of name.

2.) Brother- in- law was just a stringer with a Kannada newspaper.

O Thou, Lord of Lords- Cupid

Sing to me all the "Romantic" poems,

Words describing- beauty, love and lust

Teach me those specific words Adam uttered

While proposing Eve. Did he go on his Knee?

Make me listen to what Romeo and Juliet

Carelessly whispered into each-other

Walk me trough the tombs at Taj

Narrate how Love do not die with death!

Salim- Anarkali... Laila- Majnu

Dushantha- Sakunthala...Heer- Ranjha...

Devdas

Were not all of them 'injured' by your arrow?

Please... Please O lord

Make sure that

I DON'T DO THE SAME
BLOODY MISTAKE!!! Again.

Slowly but silently hundreds of farmers are ending their lives in the State, yet government is in a denial mood.

According to information availed under the Rights to information act from the State Crime Records Bureau, a wing of central Home Ministry providing data to National Crime Record Bureau, 2585 farmers have committed suicide in 2010 alone where as the figures provided by the department of law and order (Home Minister) says that 126 farmers ended their life in that year.

The state Law and Order department, in its reply to a RTI application said that 835 farmers have committed suicide from 2006 to 2010, where as the State crimes record bureau said 10,459 farmers killed themselves during the same period.

State Agriculture minister, Umesh Katti seems to be unaware of the grim situation facing farmers as 408 farmers committed suicide in his own district in-charge - Belgaum in 2010.

Belgaum, which is known as the sugar bowl of Karnataka, ranked first with 408 farmers suicides, which is the worst in any district in Karnataka in the last decade, followed by Chitradurga (319) and Chikmagalur (261). This number is stunning as the district had not shown such a poor record in the previous years. The border dispute district had recorded 22 farmers’ suicide cases in 2009, 16 in 2008 and 17 deaths in 2007.

Year	State government’s record (Law and order- Home Minister )	National/State Crime Record Bureau
2006	53	1720
2007	254	2135
2008	238	1737
2009	164	2282
2010	126	2585
2011	27 (Till March 31, 2011)	Not available

Of-course the state government figures showed that only 9 farmers died in 2010.

Experts and farmer leaders said that total dependency on sugarcane industry and failure of dry crops were the reasons for such a high rate of deaths in the region.

“Belgaum farmers are totally dependent on the sugarcane factories, as they are the only major customers for them. With these factories neglecting or not paying the due amount in time; this has resulted in farmers taking the extreme step of ending their life,” said Kadidala Shamanna, a farmer leader.

Chitradurga is consistently maintaining its sad list record of farmer’s suicide. On an average Chitradurga has been losing 223 farmers per-year in the last decade, with highest being recorded in 2010 (319) and lowest 124 in 2001. The district does not have proper irrigation facility and has been facing severe drought for many years.

Except for Kolar and the newly formed Chickaballapur district, which recorded zero farmers’ suicide case since 2007, other districts have been seeing an increase in the farmer’s untimely deaths.

2010 not the worst

Around 2,224 farmers have committed suicide in Karnataka every year in the last decade. Year 2003 saw the worst figure; as many as 2678 farmers ended their lives, while the year 2000 saw 2630 farmer suicide cases. 2006 saw the least number of farmers (1720) committing suicide.

CM’s unfulfilled oath

B S Yeddyurappa’s who took charge as the Chief Minster with an oath in the name of farmers, has left the agriculture community high and dry. The Chief Minister, who is also the finance minister of the state, has promised many sops to the farming community has failed to arrest the deaths in his own constituency- Shimoga, as it has been recording more than 150 farmers suicide cases since 2008 (the year he took charge as Chief Minister). Last year Shimoga, which ranks fifth in the number farmers deaths, reported 175 cases.

Experts have rubbished the claim of government doing a lot for the farmers. They termed the three per-cent loan to farmers as an eye wash. “We don’t want loan wavier. All we want is scientific rates for our produce. We are ready to pay interest at industrial rates if scientific rates are given,” said Secretory General of Karnataka Rajya Raithasanga and Hasiru Sena, H S Basawarajappa. “The government policies, both state and centre, are crooked and consumer oriented. More than farmers’ governments are interested in investors. ‘’

“There are various reasons for the death of farmers in Karnataka, fertile land acquisition for the industrialization, drought or floods, failure of crops due to various reasons and the burden of loans from Banks and private money lenders all force the farmer to take the extreme step,” said H S Basawarajappa.

The response from the state government acknowledged all the above reasons as existent.

I first saw him at the Freedom Park, Bangalore. It was the day one of Anna Hazare’ fast unto death’ at Jantar Mantar in Delhi to press for his demand for passing of the Lokpal bill by Parliament.

He was a typical college student, may be he was studying for his bachelors degree, a fiery youngster with ambition in his eyes and a desire in his heart to do something for the country.

In a loud voice, he, along with his friends, was shouting slogans in support of Anna’s anti- corruption movement —Anna tum aage bado hum tumare sath hai… (Anna we are with you in this fight).The customized T-shit with words ‘corruption is the cancer of society’ added more meaning to his revolt.

On day two and three the boy came back again to the freedom park that had by now transformed into a hub for the supporters of Anna’s movement. People from all over Bangalore were pouring in and atmosphere was charged.

This time he and his friends were filled with more enthusiasm than on first day.

They were proudly adorning white T-shirts which had imprints ‘I am Anna’ with a caricature of the ‘second Gandhi’ on the back. They sat with the group and raised the slogans against the corrupt politicians. He had bunked his classes for the cause.

On the fourth day of the protest, in a hurry to take part in the movement, the boy along with his two friends rode on a single Honda Activa and that too without a helmet on. And as expected of the Bangalore traffic police, they where stopped by the cops and asked to pay fine.

Triple riding and riding without helmet is a punishable offence in our state and our hero was guilty of both. But what transpired next was both shocking and disappointing for instead of paying a fine for his mistake, he paid Rs 50 bribe to the cop after a long… long bargain.

By evening the news had spread that Anna won the battle and was to break his fast the next day. The three inspired youngsters dutifully turned up for celebrations at the Park. Next day when sweets were distributed to all, our young crusader swallowed them and raised his voice to say “Anna tum aage bado hum tumare sath hai…”

I am still thinking for a better headline for the story published last week in my Newspaper. ‘Born human, died as divine’ was an ‘ok’ kind of headline, but it did not completely satisfy me. I wanted something better… something that could explain the story completely. The story deserved a better headline.

It all started when I met this man called Suresh, a teacher at the Government School for specially-abled children at Banashankari, Bangalore. I was there to cover Chief Minister Inaugurating a cultural event. It was raining heavily and needless to say that the CM gave a slip to the event and I had ‘nothing’ to write!

Standing in the corridor I was watching the dying rain. The school front yard had almost one feet high water. The Sun was struggling to make his way out of those Orange colored clouds- a small rainbow, not in seven colors, bowed towards earth.

“I had inhaled the fragrance of soil during a rainy day earlier…. But never had I seen a rainbow like this,” said a man standing next to me. (To be frank that rainbow was not that great). Smile- was my expression to him. “Was rain always like this, sir?” was his next question to me.

“I have seen more violent and heavy rains than this,” was my reply. “Which desert are you from?” was my question to him.

The man with all his modesty replied, “I am a Bangalorean. Born and brought up here, sir.”
“Then how come you have not seen rain? “

“I used to hear rain… only now can I see it. I was born blind… now I can see,” he replied.
I wanted to ask sorry. But it wasn’t my mistake that he was blind. So I did not ask.

“Oh, so you were operated recently” I asked him. And he replied “Yes. God gave me both his eyes, sir.”

I smiled at his answer.

”A human turned into God in my life sir, he is more than God… God does blunder but that ‘Human God’ undid that blunder,” he went on explaining knowing that I was not hearing to his atheist talk. Finally he took his valet out and pressed a passport size photo to both his eyes term by term for 3 times. “Sir God. My God—Vinodh,” he exclaimed and showed me the photo.

A youth in his mid twenties-- an innocent face, a visible scar above his right eye, a dark large mole on his nose, mustaches yet to be born. He looked like a recent college pass-out. “He donated all his organs sir,” He said profoundly.

A kind of respect rose in me for Vinodh-- at such a young age he had the great thought of donating organs.

I gave my visiting card to Suresh and took his number. “I wish to do a story on him later,” I told him.

While explaining the story of Vinodh to our health reporter, she told me that- the person who is receiving the organs and the person who is donating the organs can not know each other unless and until money transaction has taken place. There is every chance of him (Suresh) purchasing the organs, she explained.

She had a point- Zonal Coordination Committee of Karnataka for Transplantation (ZCCK) set up by the government to promote cadaver organ transplant, chief told me over the phone that the donor and receiver are not known to each other if it is transmitted legally via the organization. “Only the age and sex of the donor are revealed to receiver, nothing else.”

Before he hung the phone he said- illegal organ transplantation is common in rural side. “For money those buggers do anything.”

Anger sprout in me like a volcano against Suresh. I decided to make a story against him and also drag the doctor who did the operation. I wanted to prove that there are many cases of organ purchasing in the city by the rich, which is against the law.

It was just 9 in the morning, never in my profession life had I woke-up at that ‘early hour’, but that day I was there at the Special school waiting for Suresh. He came along with four blind students- one held his hand and rest like in the train-game chained to the next, each had a white and red stick with a dark Karunanidhi specs on eyes.

Namaste sir, he said very politely, but did not receive any response from me.
Unchained himself from the train he came near me. “How are you sir? So you have decided to do a story on my god? ”he asked.

“Who was the doctor who operated you? How much money did you pay the doctor for that illegal operation?” were my angry questions to him.

He was taken aback- stunned. Stood there like an unmoving object. “What are you talking? Sir, mind your words. Your words are hurting someone,” he said with an anger tone. A tone that I had never heard before. Not even by officials whom I have grilled or ‘interrogated’ while getting information.

“Sir you are undermining a gentleman’s generosity,” he said with tears of anger flooding out. For few minutes both stood silent. I felt as if I jumped the gun.

Explaining him the procedure of Organ donation I asked him, then how come you know the donor and even have his photo.

Sir come let us go to his house, we shall talk to his parents; they will explain you the entire story.
It was a mansion; need less to say a corerpati lived there happily. With God’s grace we kept ourselves out of the sharp teeth of the two foreign bred dogs’, while we entered the house. The servant recognized Suresh and asked us to sit on the couches.

A fat lady, dressed in a simple saree came to us, and asked, “Ha, Suresh beta how are you?”
For next two minutes it was: how do you do, what do you do and where do you do kind of questions between Suresh and that lady. Finally the time came and Suresh introduced me to the lady and said she is Vinodh’s mother. And he introduced me to her as a Journalist, writing an article on her son’s organ donation.

Rap came her answer- why on my son beta. Do on the concept that he believed. “What was that?” I asked her.

“To ask the receiver to donate his organs,” she replied

My expression was—WHAT?

“Yes, its simple- my son donated his four organs when he died, we went to the three receivers and asked them to donate their organs when they are gone. All of them agreed. As a next step we asked them to do the same thing as we did- go and talk to the receivers and ask them to donate. Like this we will have enough organs for the sufferers,” she said. “My son was inspired by his favorite actor Chiranjeevi’s movie- Stalin. ‘Chiru’ in that movie asks three people who he helped to help three more people and keep the chain of this help to continue. ”

The concept struck me hard.

Next I asked her, why her son wanted to donate his organs. She smiled and answered. “He loved his father very much. At no point of time he was ready to lose his father. My husband’s both kidneys had failed and he was surviving on dialysis. We tried hard to get a compatible kidney for him, but could not. Every time we went to the Doctor, he told us that if had we a suitable kidney we would have saved your father.”

“With a disappointed heart he used to come home and cry. Three days before he died, he came to me and said, Ma when I die donate all the organs to needy and ask them to donate and let this cycle continue, then there will be no shortage of organs and people like my father may never die like this.”

Were there tears in her eyes? Difficult to say as her voice was stable and the flow of her narration was un-stammered. It was only the edge of her saree that went to her eyes occasionally that made me feel that she was in pain.

I did not want to ask her how her son died, but without that the story would be incomplete. “How did he die? I asked her with a soft voice.

“We have a construction office. While he was at a construction site of a building he slipped and fell on the bricks from fourth floor, he was rushed to the hospital but the blood loss was too much and we could not save him. He was declared brain dead.” (A brain dead patient can donate most of his organs like - heart, kidneys, liver, pancreas, lungs and all tissues.)

“Look at the irony of life; we saved his father but at the cost of Vinodh’s death!” then we decided that his LAST DESIRE should come true. We donated his eyes to Suresh, a teacher for specially able children and asked him to spread the message of benefits of organ donation. Similarly we have given his bone marrow to a woman, heart to an aged man. His corpse was given to RV Medical College for study purpose.

Even today I feel that my son is still alive, with us in every step.

She had no tears in her eyes now. Her voice was upbeat and proud… I, who was called materialistic hearted guy by friends’, had moist eyes.

Not even in my dreams had I imagined myself sitting next to a sex worker watching her adjust dress, smell her loud, cheap perfume and listen to a female tongue that spits countless filthy words in Kannada (translation of those words which, I doubt anyone has ever dared to do.)

It was in the wee hours of a cool and rainy Saturday at Bangalore’s bus stand that a prostitute was just at one arm distance.

The First bus to Mangalore from Bangalore was at 5 am. I was rather too early at the Kempe Gowda Bus Stand (2 am) on that Saturday- the 11 of September. The bus stand was unusually empty that day- being a start of a long weekend and Ganesha Charuthi that day, there were hardly 50 to 60 people. Most of them were fast asleep, even without the tension of bus leaving while they were in dream land.

I made myself comfortable on one of the empty benches at the entrance of the Bus stand. The Hubli and Chitradurga bus conductors were shouting at the top of their voices, as if they were forcing even the no goers to board the bus. 7 buses left the station at a time making majestic even more deserted and resembling a haunted place.

A voice called me from behind - “want pleasure”. A woman in her late 20’s and early 30’s dressed in all glittering clothes with heavy make-up stood there. She repeated- “what kind of pleasure you want- Indian, Foreign?” Cold tremors ran in my spine! Without giving a second look at her I ran away. I neglected her call- “child where are you running.”

How dare she ask me! Do I look like a lecher to her, was the thoughts that ran in my mind. It took half-an-hour for me to come back to normal terms from that fear! (Why fear, I don’t know.)

In the mean while, she got a ‘customer’.

(Lets have a small break from the main story; as from my side there was nothing much happening and what was she doing - I cant write here!:)

Small information for you: Every night, three autos wait behind the KSRTC buses that are parked at the entrance of the bus stand.These autos’ wait for special customers’.

It is estimated that more than 50 sex workers are at the bus stand, most of whom work for the sake of food and life and others for the sake of loot and lavishing lifestyle. (Yes, there have been instances where ‘customers’ have been beaten up and are looted of their bounty! And the worst part of it is the police officials know about these incidents and as usual are doing noting. Tell me why would anyone put an axe to the extra income?)

All the above information I came to know from Raju, an auto driver at the bus stand. (Raju is a man about whom one can write a 500 word story, but the problem is he don’t want “publicity”.)

Let us come back to the main story. I was with Raju, who came back after dropping a passenger when she came back.

Adjusting her distorted make-up she walked towards us. Pointing finger at me, she said to Raju “is this child your friend anna.” Raju smiled and said “yes”.

Turning towards me he asked “Do you know Nalini (her real name)? Did you *****? ”

She busted into laughter. “He ran away when I asked him,” she said and left us in search of a new customer. I could see a snigger on the face of Raju, but could not help much from ignoring him. After few minutes he said, “she is a nice girl… situation turned her that way.” I did not respond to him, as the anger of calling me a “child” still ran high.

It was about 3 am when she came to Raju’s auto in which we were sitting. Raju and I were seated in the rear and she took the driver’s seat. I prepared myself to move but Raju held my hand asked to sit. “She won’t do anything to you… I am here.” Both of them had another round of laugh at that joke, which I really did not enjoy much!

''How do you know this child, anna” Nalini asked Raju. He replayed- “Sir, is a journalist- working with Deccan Herald. You know Prajavani … ya the English version of that.” (In my mind I said- thank god my Editor is not here else he would have committed suicide had he heard this “English version of his brother newspaper”.)

She had just one word answer- NO. “I know only police dairy, crime beat, Agni and Hai Bangalore. All of them have carried my photo on front page one or the other time,” she smiled, so did I.

“So you are a Journalist, sir,” she asked with a changed tone. From Child I was a sir now! I nodded. Never before had I felt so proud of being a Journalist as I felt then. Not just her tone there after her behavior, her sitting poster all started to change. The ‘Dupatta’ which was high at the neck slid down covering a small mole, scars made by cigarette stubbing and a good part of her cleavages which were visible because of her deep neck chudi. (Adjusting it she said, that was to attract men. I don’t think I need them now.) Later she added that the scars that were visible near the neck and chest were caused by cigarettes’ (there were some 6-7 such marks which I could notice in that area.)

There was a kind of uncomfortable silence for a while, before I broke it- “since when are you in this business?”

“Bussiness…ha. I am selling my body for past 13 to 14 years…” she answered with a false smile on her face.

“You call this business? We call it livelihood,” she stopped it there itself without explaining further. I felt ashamed of that wrong word- business (but, I did not know a better word). I asked sorry for that and she did not reply it with “its ok”, making me clear of what was in-store for the future discussion.

“Sir tell me one thing, why is that: what we do in darkness is a crime where as those rich girls who do it on the screen (to light action camera) an entertainment? Whose skin have you seen more, people like me or Malaika, Bipasha or those white skinned heroines of Hollywood, who are so eager to shed their clothes as if they are carrying a heavy burden on them? Why is that there’s called as professionals and ours as business?

My answer to that was a smile accepting defeat!

“Most of us working here do not wish to take our cloths off, but if we don’t our family and our own stomach won’t be filled,” she put a period to that conversation. Her question in one or the other way were pinning at my being the educated and learned man --- “when you have so much of knowledge about life then why don’t you work hard in some place ? Why this filthy life?”

“Who will give work to an illiterate, and the knowledge you are talking about is what I learnt from life not from books. A girl, aged 13, when asked to stand naked for Rs.200 by a hospital compounder has left with no future sir. Her life changes for ever after that,” she said. I think I saw a drop of tear in her eyes (though I am not sure as she had turned away from us.)

“What, I said” the loudest sound I had made after meeting her. “Yes,” was the only thing she said.

My journalist senses started striking at a higher speed (a child molestation case by a hospital staff was in-front of me. What more you want than this as a JOURNALIST???).

“Sir, my mother was very ill; the government doctor in Karnool asked my mother to get admitted in Bangalore’s big hospital, so my mother and I came here. The money which we brought for treatment got over within two hours after landing here. The Doctor, at St. John’s hospital, after testing my mother gave her a prescription. The chemist said that the medicine cost Rs150, sir this was in 1993, and we did not have a single rupee in hand. Sitting in a corner I was crying of hunger and not able to arrange for medicine, when an old man-aged around 60-65 came to me asked what the problem was? I narrated him everything, he took me into his arms as if to console. He asked me to come along with him and he will arrange money for medicines. He took me to an isolated room.

Sir he made a great deal – stand naked and I will give you Rs 300, twice what I actually needed then. Tears still rolled out from my eyes. Holding my hands tightly he shouted “make it fast else someone will come, then I will not give you money.” “Sir tell me what should I have done then,” she asked me. “Only two weeks back I had attained puberty.”

He was about to leave when I called him back. “I did what he asked me to do- stood there without a single piece of cloth on me. Shame had engulfed me.

“That budda’s meter was off,” she laughed. “He came to me touched my tiny cleavages, neck portion, waist, pressed hips and put finger in my groin .” I don’t know what pleasure he got (for me it was ticklish). He hugged me twice tried to take my boobs into his mouth, when he heard someone’s footsteps. He pulled five hundred rupee notes and placed it in my groin and ran away.

“I told my mother that I stole that money from someone." Sir, robbery is better than selling body- this truth was taught to me by life. "My Mother slapped me, cried but knew that we had no other option. Doctor asked us to come after 6 weeks and said that if she takes medicines properly there was nothing to worry.

“Sir, if life decides to take one in a direction, you can not do much. The money we had was enough for only one to go home. My mother was in deep sleep after taking medicine.

I begged the conductor to take both of us and I will pay him once we reach home. He did not agree. Without shame I even asked him if he wish to see me naked and allow me to travel home.” The conductor placed a tight slap on my chin and threw me out of bus.

The bus left. I was in this same bus stand crying, when Suresh, my agent or adopted elder brother took me to a slum.

“I knew only one thing I needed money to go home and I knew how I can earn.” I went back to St. John’s hospital in search of that old man- I didn’t know his name or his post. I searched the entire hospital but could not find him.

Suresh told me where to stand to get ‘customer’. “My first customer offered me Rs 250. I said yes as that was enough for me to go home.” He took me to a cheap hotel nearby railway station. Before he could say anything I stood in-front of him naked, thinking that he would just touch me everywhere, try to take my breast into his mouth, press my hip more times and leave me. But, there, he was not alone; along with him there were four more people. And this time they were not in a mood to touch me but to …. (words stopped in her mouth. And this time I could really make-out that she was crying, her voice was low, the dupatta went regularly to eyes to wipe out the tears.)

Sir, like dogs they bite me everywhere, they rubbed me, one went inside me from the front while other from behind. My mouth was stuffed with two men’s genitals while the fifth guy was beating me every where he can lay his hand, making my white skin red.

I was left behind in a bleeding and unconscious condition. Even without paying the promised Rs 250. Police was called by the hotel manager. They took me to government hospital. For four days I could not get up from bed.

I was in the police list now. They had demanded Rs 5000 from Suresh for my release. After great deal of assurance from him and another elder man the police officials let me out (after pocketing Rs 3000) and even the hospital bill due was Rs 750. Sir, I had to pay all of that, and the most shocking news came after two weeks. I missed my first menstrual cycle.

“There are so many girls here who have missed their first cycle.” “Sir, when your wife or sister become mother you and she would celebrate but when I became pregnant everyone around me cried. Suresh took me to a quack and removed it. Even I didn’t know whose child it was!”

It was 3 AM when she started to travel back into her life and when she stopped at this point it was 4.10AM. My bus from Tirupathi came, Raju as usual informed the conductor to reserve a special seat (ya that’s for me).

I kept my bag on the seat and came back to auto. She was still there. Eyes wet, face with a watermark after tears ran on that heavily powdered face. She looked at me and smiled, I returned the same.

She was good looking. Fair skin, well maintained figure, boobs big enough to attract lechers like us and a smile that could have made any men fall prey for her beauty.

“Because of me you might have lost earnings today,” I said. She replayed, “not a problem sir, I can earn that whenever I want, but I may not be able to share thing like this again and again.”

Looking at her Tali, I asked her, you married? Your husband is ok with it? She said, “No I am not. This is for safety. When police raid, I can show them that it is couple and not business.” But it is of no use as most of the police officials who come for raid know me and a few of them have even slept with me in their police jeep, she giggles.

She has visited quack six times to get aborted, and she desires to have a son and didn’t say the reasons as to why she is not having.

I was curious to know how much she earned every month- she told me that she earn anywhere between 15,000 to 25,000 on regular seasons and the amount would cross 40,000 in the month of Ashada, when newly married couples maintain abstinence.

After all deduction – that is mamul to police, her body guard and fancy cloths, makeup and medicine, every month she saves Rs 2000

And how much she charges each men? – It depends on the number of people. For one it’s anywhere between Rs 300 to Rs 500. And more than one you multiply it with Rs 500. My childhood mistake has taught me a lesson sir, so to be on safer side I have gang of people who will follow me everywhere. Now I can satisfy 5 to 6 people easily, without being hospitalized, she laughs.

Finally going into her world- the Kempe Gowda Bus stand, she said, for everyone its Rs 500, but for you tonight its free, “want pleasure” she laughed. This time too I ran, not fearing her but to catch bus.

Sitting in the special seat I recalled, my IIJNM’s batch mate - Jothi Sharma’s documentary about child prostitutes in Bangalore (watch her documentary here), where young girls were raped in men’s toilet, police station and every places possible and forced into the flesh trade. A girl was made to run naked in the whole city by a group of boys.

Imagine: A honeymoon room. Only a 12 volt CFL tube light is lit in a highly decorated lampshade. In a traditional ways the bed is decorated with the petals of roses and jasmines. To the right of the bed all the seasonal fruits are placed in a silver plate. A bunch of lighted Agarbathi’s are placed in a corner, the scent of which has already covered the entire room.

The bride has already entered the room and is briskly walking up and down clutching her hands in anxiety! The door slowly opens, making that irritating but yet “romantic” sound. Groom decorated in all white with a glass of milk in hand and with kilos of shyness in eyes and lips is pushed into the room by the fellow men who accomplished him.

The groom hesitates to walk towards the decorated cot. The Bride with all her pomp nears him. The man bends, touches her feet. Holding the shoulders of the man she straightens him. He takes his Tali that was hung on his broad chest and presses it against his eyes. The lady cups his cleanly shaven face into her palms and kisses. The lights go off and scene is cut!

Scene next Hospital Nine months latter: The lady is on the delivery bed and her man is on the bed next to her. Four nurses are holding his legs and hand. He is having a sever labor pain!

Now stop imagining and come to reality!

The honeymoon setting was one of the scenes from the Telugu Movie “Jamba Lakidi Pamba”(1993). The theme of the film is as crazy as the title is. This out of the box film directed by E.V.V Satyanarayana has two thing to prove, 1. Why the nature has designed and set certain typical characters to men and women and the other most important point, the need for equality of men and women in the society.

At no point of time in this 3 hour 12 mins movie you find any logic (who cares for logic when one cannot hold their stomach from bursting out of laugh. The movie is an out and out comedy) and yet the film enlightens us about one of the most important lessons of every day life- the suffering of women in the hands of their husband, son, in-laws and men in general.

The storyline

Aamani, the heroin of the movie, hates the atrocity and suppression meant on the women by men. A “pink” paper flies from nowhere and crashes on the face of her every time she encounters a man committing a “crime on woman.” The pink page directs Aamani to a cave near Vishakapatanam, a port city in Andra Pradesh, where a sadhvi after years of meditation and experiment has invented a solution—Jamba Lakidi Pamba—that would change the rule of the nature. Men would act as women and vis-a- vis.

The lead lady of the film mixes that Jamba Lakidi Pamba in the water tank and that causes all the changes.

Men are “forced” into the kitchen. Women work in garages and field. If Men are interested in drawing rangoli in their house front yard, women are busy in gambling. All the typical things that men are associated with are done by women, like asking dowry, burning of ‘son-in-law’, Adam teasing, rape … so on so forth. And the most important of all is—during pregnancy—if a woman delivers a child the pain is borne by men!

The film takes a great twist when the Hero (Naresh) and Heroin comes to know that the original solution was adulterated with another solution by the student of that Sadhvi, which meant that the affects of Jamba Lakidi Pamba stays only for one month.

After the first month, the adults would become children and vis-a vis. This condition stays for 1 day. Next change is conversion of body organs- that is men will have all the secret organs of woman and woman will have mustache, for the next one hour. Within that period if the affected people are not given the anti Jamba lakidi Pamba : PambO lakidi JambO, All men would remain as woman forever and vis-à-vis. But this is a film and has to end in a happy note- The hero and heroin fights hard with the villains and correct the ‘mistake’ done by Jamba Lakidi Pamba.

By now most of the feminists’, reading this article, would have desired that the effects of Jamba Lakidi pamba to be permanent on this world. Forgetting that “with every power gained people (Men or women) tend to misuse them rather than putting that to good use. The need of the hour is not interchange of the power but equilibrium of sexes.