Death of Professions or Saga of Subaltern

Death of Professions or Saga of Subaltern

Review_ The Lost Generation- Chronicling India’s Dying Professions by Nidhi Dugar Kundalia

India currently is proud of its demographic dividend and is keen on leveraging of this. Hence an estimated 550 million people need to be trained in skills, so that they can get employed thereby changing their fate as well as contributing to the GDP of the country. Interestingly almost 80% of these trades belong to the informal sector with no regulations, minimum wages policy, hostile working conditions. And in addition there are hundreds and thousands of people who are earning their livelihood, without any recognition of the means as a trade. These are the questions which I often struggle with. A young boy from Tejpur, comes all the way to Delhi to work in a shopping mall, earning 8000/- per month and sharing his accommodation with 7 others in a pigeon hole is supposed to do meaningful contribution to the economy, whereas in his village a vegetable seller who pushes his cart ful of greens to the local market doesn’t.

Interestingly the one who sells his own veggies and may even produce them has the capacity to think, create a livelihood option with this hands and is independent to some extent, still reeling under the burden of financial insecurity- being an entrepreneur. And the ones, who migrates, to work under someone is the one who contributes. However what will happen if suppose the Mc Donalds in Haryana, where this guy is working gets gutted down. What about his profession? He is employed under someone and what about social security etc. How as a country we look at jobs and not at entrepreneurship and in fact let many of the professions die. Many however cannot cope up with the changing demands of time. What are the fates of professions, if winds of time render them useless. What happens to that community? Or it is again the saga of the sub-altern? The one who had no voice and even the profession was not a choice or “ freedom as development”. They fell into accepting those, or compelled to do so, unable to get rid of the class, caste, gender baggage.

The Book- The Lost Generation- Chronicling India’s Dying Professions by Nidhi Dugar Kundalia, exposes us to a magical journey of 11 such professions, many should have been obliterated long back for its sheer oppression with respect to gender and class.

Nidhi takes us to Jharkhand to view the Godna Artists doing tattoo on forehead of little girls to the Rudaali women in feudal Rajasthan village.  There the women from upper caste cannot try or show emotional exuberance or vulnerability in front of others- repression works even to prevent them fropm expressing sorrows and the Rudaali women are the surrogate sorrow- bearers, emptying their soles and their eyes. At Haridwar the genealogists, seem to exude a feeling- how deep rooted caste sits in our system. The Kabootarbaz in Delhi refuse to accept their profession as an abuse to animal rights- however oblivious of the fact that the entire scheme was the fancy or whim of some rich nawab once upon a time. At Vikarabad in Andhra, we meet the Burrakatha story-teller, the part of the Jangam tribe, considered untouchables, and whose next generation has no problem in accepting a stable government job as a garbage cleaner with the municipality. At Baroda, the street dentist questions the relevance of medical schools, if the poor cannot afford the fruits of such education and he is proud of his own skills. The Urdu Scribes in Delhi are fighting not only the technology which has now given way to fonts, but also the idea of “ nationalism and other” which is hastening the decay of Urdu language. The Boat makers of Balagarh depict how culture and politics can go hand in hand- when the boats are used across the river for election propaganda and then re-used for immersion during Durga Puja. The Ittar Wallahs of Hyderabad, fondly reminisces his skill of creating the aroma for the “rooh” and seems to feel proud at his skill of identifying fragrances of the rich and poor, through some uncanny logic. The Bhishti Wallahs of Kolkata, now rendered of no use, are struggling with poverty, unable to get the OBC certificate and clutching on to the nostalgia of old camel skin “ bhishtis”- the word originating from the Persian word “ Beheshth” or paradise. (indeed water meant paradise in the deserts and the battlefields, where these water carriers or Bhishtiwallahs use to quench the thirst of the wary).

The most interesting one was the letter writer in Mumbai. Coming from Benares, he had made his living with honor, dominating the script of the ones who had none. However 2002 onwards, computers and email  and mobile phone has now posed a threat to this very profession. His deftness to express in form of the letter, is now not needed.

Throughout the book, however I could also see class playing a large role in the professions. Those who belonged to the upper caste dominated the “script”, be it through genealogists in Haridwar or the Letter Writer from Benares or the Urdu Scribe, who takes pride in curating books for Kashmir schools. Whereas the rest, once the subaltern in colonial domain, still reel from the pressure of caste or marginalization. Which makes me question- “has the saga of sub-altern really changed?”. Indeed the story-teller of the Jangam tribe in Andhra will become a garbage cleaner while son of the letter writer will join marcom industry and that of the genealogist in Haridwar has joined IT industry.
And when we charted the course of skilling, to employ 550 million people, we have also done the same, hardly giving them a freedom of choice, we know who will become a construction worker toiling in the concretes and living in a shanty and who will become the software engineer.

This is an interesting book- and after reading this wonder when would we realize that all professions will die, unless we have the power to create and choose one that befits us and our thoughts and wishes?..

Jai Bheem- the history denied (often)

Reading about Ambedkar-  (for children and adults alike)

Bhimayana and The Boy who asked Why...

Quoting Paulo Friere-“… Without a sense of identity, there can be no real struggle…”. Looking at the case of HCU often I question that how can a sense of identity  be crated if there is a systemic approach of denying history. How much do we know of the Caste Struggle and the man who brought the same to the fore-front.

Few years back, a young girl, interning with me had visited one of the Mumbai slums and had come back dazed at the resilience of the people staying there battling deprivation. I was angry indeed. I could not understand what surprised her and pleased her so much, deprivation or the battle to constantly decry the same and got engaged into a discussion with her. At one point she was vociferous of the talent and turn-around of few children she met there through education and found that heartening and that enraged me more,  and I started questioning her about meritocracy. What did she mean, when she said that everyone can make it big, given the right opportunities? Where does opportunity begin? And this immediately brought the question of caste and affirmative action. And of course the man behind it. Of course she was young with tinted glass to look at the world, however to my dismay I found had no sense of identity and backgrounds of community and hence a limited view of their struggle. And above all, an absolute absence of historical concept. She actually didn’t know much about Ambedkar.

This made me look back into the history syllabus in school till 10^th across all boards. And to my dismay I found that there is an emphasis of India’s freedom struggle, Medieval as well as Ancient India, but hardly any mention of the Caste struggle, the India against Indians and of course only a fleeting mention of Dr. Ambedkar as the man who wrote the constitution.

At that time, started looking at books for children which speak about Babasaheb. And found only an ill-represented Amar Chitra Katha version- an absolute water-shed on the political understanding of the man.

Its only recently a couple of years back that I discovered Bhimayana- by Navayana. A beautiful graphic biography helmed as one of the top 5 political comic books (the genre is a bit problematic though)

The graphic visuals has been done by Durgabai and Subhash Vyam and depicts the Gind art form of tribal Madhya Pradesh. The uniqueness of the book is its political frankness and the debate presented be it against the Manusmriti or the Mahad Satyagraha- all in form of Gond art form- its truly remarkable. Kudos goes to the team to create tension through art form throughout, poignantly representing the caste struggle.

This book is indeed a must read- to know the history creatively and in an engaging way. Interestingly it has been translated into Several Indian languages and international languages- French and Korean.

However, For young children, how does one introduce Ambedkar and his political discourse and stand- against discrepancy and call for equality and dignity for all- the fundamental of all human rights.  Thanks to Tulika for coming up with The Boy who Asked Why.

For young children, I cannot think of any other interesting method to introduce a political understanding of caste. The illustrations by Satwik Gade is engaging and that’s what makes the book enticing for young audience. What comes across in the book is the inherent curiosity of any child to question WHY?  This is the root of all learning and struggle. WHY propels us to know more, to explore and that’s what Bheem did.. ask the right questions  about the inherent right to human dignity. How can amongst same human beings, one can be more equal than other to the extent of being oppressive. The courage, the sharpness of this character gets captured beautifully in the illustrations.

The lawmaker believed in law, to be the chance to give everyone an equal chance in life.  The current situation of the country however can challenge that shining hope.  However for the young citizen of the country curiosity and hope and a vision to look around and still trace inequality (to later have a voice to challenge that) is much needed. These two books can at least be the beginning of their political understanding. And if parents are concerned about the words politics- then they must not, “ There is politics is everything… even personal is political”

Clumsy… and so is the Rainbow with a dash and splash of colors…

Clumsy… and so is the Rainbow with a dash and splash of colors…

Can’t you not draw your crayons inside the marking line? How clumsy you are? The teacher did not even leave at that. While coming home, the mother was reminded of the often graze of the child to uncharted territories- coloring the dog as pink, straying out of the dark thick black lines and spilling colors all over the page. This must be our story or someone we know too well. There is an invisible code everywhere, where and how things should be kept, how coloring should be done, how books should be piled, how a dog should look.. all packed into boxes… and if you stray out- you are clumsy, sloppy, careless, slowcoach… In fact the school books turn crimson with angry comments as if the pages shrink in shyness embarrassed at the remarks.

This was happening to the little girl in the book by Ken Spillman viz. Clumsy. A book which peers deep into our souls, pulling out those memories where we were forced to wear straightjackets and remain within the boundaries. What happens to those, who hum a different tune and rhythm, are they to be discarded? To be called clumsy.. what about their names? Who created the rules and benchmarks for the toothpaste to remain within the cap and the shoelaces to be tied neatly. 

Manjari Chakravarti’s illustrations make the story real, you almost feel one with the little girl and her heartbreaks, her shrinking self esteem, till she discovers her rainbow.. the colors which through the messy hands become someone who is not clumsy, who has a name..

The colors danced around her

And she wanted to dance with them…

She painted all her stories,

And she wrote her name in the corner

It was the name her parents had given,

A name that many seemed to have forgotten..

And it wasn’t Clumsy, Slowcoach, Careless, Sloppy, Messy, Butterfingers…

This is a lovely book for all of us, parents, children, adults, who want create rules and then forget the people behind. Everything becomes the rule for us and one straying away is then typified as clumsy……..

Every child and every one is special.. its just that we have to help them find and paint their own rainbows… the world is beautiful as long as it is colored…

Clouds and snow.. Asking- are you Free?

Clouds and snow.. Asking- are you Free?

My day with the Clouds By Hoda Hadadi.

Can a children’s book be so lyrical yet political, poignant with images, yet reverberating with questions. Hoda Hadadi, the Iranian author and illustrator is capable of creating so with subtle brush strokes, minimal texts and loads of imagination.

The original text in Persian, translated in English and published in India by Eklavya, seems to be relevant for all ages. It will appeal to you as a poetry, how you want it to unfold. It traces the life of a child (throughout very intelligently Hadadi never speaks about gender of the child throughout- since that shouldn’t matter- should it really?) and the mother as they wade through their morning chores waiting for the sky to give snow and clouds. Often the clouds become the knitting of the mother, in between her fingers wound in soft wool and often appears in the songs of the children as they pray for snowfall, apparently disappeared six years ago. As the sky sends snow instead of rain, the children rush out to play, and we see through the image a face looking through the glass. Slowly the metaphors become clear… through the last lines..

There was a lot of snow in our courtyard.

My friend and I ran in there in our warm

New jackets and played snowball.

Mother watched us from the window

And smiled.

She too wanted to run, but she had

Forgotten how to because she had not

Run for a long time.

How many such mothers do we know. Is it about Iran only with its repression or is it about women, who forget slowly how to run, dance, smile, move freely, open the windows and rush out? Do we notice how our mothers slowly confine themselves inwards. Or we celebrate their confinement by deifying them as sacrificial beings, through advertisement commercials, movies, media, typifying them and slowly reducing them to strange orbital planes..

The clouds and the snow call out to them and indeed they must have forgotten to run…

Marjane Satrapi's Persepolis and Embroideries have given us an idea of Iran, however this is universal.. all across, connecting theme of obedience...

Feminist Fables… Unprincess and Girls to the Rescue..

Feminist Fables… Unprincess and Girls to the Rescue..

I have borrowed the title beginning from Suniti Namjoshi’s fabulous Feminist Fables. (a lovely read but adults may enjoy that more). However, what were those stories or fairy-tales or fables that we grew up reading- those of the princesses as damsels in distress, waiting for the prince, or fairies, or frogs or whomsoever, but never taking “agency” or acting on their own. Often as a child I used to think- but they were princesses… with all that they could have? Why do they never do anything, except being dragged around, kidnapped, rescued, tortured, scared (by wolves and their kind), and above all…in one story checked their “princesshood and its reality” by being made to sleep on layers of mattresses with a pea pod beneath or a hair strand…The real princess has to be sensitive about the small hair strand and unable to sleep, lest the prince be betrayed by a strong-willed woman, irreverent about hair strands and blue eyes.

However, in recent days, we can see winds of change. Children can cherish and so can we all… to read about Unprincesses.

As Manjula Padmanavan writes about prince and princesses in her collection of 3 stories Unprincess of 3 feisty girls- when confronted with a problem

“being princesses there was only one thing they could really do well in a crisis.  And that was to scream and cry and so they did……..meanwhile there were little boys who were princes. But no one had taught them how to deal with giants (read problems) of the type that attack school buses. Being princes they knew that the only right and honorable course of action to take in the situations they had not been trained to face was to play some sort of game. So they all whipped out their trusty Nintendos and Game Boys. And they played with ferocious zeal known only to those whose lives are endangered by situations they have not yet been trained to face”.

Manjula here says things in an extremely light-hearted way, but doesn’t it resonate so well with the patriarchy.. how often men laugh about and stay out of situations at home, saying those are domestic, feminine issues and we should not interfere.

Manjula creates her heroine Kavita as the unprincess who “ had not been born with her instructions for life already arranged neatly inside her brain even before she had learnt to understand speech. She had to stop and think before she acted. And so she frequently did so.”

Kavita was the unprincess, freed from the social conditioning, the burden of obedience. She believed in having a mind of her own and that made her un-disneyfied, the “Unprincess”.

All the 3 stories are unique and challenges stereotypes, part fantasy, part science fiction and with wonderful illustrations, Unprincess is a wonderful read for all. The story Urmila the Ultimate in fact is even more stark. Urmila from the beginning of the story is said to be “ugly”, a burden her parents are oblivious of. They prefer an unsocial life rather than considering Urmila ugly.  In fact the most heart-warming part of the story is , when in a bizarre incident someone openly tells her parents about her ugliness and the distress it causes to others, tipping the world off its feet, this is what her parents hgad to say- “ She is too unique to be contained by mere laws and statutes….if the rest of the world doesn’t appreciate your appearance that’s their problem, not ours! You look perfectly wonderful to us, and that’s what counts!.... I hope you realize that we, your parents, value you for what you are, and don’t care a fig for the bourgeois notions of beauty that appear to exercise the minds of everyone we know.”.

In real world, lets hope such parents are more, who get the courage to embrace their children, their daughters as they are.. since its high time Unprincesses are encouraged to be as they are and to claim their piece of world.

Sowmya Rajendran’s Girls to the Rescue is another interesting read. Sowmya, feels “ princesses are mega bores. They simply wait.. for the prince, even for someone to find their shoes, waiting for the world to turn better..” Sowmya knows that none of us have that kind of patience. So she decides to twist the tales of the princesses. She gives them the might and they claim their rights..

Hence Rapunzel’s father is a barber who thinks she should have long hair, while her mother’s an astronaut. Rapunzel is locked lest she cuts off her tresses, which she does on her own. The prince, poor thing already burdened with the expectations of his king-father of him becoming a warrior, while he loves slow dance and studying beetles, just happens to pass off his sword. And yes Rapunzel, does make him her friend, but “ to enjoy the moment”.

And Sleeping Beauty- well she happens to take birth with the king and queen literally blackmailed by all to have a baby of their own. The Queen has dreams of her own, to finish her book on botany, but how to manage with a baby whose biological clock never sets to  let her sleep. There comes the mad fairy to make the baby sleep, till the mother gets over her post-partum anxiety and manager her career and ambition.

These books are such breath of fresh air. A Must read for all and thanks.. stories are changing…

The Vegetarian-Agency, Violence and the Surreal

The Vegetarian By Han Kang

"‘I didn’t, you see. I thought trees stood up straight … I only found out just now. They actually stand with both arms in the earth, all of them. Look, look over there, aren’t you surprised?’ Yeong-hye sprang up and pointed to the window. ‘All of them, they’re all standing on their heads.’ Yeong-hye laughed frantically. In-hye remembered" (from "Vegetarian: A Novel" by Han Kang)

The above is exclaimed by Yeong-Hye supposed to be delirious and schizophrenic who refuses to eat to her elder sister In-Hye. And as this quote grips me, embrace me, I struggle to interpret it- As I often speak about layers, this speaks to me in layers, from multiple angles- the agency of Yeong_hye or that of any woman which is almost absent and often are said to make choices in coercion. Or it is the way we want to look into things, our empathy and being one with them engulfs us wholly that it destroys us- however Yeong-Hye questions this tragedy asking, why is it so sad to die?

And when did all these things start? From the moment Yeong- Hye married for the last 5 years, a docile, almost insignificant house-wife, whom her husband dismisses at the beginning of the novel as to be completely unremarkable in every way takes the decision of becoming a vegetarian and gives up eating meat. All hell breaks loose. In fact it becomes unfathomable and unacceptable to the husband, as well as to her own parents, siblings.  Her husband almost starts thinking himself as a victim, being denied of being served non-vegetarian food and of course of sex. Yeong-Hye refuses physical relationship stating his sweat smells of meat which is abhorring to her. However that doesn’t stop Mr. Cheong to violate her wishes. And this violence goes on throughout the book.  In fact Han Kang doesn’t give any voice to Yeong-Hye throughout the novel.  Her thoughts are just italicized, as some soliloquys within herself. 

However Yeong- Hye though is an omnipresent character in the book, the entire novel is written in 3 parts, where the narrator changes from the first part being Mr. Cheong, Hye’s husband, amazed at his own victimhood (that’s how he speaks about these incidences), to In-Hye’s (Yeong Hye’s elder sister) husband. He gets enamored with Yeong- Hye, now divorced and under medication, post suicidal trauma. In fact consent is something constantly questioned in the novel. In-Hye seems to be much surer and successful than her artist husband, who find In-Hye’s goodness almost oppressive.   Its not his relationship with Yeong- Hye that makes In-Hye turn against him. She thinks him to be manipulative and selfish, who never thought that Yeong-Hye is unwell and under medication- and this relationship is again violation of her rights to be in an “agency to decide”. And this is when the third and final part of the novel starts. In In-Hye’s voice. Suddenly the successful business woman, the only woman in the novel who earns her living, takes care of the family, leads a cosmetic chain and has a voice as a narrator.. feels the futility of her own self. Questions why she had not raised her voice earlier, when her father tried to force-feed meat to Yeong-Hye? Why now- when her own husband is in the act? Is it a personal deceit that she is trying to hide in form of love or concern..

As she reminisces about their childhood, when one day the two sisters losing their way in the mountains, Yeong-Hye shared the happy possibility of never being able to trace her way back home… that revelation dawns upon her..

"Only after all this time was she able to understand why Yeong-hye had said what she did. Yeong-hye had been the only victim of their father’s beatings. Such violence wouldn’t have bothered their brother Yeong-ho so much, a boy who went around doling out his own rough justice to the village children. As the eldest daughter, In-hye had been the one who took over from their exhausted mother and made a broth for her father to wash the liquor down, and so he’d always taken a certain care in his dealings with her. Only Yeong-hye, docile and naive, had been unable to deflect their father’s temper or put up any form of resistance. Instead, she had merely absorbed all her suffering inside her, deep into the marrow of her bones. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, In-hye could see that the role that she had adopted back then of the hard-working, self-sacrificing eldest daughter had been a sign not of maturity but of cowardice. It had been a survival tactic.  Could I have prevented it? Could I have prevented those unimaginable things from sinking so deep inside of Yeong-hye and holding her in their grip? She saw her sister again, as a child, her back and shoulders and the back of her head as she stood alone in front of the main gate at sunset. The two of them had eventually made it down off the mountain, but on the opposite side from where they’d started. They’d hitched a ride on a power tiller back to their small town, hurrying along the unfamiliar road as darkness fell. In-hye had been relieved, but not her sister."

She questions the reason of her conformity, so long, to the parents, to the family, to the husband.. to look at success in this manner.. whereas what does Yeong Hye do in her schizophrenia, giving up meat and then wanting to be the tree, with hands in the ground, lest the hands become something else tugging at flesh, plucking and seizing from others.. an act of violence.. Well non-violence did lead to her death…

The Vegetarian is actually a first of its kind novel for me, surreal in a sense. In fact its difficult for me to describe the feeling. And of course I am looking at it from the angle of women and agency in the Asian context. However also it reflects on the effect of trying to change the norms or ways of “oppression” (may be), at refusing to violate rights, be it that of the animals or the plants, to rid one-self of the carnal desires- the state of Yeong-Hye, from being the body of a beautiful young woman, conventionally an object of desire..to becoming a body void of any desire… metaphorically death and that’s what came to Yeong Hye.

Fence…Us and Them…and our Pieces of Sky..

Fence…Us and Them…and our Pieces of Sky.. 

(Fence is written by Ila Arab Mehta translated by Rita Kothari)

A fact and now referred to as the “feminist myth “about the women’s property holding states:

While women represent half the global population and one-third of the labor force, they receive only one-tenth of the world income and own less than one percent of world property. They are also responsible for two-thirds of all working hours.

Current day, this is a highly debated statistics, however that doesn’t take away the fact of deprivation and marginalization women face across the world. Even today renting a house if you are a single woman and trying to have an independent life is difficult- unless of course you can negotiate with your financial prowess. The inheritance laws are blur and the avenues and access are limited.  And imagine if you are woman who belongs to a minority or marginalized community, who wants to stay in a cosmopolitan, believing in the same democratic and constitutional rights of equality and equity? Will it be easy?

Needless to say, we often read newspaper reports of the gated communities and housing societies which deny rights to stay to people belonging to a particular community, caste, city, origin. We are so scared. So what you dreamt of having your own piece of sky with dignity. There are invisible fences and barbed wires all around.

Fence is a story of Fateema, her dreams and her belief in multiple possibilities. Fateema Lokhandwala, the second born in the impoverished family of 4 siblings and parents, almost scraping to make ends meet. Fateema however is full of optimism. Fateema, as one friend of mine had once pointed out to me, “a differently sounding name”, not the Amars and Sheetals, we get to meet and share our space every day is no different from any other girl in her dreams and ambition in reality. Neither is her family. Khatijaben, Fateema’s mother is a feisty woman who wants her daughter to study, to become someone else, their hope of turn-around of the daily grind of poverty. Fateema is a bright girl, who truly believes in the poem in class, which Gaekwad Sir teaches:

Holding a hand in a hand
Joining a heart to a heart
On the path of progress
We shall fly away

Fateema, feels herself as much a part of the small village in the once princely state in Gujarat and as the brightest star of Navprabhat High school that no fence exists in her mind. Her best friend is Chandan, the daughter of an austere Jain family. Majeedbhai and Khatijaben are also not the parents one would like to believe associated with the name like Fateema. They refuse a life of security promised by few people in order to keep on sending their daughter to school. Fateema comes to Ahmedabad to study and on her way to buy her house one day when she and her ba can stay and have their own piece of sky.

It is there Fateema, faces the Fence.. every now and then, be it in the suspicious eyes of the local police who may summon her at any pretext or the absolute denial of a property agent to even show her a house. Once an apologetic dealer, tells her of his limitation- Others will be afraid of Fateema and her likes, to buy a flat in the same complex. “ She may eat meat, she may prefer sacrifices, have non-vegetarian dishes, have different festivals”… In reality, they have already created a story about Fateema, even she could create or tell her own and thereby a fence… Her trials donot end, in her own family, her brother started distrusting “others” and even there Fateema with her logic and her sense of history is an outsider..

Hand in Hand, heart to heart… Fateema still believes that’s possible… how else could she have met Manuben or Manoramaben (Fateema addresses her as Manuben remembering Manuben in Sabarmati Ashram working with Gandhiji, something that melts the heart this warden), the warden of the hostel she stayed during her college days….One who was always protective of her, shielded her and kept extending her stay.. this is the humanity she believed in, her right to exist as she is, with all others.  Her dream home had to be with each other and not in a ghetto…. Where there is an invisible categorization, the labelling of “people like her”, us and them…

There are instances where Fateema’s Gujarati (though Fateema is as much a Gujarati born and brought up in Saurashtra) Hindu friends and students wonder asking her- “are, you are Mohammedan? You are like us only”… and amused Fateema wonders can it not be the other way, they are all like her... (I remembered Chimamanda’s Americanah where her American room-mate was disappointed to see her taste of music and her English—Chimamanda, didn’t fit into the story they made for her...)

Ladies hostel was not her choice, that’s not the independence she wanted for herself. History liberated her, she believed in multiple stories…

Fence seems so real to me... something I can understand and relate to very well and so can anyone else... be it the girls leading the “Pinjra Tod” Campaign, where they believe that none has the right to select moral code for girls- and staying away and late nights donot define a single story of moral conduct for girls or boys and girls be it from Kashmir or Nigeria or North East states, LGBT or Single, wanting to rent a space of their own… and when they encounter the fence, the rising barbed wars saying “ No entry”, basis stereotypes and carrying burdens of misinterpreted identities…

Fence belongs to Fateema and us all….and when can we free ourselves from these borrowed sense of identities and scared souls creating fences to safeguard these “false friends”??