Studying in India has its clichés. Of course my parents were adamant about sending my sister and me to a good English medium school and getting arguably the best education possible. And so I was bundled off to a liberal Catholic school and my first tongue was English. We had nativity plays in December and a huge church (one of those with the tall towers and beautiful stained glass windows) in the vicinity. I changed schools at the age of five and the next one was even more British than the previous. The colonial baggage looms large on all of us here. In our personal and political lives. I cannot complain though, knowledge of English remains an empowering tool here and when I recall those days, all those years back when all of us sat in front of the television watching English news channels and cartoons, soaking in the accent and fluency, there’s a sense of nostalgia and fond humour.
I recall a specific incident when I was the age of five or six. My mother had a daily ritual of praying to the Hindu gods at dusk, complete with incense sticks, bells and hymns. She made it a point that both my sister and I were present at these sessions and contributed to it diligently. One day, I prayed to the Gods in the afternoon. I cannot remember why, I was probably wishing for something in all earnestness. Children tend to do that. Believe that God is listening and all our prayers will be granted as soon as possible. That day, after praying, I made a cross on my chest. The way my Christian school taught me to. My mother was standing behind me and she saw me do that. She called my father and both of them were behind me when I turned around. They were smiling. They asked me why I made the cross after praying. I said I did not know, I just saw everyone do it in school. Mother looked at me and asked me gently that she did not; didn’t I watch her while praying in the evening? I remember being very confused at that time. I remember looking at both of them and asking the difference- what did the cross do, or not do differently. I even told them I will not do it again if it was a problem. But they laughed. My parents laughed loudly at my childish innocence and hugged me tight. I remember their wide smiles as they held me very close to them and said quietly that it did not matter. I could do it anyway I wanted it as long as I was being honest to the one above.
Today, I cannot say with full confidence that there is any one above. I cannot even remember the last time I prayed with an intention to pray. The last time I bowed my head and joined hands was to observe two minute silences for the departed souls in the Kashmir floods and more recently the massacre in the school in Pakistan. I cannot help but hold on to this incident from my childhood in these times of great unrest. From the Charlie Hebdo case in France to North Carolina and Copenhagen most recently, today there is a threat to the freedom of speech, the freedom to worship- the freedom to be different really.Aren’t all these fundamental rights guaranteed to every human? I wish we could extend the freedom we wish for ourselves, to others. There are so many views today, so many normatives for everything- from religion to race to sexuality. We are so caught up in our presentation of our version of the right, sometimes we forget to listen to the other sounds. Multiplicity is perceived as a threat. Is it because we are not secure with our own belief systems? Or is it simply a case of human tendency to establish authority over another? I refuse to call these acts irrational and let them go. Of course not. There are people following a certain rationale, having a sense of righteous belief that these acts are warranted and justified and willing to lay their lives for these beliefs. But what I wonder the most is how do they sleep at night?
Sparks in Vacuum 