Excerpts from Amnesty International's Report on mining at Niyamgiri Hills

Excerpts from an Amnesty International's report on Bauxite mining and refinery in Niyamgiri hills, Orissa, India (More details at: http://www.amnestyusa.org/document.php?id=ENGUSA20100209001&lang=e)

Don't mine us out of existence: Bauxite mine and refinery devastate lives in India

In Amnesty International’s discussions and interviews, major concerns emerged around the possible effects of mining on the sources of water that the Dongria Kondh have traditionally relied on for drinking, personal use, for growing crops and supporting their cattle. The streams which originate from the top of the Hills are the only source of water for communities who live on top of the Hills and a major source for others who live lower down the hill (some of these villages have tube wells), in a region that receives limited rainfall through many months of the year and is often subject to drought conditions. Any negative impacts on the streams, through pollution or disruption of water re-charging capacity and drainage patterns or any other effects on the quantity and quality of water could have disastrous consequences for the communities, most of whom are completely dependent on this water in order to continue to live on the Hills.

Ecological Impact on Water Supply

It has been argued by environmentalists that the bauxite deposits on top of the hills are crucial for ensuring a perennial slow water supply in the low rainfall seasons because of the porous nature and high water retention capacity of bauxite. Sreedhar Ramamurthy of Academy of Mountain Environics, New Delhi, one of the organizations which had mounted the legal challenge to the mining project at the Supreme Court, explained: “In several bauxite-topped mountains in south-west Orissa and northern Andhra Pradesh, the bauxite layers are often water-rich and provide the base for the emergence of natural springs on Concerns about the impact of mining on water were shared by some people from other communities who live on the hills and in and around Lanjigarh. The Chief Conservator of Forests at the MoEF’s regional office in Bhubaneswar, while inspecting the proposed mine site, also expressed concern that mining may impair the water system in the area by altering the inflow of precipitation and natural drainage systems. The Wildlife Institute of India, Dehra Dun, which carried out its own assessment of the impact of the proposed mine, stressed that mining operations might result in desiccation, reducing the flow of the Vamsadhara and Nagaveli rivers. Operations would also cause increased erosion and pollution of the water systems, which in turn would result in a deteriorated water quality and damage to riverine habitats. The Institute study further stated: “...the threats posed by the proposed project to this important ecosystem will lead to irreversible changes in the ecological characteristics of the area.”

Ecological Impact on Forests

The mining project also poses risks to the natural environment in the region, which the communities depend on for their own food and livelihoods. The main risks are posed by the cutting down of forests for the mine site and related infrastructure, noise, blasting and other impacts of the mining operations themselves and management of waste produced as a result of the mining operations. These concerns were reflected in the testimonies collected from the communities. A Dongria Kondh man in his thirties told Amnesty International, “The mining will affect the forests, which provide us with all the wood we need and the forest produce we collectively rely on. We plant at various parts of the hills. How will the mining affect our crops? This is how we sustain ourselves and earn our livelihoods.” Another Dongria Kondh woman from one of the hamlets close to the mine site said: “We are worried that many animals will leave our forests when they begin blasting.” Another Dongria Kondh man who had visited other sites in India where mining has been undertaken stated, “We have seen what mining does to the land and we do not want that to happen here.” The Dongria Kondh also expressed concerns about how the mining project would affect their traditional way of life, culture and ability to retain their distinct identity. A Dongria Kondh man told Amnesty International: “Our language, the way we dress, songs, marriage rituals, worship of Niyam Raja, our livelihoods are all linked to these Hills and the way we live here. We have seen what happens to other Adivasis when they are forced to leave their traditional lands, they lose everything.” Many expressed concern that the impacts of mining on water and forests or the noise and dust from the mine may make it impossible for them to continue to live where they currently do and force them off their Hills and traditional lands. J. M., a Dongria Kondh man, said, “Our people are not educated. If we are forced to leave these Hills because of the mine, we will end up in poorly paid jobs in towns in the plains.” An elderly woman from one of the hamlets near the proposed mine site stated, “If we have lakhs or crores of [Indian] rupees, how many days will it last, but this mountain will last generations.”

Lack of resettlement and rehabilitation efforts

India has no national law yet in place for resettlements and rehabilitation of local communities displaced and affected by large irrigation and industrial projects. Instead, it has a number of state-level and sectoral policies and practices. Recent protests against inadequate policies and practices, especially over the displacement of Adivasis by the construction of dams across river Narmada, resulted in the authorities framing a national level policy, which is yet to be made into a law.

The impact of loss of communal resources was described to Amnesty International by several of those affected: K., who is in his early thirties from Chhattarpur, described his predicament: “I owned 6 goats, 15 cows and 2 buffaloes. They used to graze in common land where the factory stands today. It became difficult to take them for grazing, and buying fodder is very expensive so I have now sold all the cattle. We used to have home-made milk products to eat but now I have to buy milk from outside.” Another man from Bandaguda provided a similar account: “I also used to work as an agriculture laborer in a nearby field where the factory stands now. Even though I was earning 40 to 50 [Indian] rupees (around US$ 1) daily, it was enough, as we could access vegetables, forest produce and wood freely. We had at least one vegetable every day. Now, if I earn 70 [Indian] rupees (US$ 1.50) daily it is very difficult to eat good food as we have to buy everything from the market. There is a marked increase in the price of, say, tomatoes, which used to cost five [Indian] rupees and are now 20 [Indian] rupees due to so many new people. Life has become very hard now. I want to feed my three children regular milk but can’t. I miss my life before the factory. It was more comfortable.”

The Supreme Court-appointed CEC had recommended that: “The project authorities should acquire equivalent non-forest land [to 59 hectares of common and forest land] for carrying out plantations to meet the biomass requirements of the villagers and the area be notified as village forests.” As far as Amnesty International could discover this recommendation has not been implemented. The increase in food prices at the local market is another serious concern for many local people. Some blamed this on the pressures created by an influx of a large number of people into the area to support the operations of the refinery, arguing that this had led to an increase in demand and prices. Local landless laborers have seen their standard of living undermined on two fronts – loss of access to natural resources on the one hand, and an increase in food prices on the other. Despite this double negative effect, the government has made no provision of alternative grazing land or support in terms of employment opportunities for these people.

Water Pollution by Vendanta

In 2007, when the refinery was moving into full production, the OSPCB (Orissa State Pollution Control Board) investigated complaints made by the villagers that Vedanta Aluminium had been discharging caustic water into the river during the night. The OSPCB tested the water at various points of the river. The test results indicated that water accumulated near the boundary wall of the refinery (outside the factory) adjacent to the river had a pH value of 10.5 and 11. The following day the OSPCB carried out investigations along with the Head of Operations at the refinery and tested water accumulated outside the boundary wall. They found the water had a pH value of 12. They also found accumulated water near the storm water drain and the dirty water pond inside the boundary, which had a pH value of 12.5. The OSPCB also documented the fact that Vedanta Aluminium had started construction work for expansion of the refinery without the company having obtained the necessary regulatory permissions, including the environmental clearance, to proceed with an expansion. The problem continued to recur in 2008. OSPCB officials recorded that their directions to stop feeding bauxite for processing until the process water lake was ready for use and to evacuate the alkaline wastewater from the red mud pond had not been complied with. The OSPCB also recorded that highly alkaline wastewater continued to seep from the red mud pond. It stated that the high concentration slurry disposal method, which Vedanta Aluminium was supposed to utilise, was not being followed, resulting in accumulation of alkaline wastewater in the pond. The thickening of the waste prior to disposal through this method is necessary to significantly reduce the potential for pollution.

Air Pollution by Vedanta

In a report dated 26-27 September 2007, the OSPCB stated that the refinery could have emitted fine alumina particles during the trial operation of the calciner and reprimanded the company for not informing the villages of possible problems during start-up operations. Two months later, in a more detailed inspection, OSPCB officials found that particulate matter emitted from the boiler was recorded to be 795 mg/Nm, more than five times the stipulated limit of 150 mg/Nm. They stated: “such high emission within a valley has the potential to cause atmospheric pollution in the vicinity and health hazards.”

Despite these failures by the Vedanta Aluminium, and the risk to which they expose local communities, the authorities have not strictly enforced their own directions to the company, including directions to stop operating equipment until regulatory requirements were complied with. This failure of government authorities to effectively and adequately regulate industry has undermined protection of the environment and human rights. Not only has the government failed to take adequate action to protect people from the negative impacts of the refinery, it has failed even to provide them with information gathered by the state authorities. Neither the nature nor the extent of both the actual and potential water and air pollution associated with the refinery has been disclosed to the local communities.

Amnesty Int'l Recommendations to Government of India & Orissa:

In relation to the refinery
Take action to address the negative environmental, health, social and human rights impacts of the refinery, in full consultation with the affected communities. This should include:

Ensuring that Vedanta Aluminium undertakes a comprehensive clean-up of the pollution it has already caused and reports on this publicly and regularly in a manner accessible and available to the local communities.

Ensuring that any person whose human rights have been violated have access to justice and to an effective remedy and reparations.

Take prompt action to prevent any further contamination of the river and to address existing problems. If necessary suspend operation of the refinery until pollution problems are addressed.

Ensure that all applicable regulations, including those related to water and air pollution are enforced consistently and transparently.

Carry out systematic health monitoring on the possible health effects of pollution associated with the refinery and take appropriate action to address negative health impacts.

Undertake an independent and impartial human rights and environmental impact assessment of the proposal for expansion of the refinery; ensure genuine consultation with communities and individuals who may be affected by the proposed expansion.

Ensure information on the nature and extent of the pollution and associated risks are made accessible to communities.

Ensure respect for and protection of the rights to freedom of expression and peaceful assembly; the policing of protest actions should be fully consistent with human rights law and standards, including in relation to the rights to freedom of expression and assembly and the use of force.

Ensure that no expansion of the refinery is allowed to proceed until:
Action has been taken to adequately address existing problems in a manner that respects human rights
A human rights impact assessment has been carried out as detailed above and all appropriate action taken in light of this assessment to protect human rights.

In relation to Mining in the Niyamgiri Hills

Establish a process to seek the free, prior, informed consent of the Dongria Kondh in relation to the bauxite mine. This process must include:

Providing communities with accessible and adequate information, including to those who are not formally literate, about the mining project.

A comprehensive human rights and environmental impact assessment of the bauxite mining project, undertaken in genuine and open consultation with the Dongria Kondh communities. Appropriate procedural safeguards should be established to ensure the Dongria Kondh can participate in the assessment process and that their knowledge and perspectives are given due weight and respect. The time given to this process should be adequate to enable an effective assessment of the potential human rights impacts and to develop plans to address any risks identified.

Ensure the Dongria Kondh’s free, prior and informed consent is obtained prior to any continuation of the proposed project and respect their decision if they do not provide it. It is clear that the Niyamgiri Hills are of vital importance to the Dongria Kondh, and essential to their survival as a distinct people, and maintenance of their livelihood, culture and way of life.

Ensure respect for and protection of the rights to freedom of expression and peaceful assembly; the policing of protest actions should be fully consistent with human rights law and standards, including in relation to the rights to freedom of expression and assembly and the use of force.

The Death of an Anarchist

THE DEPARTURE

A shroud of winter fog hang over the valley of death
where he trudged along, lonely as an orphaned ghost,
hands in his pockets, collar upturned,
a light flickering between his lips,
puffs of smoke vanishing in the whiteness abound

His little village now lay behind him,
beyond the eastern horizon,
where a halo of flames danced beneath the morning sun
Fire, Fire, the villagers were screaming
For them he was now dead, engulfed
by the flames that were burning down his hut
And for him they were dead too,
blurred into oblivion by a wall of fog

With his eyes fixed onto nothingness,
his mind empty, his heart heavy with freedom,
he whistled and laughed aloud as he vanished
like a puff of smoke in that white valley of death

This is a very bad poem that you are writing. Or is it prose, I can't even tell the difference. I don't understand what's gotten into you. 8's mother was looking at him with admonition in her sad green eyes, they matched the green dress she was wearing, its frayed sleeves shamelessly revealing their poverty. You don't understand either poetry or prose, grumbled 8 as he gave her the piece of paper. The poem was titled 'The Departure', handwritten and barely legible. Later when you read it alone, you'll understand, he said and went to his room. Do you want something to eat? No, I'm fine, I am going out now. At this hour? It's only 10pm, I will be back soon. 8 brought out a large bag from under his bed and took it out with him. What is in that thing? Must you need to know everything, mom?! Just leave me alone.

The night outside was slightly cold. Lights had gone off in most houses. On Market Street 8 saw a police patrol car and took cover in a dark alley. The detour took him a little longer to get back on Market Street, but when he finally reached the bridge over the expressway, he was relieved to find it empty. On warmer days one could find some drug addicts and drunks sleeping or lying unconscious on the bridge, but today there was none. 8 was in luck. He looked down from the bridge. It spanned across the river and the expressway that ran along its left bank. From the bridge 8 watched the three quivering lines of fast approaching headlights that stretched as far as he could see. On the other side of the white divider were three receding lines of lights, the three eastbound lanes running in the opposite direction, they appeared dimmer. 8 watched the speeding cars for sometime. Mercedes, BMW, Toyota. Rich fucks. Should shoot them down like dogs, he cursed. The expressway reverberated with the sound of a highway freight truck. All the drivers seemed to be speeding towards death, or perhaps trying to escape from it. Yes, they are escaping from it this time for sure, 8 mused as he opened the chain of his bag and brought out an automatic assault rifle. He crouched behind a large road-sign board that was hanging over the expressway from the side of the bridge. The barrel of his rifle was pointing at the passing cars below. The plan had been in place for long and 8 had surveyed the area several times. And now the hour had come for the final act. This is it, 8 muttered to himself. On count to ten: One, Two, Three, Four....

...Five, Six, Seven... Are you feeling better now? Try to get some sleep. I am trying to, I was counting sheep, replied 8 with a slight smile. Poor mom!, he thought as he stared at her green eyes, which, as far as he could recall, have always been sad, but uncomplaining, as if they have lost all hope in life. Is pops coming home today? Don't ask me, I don't know, he never tells me anything, go off to sleep now. No, don't go away, please stay a little longer mom, I want to read you a little poem I wrote:

THE TEACHER

In a corner of his empty classroom the teacher sat
reading books that no one in his village had ever read
The villagers respected him, but feared the village elders more
You cannot teach here, our children don't need your knowledge,
the elders told him, scared of losing their hold over the masses
But the teacher knew that the day will come
when knowledge would triumph over ignorance,
when the villagers would wake up to read books written in blood

...Eight, Nine.... The nine of you will only be known by your respective numbers, announced the commander to the nine young men who stood before him in a row (our protagonist was number 8). You are not supposed to use your real names, they are to remain secret from each other. Fancy names are a bourgeois trend, there is no need for that in our ranks and file. Secrecy and loyalty are extremely important for our mission, and remember, no traitor will escape death. Now coming back to our agenda, first, is the plan of action, the commander turned towards his comrade and said, the floor is all yours. The comrade's face was wrapped in a black scarf through which his two eyes were shining brightly, little white hair of his eyebrow lent them a terrifying gleam, like the eyes of a cat. His red badge identified him as number 0, the mastermind. 0 began in his stentorian voice, boys, you are the bravest of men, and the wisest too. We all have only one goal: to send a chill down the spine of those who refuse to stand up and fight against injustice, against the arbitrary violence of society, against its hypocritical notions of morality, and against all the oppressors that thrive in these societies. And to do this, Violence, the most shocking acts of violence, is unavoidable; violence that will rock them off their torpor and send a warning to all around the world. You are the brave ones who will help in achieving this, and through your act of self-sacrifice you will become immortal and live on as a legend.

THE DELIVERANCE

For three weeks the teacher locked himself up in his classroom
where Dostoevsky, Kafka and Turgenev gave him company
No one came to bother him, for them he was an outcast,
a vagabond from an unknown land, a man of no use

When he finished reading all his books, he stepped outside
A new dawn was fighting against the lingering darkness of the previous night,
a shroud of winter fog hang over the valley of death,
stretching between the village and the sleeping mountains around
The spirits of our ancestors live in the valley, the villagers had told him
If you stray there you can never return, their eyes had warned

The teacher locked the classroom door and lit a cigarette
An abyss opened up before him
And as he looked down into its depths
he felt calm and confident, wisdom had finally dawned on him
Through the window he tossed in his burning match-stick,
his pile of books lit up, blazing in a glory of liberation
He walked away, lonely as an orphaned ghost,
hands in his pockets, collar upturned,
a light flickering between his lips,
puffs of smoke vanishing in the whiteness abound
The village burned behind him amidst screams of Fire, Fire

...Ten.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat

Excerpts from a local news report:

A shooting rampage on the P8-I9 Interstate Westbound has left more than 40 people, including a suspected gunman, dead. Officers say that around 10:30 pm last night, the lone gunman fired indiscriminately from an automatic rifle at cars traveling on the interstate, resulting in a pileup involving at least 20 cars. This is the eighth such incident of random acts of violence that have targeted civilians in the last two weeks. Police are investigating the identity of the gunman and have claimed that they have tracked some links to a banned organization behind the attack....

Our reporter has also learned of unconfirmed reports leaked from the Bureau of Investigation that warn about the possibility of a ninth attack of similar nature. Officers across the state have been alerted and citizens are being requested to report any suspicious activity without delay. The Bureau has been under increasing stress from the Home Ministry to hunt down the culprits, but their progress so far has been very limited. Most political analysts agree that if a ninth attack were to occur, the Government may be faced with a popular uprising and the opposition will capitalize on this growing discontent among the citizens. Reports of demonstration, arson and riots are pouring in from several parts of the city. National security and stability has once again become the most important issue for the upcoming elections....

*********

Postscript:

Having finished reading the news report, 9 folded the paper silently, picked up the bag that had his gun and walked out of his apartment. He rubbed his palms together to warm them, turned up his collar and pushed his hands deep into the pockets of his frayed gray jacket. As he lit a match-stick and brought it close to the cigarette which he held between his lips, a cold breeze kissed his cheeks fervently like a jealous lover reluctant to let him go. He walked down an empty alley towards the busy railway station, wondering if he will be able to prove himself to be as brave as the eight other boys.

"The simplest surrealist act consists of dashing down into the street, pistol in hand, and firing blindly, as fast as you can pull the trigger, into the crowd" - Andre Breton.

(Credits: The plot about shooting randomly at cars on a highway was a product of a discussion with SC after a night of few drinks and libertine talks.)

The Witch (Part 3): The Witch Hunt

A month passed. The meteorological department finally revoked their earlier announcement that the rains were due to a cyclonic disturbance in the Bay of Bengal and reluctantly accepted that the monsoon season was already half way through without them having realized it. The rain and thunderstorms continued. The ponds brimmed up to their banks and overflowed onto the streets. Street children went about collecting trapped fish from potholes when the waters receded. New life emerged through the cracks of the old building walls. Little plants penetrated through the layers of soil and surfaced out in search for air and sunlight. The trees were all lush green, the groves verdant. Tender grass shafts started to grow once again on tracks that had almost become barren under human footsteps. And all this while the sun and the clouds carried on their age old feud for dominance over the skies. On the turfs dragonflies hopped and their translucent wings shined with either the glitter of sun rays or the vibrant hues of the rainbow that appeared against the gray sky after a shower like an arched gateway to heaven. The dark monsoon clouds formed different shapes and on the roads one could often see parents of a petulant child trying to distract its attention from the roadside vendor’s ice-cream cones to the sky where bloated resemblances of rabbits, cows, dogs, cats and other imaginary beings of bedtime stories floated past silently. Raindrops drummed rhythmically and rolled down the slanted sides of fresh green leaves like shimmering, transparent pearl beads, and then coalesced to form rivulets that ran down the length of the veins and trickled off the tips, drop by drop, into small water puddles on the ground below as they reverberated with concentric ripples.

Mother earth was fertile again at this time of the year, governed by her regular cycles of seasons that got her the rains, the droughts, and her yearly fertility. And while life was blooming everywhere, Mala got the operation done to rid herself of the curse of fertility. A ‘small and happy family’, like the one on the red and white batch, is all she dreamed of. She knew that although the NGO lady would have supported her action, the slum-dwellers would despise her. Boorimashi had taken her to Doctor Munshi for the operation. The operation wasn’t a big worry for her but its consequences were. She wished that the NGO lady was there to help her out in explaining it to Nitai.

Lying on the hospital bed, she imagined how furious Nitai might get upon hearing it, how the vile and foul-mouthed women of her slum would scoff at her, and how the bigoted priest of the local Shiva temple would project the act as a sacrilege against nature and god and possibly recommend others to ostracizing her. She had prepared herself for all these slanders that she believed were to engulf her life, but it had not dawned on her that Boorimashi, her accomplice in this act, also stood in danger. Never in her dream had she thought that the slum-dwellers would turn against Boorimashi for encouraging the act.

After the operation, Mala returned from the hospital accompanied by Boorimashi on a day that started out as surprisingly sunny. On their way back from Doctor Munshi's hospital they passed by the sweet shop on Station Road which kindled in Boorimashi a slight desire for the sweets that she loved. Boorimashi decided to prepare a fresh batch of cow dung cakes that would afford her this little luxury. But later in the day when Boorimashi returned after pasting her cow dung cakes on the eastern wall, she found a mob surrounding her hut. Nitai was leading them. He had returned the day before and upon learning about the incident from neighbors, he felt cheated and humiliated. The tinge of sarcasm that he deciphered in his neighbors' voices made him feel as if his manhood had been mocked at by two women. His rage was so profound that he would have beaten Mala to death had her mother not arrived in time just as planned. Unable to teach Mala a lesson, Nitai's hatred turned towards Boorimashi. The local priest who had for long eyed the small plot of land on which Boorimashi's hut sat, instigated Nitai to defend his honor. 'Be prepared fully to wipe out an evil from the society if need be', advised the priest cunningly.

Nitai bellowed out loud with rage, ‘She is a witch. Today she took my wife for an operation without my knowledge, tomorrow she lure others into doing the same. Now my wife won’t be able to give birth anymore! This old hag wants every female to turn barren like herself!’ Blood throbbed in his temple and his eyes burned with anger.

An agitated female voice shouted out hoarsely, ‘Yes, she herself is barren and that’s why she is forcing others to do the operation. It must be her black-magic with which she convinced Mala to commit such a sin’. The priest agreed with a few nods and wisely added, 'Shameful! heinious act against the will of the Lord'.

Others cried, ‘She will kill all our children with her black-magic. Last week Shibu’s little child died suddenly after two days of illness….it also must be because of her black-magic. Old witch!’

‘Yes I had seen Shibu’s son playing near this old hag’s hut a few days before he died. I had seen her giving him biscuits. She must have poisoned him,’ concocted another bystander, surprised at the fecundity of his own imagination. ‘She is a danger to us all. She can’t be allowed to live in our slum!’ cried out the mob in unison.

They dragged Boorimashi out of her cottage and hit her with their sticks. Blood squirted out from her forehead. Her weak body wriggled on the ground, pleading for mercy. But nobody listened to her claims of innocence, nobody cared to believe that the operation was not her black-magic. Nobody heard Mala when she cried from her bed and yelled that what Boorimashi did was only on her request for help. The sight of blood had turned the men into wild beasts feasting on a weak prey. It became a macabre display of machoism for some, thrill for others. The children of the slum, naked and hungry, watched it all from a safe distance and took refuge behind their excited mothers who angrily shouted epithets at the old witch. The incessant blows on Boorimashi lasted till the revenge had been taken. The sinner had been punished. As the heads cooled down slowly, a sudden dismal feeling of shock, shame and worry overcame everyone. They began convincing themselves that it was not their fault, the rules of the society had been broken and the sinner had to be punished, the evil had to be wiped out from the slum.

An approaching police jeep’s siren was heard at a distance and everybody ran away. The men who had just bravely meted out justice turned into fugitives. The 'witch' lay dead in a pool of blood. Gentle rain drops that descended from the black monsoon clouds fell on Boorimashi’s body, but she didn’t grumble at them any longer. Her body lay on the street, still and cold. The clouds thundered overhead and flashed their swords. The black cat purred and leaped across the soggy alley. Mala wept in her bed, she lay weak and helpless as her mother sat by her, holfing her arm in an iron grip. The police made some cursory arrests, ransacked a few houses for goodies, nabbed a few innocent drunks from the local liquor shop and left the scene. Reporters scribbled furiously the mumblings of Pagla Khokon, a known madman in the slum, who having proclaimed himself as an eyewitness went on to provide them with a fictitious account of the event. The photographers clicked away at all angles to get the perfect shot of the dead. Their heads were busy searching for catchy titles for the news report. The municipal ambulance that collected the body made its way behind the police jeep, its siren rising feebly above the general din of the streets and the rumblings of the clouds overhead. And in the meantime the raindrops worked their way at softening the last batch of cow-dung cakes that carried the imprint of Boorimashi’s hand, erasing all signs of them from the old factory wall, steadily and stealthily.

THE END

The Witch (Part 2): Mala's Problem

Boorimashi came back from the old factory wall and went inside her hut, grumbling and complaining to herself about the monsoons, loudly enough to draw Mala’s attention. Mala stayed in a dingy hut only a few steps away from Boorimashi’s. Mala smirked on realizing that the curses were meant for the monsoon clouds and thought of chatting with poor Boorimashi.

Boorimashi managed to light a lamp after fumbling in the darkness for a while. She looked up on hearing Mala’s approaching steps. Mala came and stood near the door. Her weary eyes, seated deep in their sockets, found Boorimashi sitting at one corner of the room. Mala was in her early twenties, fairly tall, dark, and lean with worries. She was already was a mother of two. Her eldest son, Poltu, was born four years back and then three years later she was again blessed with a daughter whom she had named Minoti.

‘I heard you shouting….what’s the matter Boorimashi?’ asked Mala, carefully suppressing her smile.

Boorimashi took up her torn straw-mattress that was resting in one dark corner, folded in a cylindrical form and propped at an angle against the walls. She unrolled it, holding one side with both her hands, and waved it twice to shake off the dust before spreading it out on the floor. Then her wrinkled hand reached out for her torn palm-leaf fan and started cooling herself. Mala sat down on the mattress with her legs splayed and hands resting on the floor behind.

‘Why was I shouting?’ retorted Boorimashi at Mala’s question as if the answer was evident. 'The monsoon is here. It’s the most wretched season of the year. Today the entire lot of my cow dung cakes has been washed away'. ‘You are always complaining about something or the other!’ replied Mala teasingly. Boorimashi ignored her comment and went on fanning herself.

Mala hesitated for a while and then moved on to discuss something that was more important to her; something that had been gnawing at her heart for quite sometime then. She moved close to Boorimashi and said softly, ‘You know, he has been asking for a third one.’*

Boorimashi seemed to be happy on hearing it. She smiled, her eyes squinted, and her shriveled lips parted to form a wide joyful grin, exposing her red gum and the few unevenly spaced teeth that stood on them. But Mala didn’t seem to be very excited that her husband, Nitai, was in favor of having yet another child for she was quite happy with the two she had and didn’t want a third one. She was worried about it and had come to ask for Boorimashi’s advice. Boorimashi had served as the midwife during her previous two deliveries and Mala trusted her and valued this old lady’s opinion. One NGO lady who once came to visit their slum a year back had told Mala about the need to maintain a ‘small and happy family’ and had handed her a red and white batch to her that carried a symbol of a couple and two kids- one boy and a girl. The NGO lady had explained that only a small family like the one shown can bring prosperity to the nation. At the time Mala was happy to find that the symbol matched exactly with that of her own family; she felt as if the symbol had been solely inspired by her own family. She had enjoyed watching the envy in the eyes of her women neighbors when the NGO lady praised her family and mentioned it as an ideal example.

However, Mala had not fully understood the things that the NGO lady said, she had mentioned some kind of surgery and all. Mala had stared with awe in her eyes, amazed at the lady’s smartness and confidence. But she had only realized that the words of the NGO lady had truth in them and that she would need to follow her words if she wanted her children to grow up well. She had seen how two of her elder sister’s five children died of some disease which the doctor had said were caused due to malnutrition. She didn’t want the same to happen to her kids. She wanted both Poltu and Minoti to be healthy, she wanted them to go to the nearby Government school, and she dreamt that one day Minoti will get a good groom and Poltu will be working in some office instead of becoming a rogue like his father. She told it all to Boorimashi, the details of her immense worries and her little hopes. Boorimashi listened to her carefully, nodding her head in approval from time to time, and finally she said, ‘Don’t worry. I will take you to Doctor Munshi if you want; he will be able to tell what actually needs to be done. I have also heard about this surgery. Last month, Chatterjee’s daughter got it done. The in-laws were at first upset, but they didn’t stop her. Chaterjee ginni was telling me about all that some days back. She said that it is a small operation and is safe too. I will ask her for details about it. You go to sleep now, don’t worry so much, things will be fine’. ‘But I am only worried about Nitai and other people here….do you think they won’t mind if I get the operation done? I think they will curse me and talk bad about me,’ said Mala despondently.

The old caring voice once again responded with the usual consolation- ‘Don’t worry.’ Mala hesitated a bit as if she had more things to tell but got up slowly. She complained that Nitai hadn’t come home for the previous two weeks. Her brows knitted together with disgust at the thought of her husband’s frivolity but she controlled her anger. Boorimashi stood near her cottage door with her soot stained lamp that threw a suffused yellow light on the alley and watched Mala as she walked back to her hut. The gloomy night sky, still covered with clouds, hang low with a sense of foreboding. A black cat mewed and emerged stealthy from the backyard; its green eyes glowed fiercely in the darkness of the surroundings. It gave a momentary pause, alarmed by Boorimashi’s peering eyes, and it swiftly leaped across the soggy passage before disappearing in the night’s cloak. Boorimashi grumbled at the inauspicious creature with disgust and scuffed back to her room.

* Women in these parts don’t take their husband’s name while talking; rather they refer to them with pronouns like ‘he’, ‘him’, and ‘his’; a tacit convention that everyone follows well.

The Witch (Part 1): The Arrival of Monsoon

Dark and sullen nimbus clouds appeared over the horizon. They had found their way into the city earlier than what the weather forecasters had predicted. The sun which had ruled over the city sky for the last three months of a scorching summer found itself surrounded by these somber adversaries; its orange rays flickered like dying sighs before it vanished behind the black folds. The dark clouds grumbled potent threats and flashed their swords as they spread across the sky. Mischievous wild gusts of wind carried away clothes from the cloth-lines, rattled window panes in desperate attempts to free them from their iron hinges and rummaged through unattended notebooks to liberate all the loose pages tucked away between them - love poems of a shy teenager, photos of a childhood sweetheart, letters to the beloved that were never mailed.

It was the beginning of the monsoon season in Calcutta.

People scurried for their homes. Little kids pouted their lips as their mothers dragged them off the playground. Only the street urchins continued with their game of football. The black clouds, languid and overweight, swallowed up the sky bit by bit. A heavy downpour followed. People fumbled hard against the strong winds to lock all the doors and windows to keep out the torrential, yet cherished, rain. Only a few who could not resist the temptation of soothing themselves by letting the raindrops trickle down their parched skin came out and stood in the open and got soaked to their heart’s content. Taking advantage of their mother's struggle against the winds at the cloth-lines, the kids sneaked out to dance in the rain and to enjoy the freedom of the street urchins. They sailed paper boats in the puddles formed in potholes. But soon their angry mothers came out, warned them against fever and forcibly dragged them home with a few gentle slaps. The frail paper boats, deserted by their little owners, struggled to float for a few minutes, but were either toppled by heavy raindrops or got crushed under the wheels of rickshaws and bicycles. It rained and rained, heavily and incessantly. The roar of lightning and thunder was met with the monotonous sound of conch that housewives blew in unison to placate Indra, the god of storm.

It was nine-thirty, almost four hours since the rain had started. By then the rain drops were tired of following their predecessor’s way of ricocheting from the windows, tapping against the glass, running down the window sills like a perennial stream of sparkling beads, filling up the potholes, flooding the sewage drains, and had weakened down to a soft drizzle. Lightning continued to flash across the dark night sky intermittently, albeit with a limited arrogance. The thunder had reduced to an occasional rumbling among the moisture drained clouds. The city inhabitants were preparing their beds after the scrumptious dinner of plate-full khichdi and onion pakodas, specially cooked to mark the beginning of such long awaited comfortable nights. As the household lights were turned off one by one, the city started vanishing fast in an expanding grip of darkness. An unusual stillness loomed everywhere, its eeriness being occasionally shaken by the shrill cries of the drenched street dogs. At times their cries were prolonged enough to form depressing moans that sounded more inauspicious than irritating, and added a latent discomfort somewhere deep down in the sleeping souls. A few dim but brave streetlights fought against the fast-spreading darkness to faintly illuminate the city roads, casting tall shadows of Boorimashi on the nearby dank building walls as she made her way back to her hut. Mud squelched under her slippers making it difficult for her to walk. But Boorimashi trudged along carefully till she reached her destination- a tiny hut at the end of Chaulpotti Lane, one of the many slums that dot the city of Calcutta.

Chaulpotti Lane was full of makeshift huts with thatched roofs and some with orange-red baked mud tiles that were arranged adjacent to each other over sloping roofs. Their walls were mostly made of rags and bamboo. Blue and black tarpaulin tents littered with lean and hungry bodies inside occupied the footpaths. The rainwater had spoiled their rags and so they slept on piles of old newspapers and cardboard boxes. The western part of the slum, a comparatively low-lying area, was faced with even a bigger problem of stagnant water that was almost knee deep at places. The contents of the nearby garbage dump where the city municipality trucks came every day to clear off the city’s trash had been washed away in the rains. Filth lay strewn all over the streets and a stench hung heavy in the air. But this wasn’t anything new for the Chaulpotti Lane slum dwellers, they had got used to all these over the past decades. They had learned not only to endure it but also to accept it as the wish of that almighty who determines everyone’s fate, and whom they had been worshiping sheepishly and unquestioningly as an impartial and omnipotent power behind the workings of the vast universe.

Boorimashi was in her late sixties but her wrinkled skin and thin bony arms with saggy lumps of little flesh dangling below gave her the appearance of an octogenarian. She had dense white hair which fluttered in the air and almost toothless gum which made her look like an old oriental witch from the pages of some fairy tale. But in spite of her frail looks she wasn’t very weak. She lived alone and managed all her things by herself . The rain had stopped and the faint murmurs among the clouds sounded like a jostle among birds as they settled down for the night. Boorimashi reached her hut and stood outside inspecting the puddles of water and looking around to estimate the extent of damage caused by the rains. She suddenly remembered the cow-dung cakes that she had left to dry on the factory wall that morning and hurriedly went there to find out if they too had been washed away. Cow-dung cakes* were a source of a small income for her. Boorimashi had managed to coax the old Chatterjee couple who owned the Lodge at the crossing of Chaulpotti Lane and Station Road to allow her to collect the dung of their two cows. Boorimashi had been working as a maid at the Chatterjees’ Lodge for more than twenty years and so this longtime acquaintance made the Chatterjees agree to her request without much reservation. Milkman Bhola Halder’s wife, Champa, a peddler of cow dung cakes, bought the cakes that Boorimashi produced and sold them at higher price in the city suburbs. But Boorimashi was happy with whatever extra money she earned this way. The salary that she got from working at the Chatterjee Lodge along with this little extra income was sufficient to meet her basic expenses and even allowed for occasional little extravagance like a two rupee ice-cream cone or a couple of sweets from the fly infested sweet shop on Station Road. The delight from indulging in this slight profligacy that the extra income allowed was so great for her that she didn’t mind tiring herself with the additional work. Everyday she used to go out to collect cow-dung in the morning and then pasted it in the form of small, flat, circular disks on the old factory wall with her own hand and left them there to dry in the sunshine. And on drying she collected them in sacks and kept them ready for Champa to buy.

The old factory wall where Boorimashi dried her cow-dung cakes belonged to a closed factory that was once known as the Raheja Jute Mills. It was a dilapidated structure with green moss stained walls, lined with deep cracks inhabited by reptiles. The rusted iron frame of the roof jutted out menacingly against the sky with broken asbestos sheets dangling precariously from its chassis. Weeds and shrubs had grown erratically in the factory precincts. The main entrance door to the factory was tinted green with moss. A huge iron lock, red with rust, hang on it. Just above it was a ‘Suspension of Work’ notice, written hastily in black paint some twenty years ago when a labor unrest over due wages forced the management to close the factory for once and all. Since then the factory that once used to roar with the noise of thousand machines, chattering of the workers and hourly whistles fell into a dead silence. Nobody had entered its premises over the years. But its outer walls still served a variety of purposes; the eastern wall was for Boorimashi to dry her cow-dung cakes while the others displayed various graffiti- a hammer and sickle painted in red, notices of political rallies, election promises, and slogans of ‘Vote for a better Government’. These were flanked by arrays of colorful posters of political leaders pasted all over the walls without any reverence for the dead factory’s ‘Stick No Bills’ warnings.

Boorimashi heaved a sigh of despair. All her efforts had gone in vain. The walls were spotted with little remnants of the cow-dung cakes that she had left to dry. The heavy downpour had managed to soften the dung and broke them away from the wall. She cursed her luck as she headed back for her hut. More than the financial losses what pained her was the loss of the cakes themselves for she never thought of them as inanimate entities meant just for selling but had a rather strange affection for them. This conspicuously weird behavior of Boorimashi started ever since she took conscious notice that every cow-dung cakes she made carried the impression of her palm, unaltered, right from the time of their conception as she pasted them on the wall to the time when their pitiable life ended up in smoke. Each one of them had a different shape and size but all of them faithfully carried the same impression -the impression of her hand, the imprint that identified them as hers, somewhat like the faint imprint of parent's facial features that all children carry. And so she sometimes felt that instead of selling them she could as well preserve these little creations of her barren life. But then she knew that it was a crazy thought and she herself would smile at her silliness.

*a cheap fuel still in use for cooking in very few households, mostly in suburban areas.

The loop without a hole

Once upon a time there lived a writer who became famous (and perhaps even notorious) for always beginning his stories with the cliched opening sentence: "Once upon a time..."
Whether this curious literary style was a product of a pathological level of nostalgia (which may well explain the reported bouts of depression that the writer frequently suffered from) or a quirky modernist experiment (in which case the writer was way ahead of his time) has remained as a matter of great debate among critics and readers. Even to this date his admirers proclaim him as a true visionary, while his detractors reject him as a hack who lacked even the slightest imagination to come up with variations in his opening sentence. But most scholars have noted that his stories were all very original, and each of them was unique in their content and style. Therefore, it would seem more likely that the writer had deliberately chosen to use the same opening line in all his stories. While the debate on the quality of his works raged on, few took the trouble to identify the possible source or inspiration that motivated the writer to adopt this whimsical style. Only recently, a renowned critic and Fabrication Times columnist, Dr. I.M.A. Sinik, presented an idea that best elucidates the reasons for the writer's style. Dr. Sinik argues that the writer got the idea to use the same opening line in all his stories after coming across a fictional account written by some unknown writer in which the protagonist was a quirky writer who always began his stories in the exactly same way. In his last Sunday's column Dr. Sinik revealed that this fictional account, titled "The loop without a hole", was written by a relatively unknown writer (an errata issued later in Fabrication Times clarified that the unknown writer was in fact a resident of a mental asylum for the most part of his adult life), and he cited the following excerpt from the original fiction to justify his claim: Once upon a time there lived a writer who became famous (and perhaps even notorious) for always beginning his stories with the cliched opening sentence: "Once upon a time..."
Whether this curious literary style was a product of a pathological level of nostalgia (which may well explain the reported bouts of depression that the writer frequently suffered from) or a quirky modernist experiment (in which case the writer was way ahead of his time) has remained as a matter of great debate among critics and readers.

Reveal 7 random things about you

A fat friend of mine whom I know from schooldays (or at least that's how I would like to remember him even if he loses his weight) wrote an entry on his blog about "7 random things about you" at the behest of some other friend of his. My initial reaction was to ridicule him for claiming that he is tidy (or what he calls as his 'organized chaos') since I know from college days that his room was far from it. It was littered with the junk and filth he collected from his seniors. But then I refrained from calling him out on it, mainly because I had started to think whether I also have 7 random things that I could write about myself, that is, do I know myself well enough to write 7 such things? After a bit of struggle, I finally managed to write them down:

1. I like to imagine myself sitting at a window in an old English style cottage on some remote East Coast island. From there I watch the gentle waves of the ocean as they caress the pebbly beach lying beyond a vast patch of sun dried beach grass. I sit at that window all day, envying the playful gulls as they hover above fishing boats in fearless joy. But when I hear the whistle of the occasional ferries that arrive at this island's harbor, I get reminded of the mainland to which I belong, and from which I am always eager to escape, even if only for a moment, even if only on a flight of fantasy.

I did manage to escape to this island once on a cold and misty December morning. It goes by the name of Block Island.

2. I like to wander through a city's streets and back alleys, like a ghost, free of all commitments, worries and squabbles of everyday life, indifferent to all feelings of pain and joy, and just content to watch other people as they go about with their miserable and mundane life. They are all performers on a stage who are blissfully unaware that I am one of their greatest admirers. And so, as a ghost I am fully free to enjoy my anonymity amidst these teeming millions of gifted playwrights and talented performers. They all can act without memorizing any script or having any rehearsals. They come and go, shouting out their lines at random, but still behaving as if their cacophony has some definite meaning. Does this play belong to the Theater of the Absurd? Am I watching Ionesco's The Bald Soprano? But no, this is not it. Gradually I have realized that although this play is meaningless, it is still an epic drama -one whose plot and scenes are totally unknown to the entire cast, and even to a ghost.

3. I like to read fiction and to watch movies. They allow me to forget the burden of existence, which according to me, like almost everything else, is completely meaningless. And any attempt by human beings to assign meanings will be quite arbitrary, and therefore, must be rejected. Some of my friends say that I am a 'nihilist', maybe so, but such labels have no meaning for either me or any true nihilists as far as I can tell.

4. I like to sit in coffee shops and bookstores, and preferably in bookstores with coffee shops. One awakens the mind, the other awakens the senses.
The Rittenhouse Square Barnes & Nobles has a cafe that is particularly interesting; you get to enjoy your coffee under the watchful eyes of Kafka, Joyce, Shaw, Wilde, Woolf, Twain, Tagore, and a host of other literary geniuses, who all share the cafe walls with many yellow hued photos of 19th century Philadelphia.

5. I have a love-hate relationship with my hobbies of painting and sculpting. I have a habit of destroying these works, and I have been like that since childhood. I am very self-destructive; it brings me great suffering and melancholy -the two basic ingredients I need to transform me into my ghost.

6. I am anti-religion to the core.

Religions are the most dangerous invention of human imagination. If mankind has to progress and survive, religions must die, along with all their delusional saints, prophets, charlatans, fanatics, gods and goddesses (yes, I refuse to use capital letters for them). All that should survive this purge are the elaborate tales about these beings that we have spun for our impromptu script, so ardently and desperately with the hope of giving some meaning to our wretched lives, or perhaps to convince ourselves that receiving justice is our birth-right, and that we all will get it someday, if not in this life then in the afterlife for sure. Till then we can only seek pity. The idea of an unfair world is so terrifying that we prefer to live in hope than to face reality. Some like me turn to fiction and fantasy instead. That way they can live in a much fairer and colorful world and carry it around within the modest enclosure of their skull, at least as long as the chemicals inside it permit them to do so.

7. I like to travel.

In my memory, Chicago is Steel Gray, New York is Blue, San Francisco is Orange, Seattle is Bluish Gray, Rome is Brick Orange, Venice is Ocean Blue, Portland (Oregon) is Green, Boston and Delhi are Red, and Calcutta is faded Yellow, like the shades of old photographs from an album that was locked up in a chest and later forgotten along with other memories of yesteryears. I have also seen many photos of the same hue lining the walls of a Philadelphia bookstore's cafe; they were pictures of busy markets, trams, and horse drawn carriages -like the ones I saw in front of the Victoria Memorial when I was a boy growing up in Calcutta.

The yellow photos of Calcutta that my mind has preserved, although somewhat damped and discolored, remind me of the city's lawless yellow taxis and policemen in yellow khakis who have to regularly teach them the law for a nominal bribe; the yellow school building where I wasted twelve years of my life; the yellow pages of the used books bought in College Street; the yellow facade of Medical College where patients and their relatives lie scattered on the front stairs like victims of a massacre; the yellow coaches of metro rail that slither in the city's underground passages and the decrepit yellow trams that once ruled the city's surface; the yellow rajbhogs and yellow kachuris that my grandma liked; the yellow saree that my mother sometimes wore; the yellow goddess with ten arms and four children who comes to Baghbazzar year after year without any slightest change in her routine; the yellow marigold garlands that adorn her neckline; the penniless yellow eyed drunks who having fallen out of the goddess' grace lie next to the drains overflowing with yellow urine; the yellow dump trucks of KMC (formerly CMC) that collect all this shit and garbage from the city, and the yellow river Ganga that dutifully washes away all the city's filth and sins into the heart of Sunderbans -the islands where yellow tigers live, and where playful gulls hover above fishing boats in fearless joy as I watch them from another continent, miles and miles away, through the imaginary window of an old English cottage on a remote island, where I travel freely in space and time, seeking refuge from the realities of my unscripted life.

The controversy surrounding M. F. Hussain's citizenship

I was constantly surprised to see how irrational most people's views are when it comes to social issues, and in this particular case, about freedom of expression. I read this entry titled, "Does India deserve M F Hussain?" on Soutik Biswas' BBC blog. There was a long list of vitriolic comments left by the angry mob, consisting mainly of patriotic Indians, proud of their new found wealth and status in the world, confident of their self-assuring rhetorics about diversity and tolerance. Most commentators identified themseleves as Hindus, some of whom, surprisingly enough, even claimed that they were liberals, only with a small yet immensely confusing clarification that they were of a special kind that respects freedom of expression in arts provided that it doesn't cross the boundaries of tolerance, that is, as long as their holy cows aren't tickled. As far as I can see, they are the moderates who mistakenly believe that they are liberals, or perhaps enjoy proclaiming themselves as liberals. Anyway, I don't intend to appear condescending based on such trivial matters of nomenclature, especially not when all their arguments can be deconstructed point-by-point to reveal their meaninglessness. The bulk of their opinions fall into one or more of the following four categories, each of which are nothing more than a reflection of the prevalent illogical and reactionary sentiments which continue to plague India's social progress.

(1) Some readers feel that M. F. Husain should have depicted some Muslim or Christian Prophets in nude so as to balance out his 'offenses' in the eyes of Hindus. Their claim is that Hindus are more tolerant and that Husain has exploited this tolerance.

This is by far the most ignorant and illogical argument. It seems that our standard of tolerance has gone down to such a level where Hindus think that they are being more tolerant as long as they don't end up killing an artist for his artworks. Extremism is not the benchmark against which tolerance is to be judged because in that way any fundamentalist action, no matter how damaging and disreputable, can be passed off as a mark of tolerance. Such incidents have happened even in the past with Deepa Mehta and Taslima Nasreen's works, and their recurrences only prove how intolerant the Indian society is, no matter how fervently one claims otherwise. Indians should not even approve, encourage or justify such behaviors, irrespective of what other countries and their religions do. Husain should be free to paint anything he wants, and in similar way, all bans on Rushdie's 'Satanic Verses', Taslima Nasreen's books should be lifted. Those who don't like an artist's work can write a rebuttal or review, but have no right to stop him or her from creating their art or prevent others from enjoying it. Only a psychologically repressed society advocates violent retribution, and unfortunately, India is one, as amply demonstrated by most of the commentators. How did it all come to this is a question that one often wonders when they look at the creativity of our predecessors. For India to truly develop, advances in technology must be accompanied with much needed social reforms.

(2) Some comments argue that Husain's art goes against Indian 'morality'

This too is entirely meaningless, since morality is not an absolute concept; it is subjective, and above all, it continuously evolves over time, and rightly so. In fact, it is the duty of an artist to challenge the prevalent notions of morality and to make people question them so that we don't get stuck with false, yet well-accepted, notions about morals. In any case it is not some abstract notion of morality that Husain's art poses a threat to, if at all, it just exposes the fact that the idea of morality, at least among a large portion of the Indian population, is too closely associated with religious beliefs or simplistic sentimentality as opposed to conscientiousness.

(3) A few commentators suggest that Husain should have been more 'sensitive' about general public opinion.

Artists are perhaps the most sensitive and conscious beings in the first place. Over the course of mankind's progress, it has been the artists, scientists, and philosophers who have mostly held ideas that were extremely unpopular, if not downright unacceptable, to the general public at the time. And so they made many enemies. But that didn't stop them from provoking the public again and again, not out of malice but out of the sheer need to seek truth and to enlighten the masses. If the argument that one should not express oneself out of sensitivity towards the general public opinion was justified, then we would have lost most of the great writers, painters, playwrights, and in fact, we would still be believing that the earth is the center of the solar system. Therefore, it is not only appropriate but also necessary that thinkers continue to offend the general public by forcing them to face realities and questioning their holy cows. Public opinion cannot be a consideration while expressing oneself through painting or writing; if the public doesn't like it then they can simply turn their back. An art form that is unaesthetic it will die out naturally.

In conclusion, it is important to accept that Indians need to show true tolerance instead of simply speaking about it, and that overlooking or denying our society's flaws is not an act of patriotism, but correcting them is. What India desperately needs is a wave of social reforms -an Indian renaissance that will enlighten both its thriving middle income class and its oppressed lower income class. While the technological progress is already happening, the cultural and social reforms are yet to be seen. It is the artists who can show the way. But time is of essence; the nuovo rich society is being numbed by the comforts of the cozy multiplexes and shopping malls and are simply turning apathetic to the need to fight against all kinds of bigotry, religious dogmatism, superstition, and ignorance. It will not be possible to sustain the country's progress in the absence of that consciousness.

Femme Fatale, Part 3: The Sermon

The Master, Mary's father, began his sermon with a gentle smile.
Dear friends, as you know, we are all the children of God, the omniscient, omnipresent, omnipotent God; a God so potent and virile in His imagination that He managed to imagine the creation of billions of earthlings, each with the same potency and imagination to imagine their real creator in all His glory.
He took a deep breath, peered at the congregation, as if to judge whether they were following him or not, and then calmly continued:
Yet, we have lost our way. False prophets have misled us and established religions in His praise. But a few of us have found the right way, and we have assembled here today to understand and interpret His message in the way He had originally intended us to. The question that we will discuss today is "What is the real meaning of life?" But to answer that we must first understand 'reality' itself. Dear friends, come here one by one and take this from my hand. This is the only substance that can help you to understand reality.

He stood up with a chalice in his hand and the devotees lined up before him. Josh also joined the queue. The Master took out what seemed to be strips of some kind of blotter paper and dipped them in the alcohol of the chalice before putting one in each devotee's mouth. Josh also received one, and moments later he had an experience which is similar, although much more disillusioning, than the one you, the reader, might have on closely watching this video:

The congregation hobbled back to their seats as the Master began to speak again.
Dear friends, our eyes and senses deceive us, what we believe to be reality is probably a mere illusion. God has thrown a challenge for us, it is to see whether we can overcome our immediate notion of reality and use our imagination to find what He really intended. Unfortunately, established religions have failed to guide us. They ask humans to repent and to be afraid of His wrath. They tell us that it is He who will judge us in the end. But dear friends, they are all wrong. God has given us all His potency and imagination, and yet we fail to see that the real meaning of life is to live it. And to live it is to enjoy it. The joy of life, my dear friends, is in the act of union between two bodies. It is the most spiritual experience that one can have, and yet our corrupt society would prefer not to talk about it, and religions make them believe that the purification of soul is possible by renouncing sexual desires. Friends, it is against this false notion of puritanism that we must fight.

Josh could not understand most of the sermon, but images like the one above flashed in his mind. They did seem to be telling him something vaguely similar. The teary eyed congregation was in praise of the Master's sermon. Josh was too confused to understand what they were saying, and he mechanically chanted along with them, 'Master! O, Master, help us to taste the joy of life!'

The Master began to speak again.
Dear friends, now we shall seek God by fulfilling His wish. My dear daughter, Mary, will help you in seeking His grace.
The Master then turned to Mary, who was looking more beautiful than ever. Through the haze of smoke, she came forward like an angel and stood beside her father. The Master invited the eldest member of the congregation, a yellow eyed, hairy, old drunk, who took Mary with him to the next room. Josh sat perplexed, he could not understand it at first. The old drunk came out after a long time, buttoning his shirt, and he handed over a few bank notes to the Master, bowed respectfully, and left. One after the other, the members went in to that room, came out after sometime, either tucking their shirt or zipping up their trouser, and they paid to the Master, bowed and then left. Josh was the last member left in the house. By then he had regained some of his senses. It was his turn to go in. The Master accompanied him to the next room where Mary lay naked on the bed.
- Come here darling, I was waiting for you, she said coquettishly.
- You whore!, exclaimed Josh, gripped in a fit of rage.
At this the Master suddenly thrust at him and pinned him down on the bed next to Mary. Josh had never imagined that the old man was capable of showing such strength and violence. He shouted at Josh, 'You filthy apostate! How dare you insult her?' Josh realized that the Master was searching his pockets and as soon as he had found the wad of cash, Josh's monthly salary, he left the room with it. 'Learn to show respect to the Lady, she will be your savior and your salvation,' barked the Master on his way out.
- Come dear, don't get upset. I am here for you, said Mary.
Josh looked at her with disgust for sometime.
- Come my baby, she said, extending her arms towards Josh.
Josh slowly embraced her and began to sob like a child. Behind his closed eyelids he saw an image which seemed to narrate back to him this story of his life: