Abandoned in abundance

Abandoned in abundance



All of us abandon something dear to us in life – willingly or unwillingly.

From habits to children to spouses. There is a lot to abandon – both literally and virtually. While habits do not complain being left behind. It’s the human – the children or spouses – who feel the heat.

In a mad, mad ego race, couples leave each other. Get separated. Get divorced. Get remarried. But do they really forget each other? Does the new partner really strike that chord which first one did?

These questions are difficult – almost impossible to answer. Everyone involved in a broken relation faces the heat, but it’s the children that wilt. Elders have already lived their lives, but its the young buds that are nipped even before they hear of blossoming.

People say separating couples ape west. It’s not aping west. Its simply not agreeing to remember the lovable days spent together. It’s a mind block. It’s a decision to not to look beyond ones fallacies. Its the hollow egos that makes one leave most loved ones, most cherished ones. Its matter of fragile personas and weak decision makers.

And the one who is abandoned is at receiving end. Children suffering for no fault of theirs. Young minds left confused. Bereaved of love for parents. It’s a tussle between parents to have children by their side - by hook or crook.

Mitch Albom rightly points out somewhere in his For One More Day

“May a child never has to chose between father and mother”

Though surrounded by consoling and mocking relatives, children stand all alone in the milieu of this maddening crowd.

Pathran Da Shehar – Chandigarh

Most of my Chandigarh friends would disagree with what I am going to write. And at the same time, my friends from Punjab would have few more experiences to add to mine.

Chandigarh ik patthran da shehar e. (Chandigarh is a city of stones.)

The garden of rocks

My room mate at Ludhiana was flabbergasted when I told her this after my brief stint with the City Beautiful. Trying to relax her creased temple I told how surprising it was to see a garden of rocks (the famous rock garden).

And then I went her telling how no one on a four-wheeler would guide you how to reach particular sector. Instead people threw that filthy look as if you were some alien and were asking way to the wonderland.

Having learnt this bitter lesson, I started turning towards cyclists or rickshaw wallas to ask my way from sector 17 to the Punjab secretariat or other places of news gathering. They not only proved much better guides but understood how confusing the round abouts of City Beautiful could be for a new comer.
Every sector seemed same to me and every round about a twin of the last one.

The nightmare was not to end here. I found not even a single decent living place, which could match my paltry salary the newspaper paid me. Areas around Mohali industrial area (under developed in 2004) wore deserted looks just after 7 pm.

Only construction workers and vehicles from Dell office (then under construction) frequented the roads near my office. For first five days I managed to put up with a colleague, who did so most unwillingly.

On weekend, I left for home at Bathinda leaving my bags at my so-called friend’s place. Returning a day later, to my horror, I found her house locked. When I called her up she said, “I’ve come to my place in Amritsar. I am sorry sweetie I forgot to inform you and even your luggage is at my place. Don’t worry you can collect it after two days.” And she slammed the phone.

I was left in mid of no where in a completely strange city. That was the first and last time in my life when I didn’t know where was I going to sleep? I called up a girl, who was in accounts section the newspaper, and narrated her my woes.

She consoled me and told to come up at her place in Mohali where I could put up for a night. It took me more than hour to reach a place, which was just 15 minutes away from my office.

I thanked God and prayed Him to make an arrangement for next night. Next day I got up and my host told me that they were going to have some relatives in the evening, which meant I would have to remove my bags by 11 am.

It was them I remembered that one of my colleagues from Bathinda was staying in Mohali with his wife and son. I called him up and asked if I could stay at his place for one day and he replied, “Why one day? Come and stay with us. Its your home. Tell me where are you presently? I’ll come and pick you as well as your luggage.”

And I stayed with his family for 15 days. We lived like a family. The rock city made me resign from my job and go back to Ludhiana.

That’s why I call it Pathran da shehar.

The Unborn Speaks

Dear,

Chief Justice of the Supreme Court of India,
Swarming philanthropists
The so-called human activists
And readers.

Since long I had wanted to say it all. Put it on the paper. Pour the words from my tiny throbbing heart into readable stuff. And now is the chance.



I am the unborn child of a mother who is not even aware she is carrying me. When lakhs of infertile couples make a beeline to infertility clinics, pray fervently to Almighty for blessing them with a tiny life, I was planted in my mother’s womb by someone who remains a mystery even in eyes of law. I am, what you call, a product of rape and helplessness.

I am child of a mother who was abandoned as she was mentally ill and there is no surety whether I will not carry her mental health.

The moment I got seeded in my mother, it created ripples. Because she is no ordinary woman, but a 9-years-old mind in the body of a *19-years-old young lady that can produce a child but doesn’t have even an iota’s inkling of the joys or sorrows of having a baby.

As directed by the doctors and told to the Supreme Court of India, she is waiting eagerly for a “bhaiya” (me) to come in this world with whom she could play.

But what if I am a didi and not a bhaiya? I am thankful for the Chief Justice of India to allow me to take birth when millions of female fetuses are consigned to sewages, thrown on piles of garbage or simply flushed down the drain even before being born.

I owe a word of thanks to the philanthropists and the human rights activists too who have been quoting different treaties to apprise Supreme Court that every individual has a right to take birth and live.

My only question is that where were the same set of laws and people when my mother was repeatedly raped by men of her father’s age in bathrooms of a place, which was meant to save her, give her shelter? (Nari Niketan, Chandigarh).

In a nation, where children born out of love (without marriages), find no social approval, will I not be brandished as a “rape child”?

Will not the day of my birth hog the limelights with newspapers and television channels screaming – Rape victim gives birth to a baby? So many people have debated on my existence. Many expressed the desire to adopt me. But if I am a girl, will I get the same acceptance?

Will I not be a part of brood of children where men have impregnated mentally ill or handicapped or helpless women?

When my mother’s sexual offenders walk free, can anyone guarantee that I will have a safe childhood? Especially, if I am a girl, can someone assure me that I will not meet my mother’s fate? Mr Chief Justice, at the highest seat of law, don’t you foresee my future as I see?

I am 23 weeks old now. Hope to see you folks soon with flashy cameras.

Love you
The Baby

(*The 19-years-old mentally challenged girl was repeatedly raped by different men during her stay in different government run shelter homes, leading to her being pregnant. On July 21, the Supreme Court of India allowed continuing of her pregnancy despite recommendations by doctors that the victim was not in a state to bring up the child and the pregnancy be terminated.)