A candle beyond the wind

I lit a candle on the evening of 29th December 2012 in solidarity with the multitude that was paying its homage to a brave girl. I did it on the balcony of my home since I could not join the peaceful protestors at any of the venues. Amazing how a non-descript girl from somewhere in the back of beyond had galvanised the entire nation with her bravery — not only when she fought with her tormentors in the bus, but also as she fought the long arm of death in the hospital. John Donne would have been proud to have her name associated with his poem ‘Death be not proud’. But she has no name — because she represented all women, all our sisters/ mothers/daughters who are treated like dirt or spat upon or tortured because of their frailty.

Under attack from ‘conscientious objectors’ on an unprecedented scale, politicians have retreated and are licking their wounds in silence, except crying a few crocodile tears. Give it a few days, they are telling themselves, and this ‘movement’ too will pass.

They are smiling, secure behind the safety of their security cover. Some of them, spared from lobbying for power because of their ‘gifted’ position, are shamelessly lobbing dud grenades at ‘dented and painted’ women. Shame on them! What about the infamous khap panchayats who run a parallel administration and whose illegal diktats give the seal of authority to rapists and murderers in the name of ‘tradition’? They too are waiting in their citadels and readying to unleash even greater ‘vengeance’ on the liberated youth who (like the Arabs a couple of years back) dare to dream of an Indian Spring.

The movement may appear to be leaderless, but it is not rudderless. It is focussed on giving half of our population (well, slightly less than half considering the skewed male: female ratio) their due. The politicians may dismiss this phenomenon as a middle class hiccup at their peril. The minimum that all parties should do, in order to reclaim a semblance of their credibility, is to promptly get rid of their MPs/MLAs accused of rape. Unless the powers-that-be realise that procrastination not only in our courts but also in their actions is no longer a viable ‘policy’, the Indian Spring may metamorphose into the Indian Monsoon to wash away the accumulated silt in our public life.

The candle I lit this evening cannot be extinguished by the wind, for the wind is blowing in a different, more favourable direction. It is lighting up more and more candles instead as it blows through the doors and windows of young minds. Candles that pay salute to a braveheart; candles that sow seeds of enlightenment among ignorant and indifferent men; and candles that can burn down our house if fanned by hatred and bestiality. This New Year for me there will be no fireworks or exchange of greetings with friends — only a candle in her solemn memory to remind me of what we are and what we can achieve with fiery resolve.

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