Khirkee Voice (Issue 6) English

KHIRKEE VOICE

SUMMER EDITION

ISSUE #6

A Mother’s Unwavering Love for her Child

The many Moods of Love in the City

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S E A S O N A L REPORT J U LY - S E P T E M B E R 2 0 1 8

allamanda golden trumpet

ABIDJAN, IVORY COAST

PLEASANT THROUGH JULY, HEAVY RAINS IN AUGUST

DELHI, INDIA

h i b is c u s

HOT AND HUMID WITH PERIODIC RAINS

KABUL, AFGHANISTAN

tulips

WARM AND SUNNY THROUGHOUT

KINSHASA, CONGO

pink egyptian starclusters

PLEASANT WEATHER THROUGHOUT, OCCASSIONAL T-STORMS IN SEP

LAGOS, NIGERIA

calla lily

12 PAGES

Mahavir Singh Bisht

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n these polarised times, complex issues like patriotism and nationalism can take on varied meanings. When the country is plagued with problems, feelings of nationalism are ignited in the minds of people with all kinds of ideologies. Our hearts swell with pride when we witness processions of the armed forces at the Republic Day parade. The kites we fly on independence day represent our freedom and love for the country.

The question then is, is allegiance and love for the country only represented by these symbols? Does love for the country have more to do with abiding by its laws? Are we carrying out our duties as patriotic citizens?

Brimming with these questions, we decided to speak with some residents of Khirkee Extension in order to know their opinions.

“Everybody loves their motherland. There is no real need to explain it,” says Rohit Khanna, who runs a paint shop in J block of Khir-

THE LOVE ISSUE

Ch.6 of Forced into the Ocean

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Supported by

Bhagwati Prasad’s inimitable expression

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my

COUNTRY

And the many ways Khirkeewasi’s express it... kee Extension. At the same time, he says, “Being a citizen, we should take care of the cleanliness of our neighbourhood because we talk about fundamental rights but do not care for our duties as citizens. What will come of blaming those in power for every problem?” His remarks point to the core principles of patriotism which entrust our citizenry to be as diligent about exercising their duties as of their rights.

Romeo, from the Democratic Republic of Congo, had to leave his country when he was threatened for writing songs critiquing those in power. He said, “When we see something wrong happening around us, we need to raise our voices. The people need to be given a wake-up call.

Perhaps that is what true patriotism is.” From this perspective, it is better to speak up and demand change in the country, rather than being a mute spectator.

We met Bhole Shankar Sharma, who is a big cricket fan. He remembers India’s World Cup win in 1983, under Kapil Dev’s captaincy., and his happiness knowing no

bounds. Sharma has been working as a painter in Khirkee Extension for many years. He says, “Whenever the country needs me, I will be there to contribute in my own way. I cannot be at the border without training, but I will contribute according to my abilities. After all, I do love my country.” He also told us that one of his closest friends is from a different religion and that it is absolutely wrong for some anti-social elements to question a person’s love for the country just because they do not share the same faith.

This lead us to wonder why politicians often question the patriotism of some people, while the common man doesn’t make these distinctions, prefering to live in harmony.

Mohammad Shammi, who works as an electrician in Khirkee, shed some light on the topic. “Everyone feels connected to their place of birth.

Country and religion are different. People may have different ideologies, but politics create rifts for thier own gains, this is problematic for our democracy. People need to change their thinking. If someone

questions another’s feelings of nationalism there needs to be debate around this, because every citizen contributes to the country in his own way. “ Through his view, we understand that perhaps more important than nationalism is humanism, where people of a society are sensitive and empathetic to each other.

Devika Menon, who runs a canteen in Khirkee, summed up her views beautifully. “If we love our country, we should not litter. We must use our resources wisely and must ensure that women feel safe.

We should also be sensitive to others around us,” she said about some practical ways to show your love for your country.

We asked our friend Yues, from the Ivory Coast, about what he thinks people should do for their country. He said, “If you love your country, be welcoming to the guests.

I like living in India very much, but because of the difference in language, I can’t talk to too many people. But sometimes I forget that I am in a different country, it is like home 9 to me.” Yues has been living in

my father-in-law’s office. For almost half an hour, all of us kids were sitting outside while our parents were talking inside. This is how we got hitched.

KV: So, nobody has objected since?

SC: No, nobody has objected since. The neighbors also have no objection.

KV: We are curious, there are usually lots of assumptions regarding Hindu-

Muslim marriages, but none of them seem to appear in your story, how is that?

SC: I’ve had lot of Muslim friends since childhood. There are good and bad people of all faiths. This also depends on your experiences and education. It is imperative to think about these things with an open mind. They should make their thinking progressive.

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A LOVE STORY FOR ALL SEASONS Sandeep Chhikara and Syed Mehnaz have been a happy couple for over eight years. Khirkee Voice spoke with Sandeep about their shared journey of faith and acceptance.

HEAVY RAINFALLS THROUGHOUT

maltese rock cantaury

MOGADISHU, SOMALIA

PATNA, INDIA

safed kachnar

illustrations: shivangi singh

PLEASANT AND CLOUDY WITH FREQUENT T-STORMS

HOT AND HUMID WITH HEAVY RAINS THROUGHOUT

KV: Sandeep Ji, tell us how your story started?

SC: I met Mehnaz for the first time in around 2005, when I got a job in a company. She was our trainer. We spoke casually over the next three days, and then had no contact for the next few months. Then a group of trainees made a plan to meet-up and nobody except Mehnaz and I showed up. This is how we started talking.

We spoke casually over the phone and met once or twice in a year.

Around two years later we met at a New Year’s party where I proposed to her. She said yes. We had our doubts because she was a Muslim and I was a Jaat. My family didn’t have much objection to love marriages

in general. We were both getting getting marriage proposals, so I decided to tell my family about us.

My father initially objected, but after my mom spoke with him, he agreed.

My father assured me that he would be on our side. Her whole family was against us initially. Then, her brother showed interest in meeting me, after which he agreed, but the rest of their family still hadn’t. Finally, when I spoke with her father, he said, this is your life and your future, right or wrong, it will be your cross to bear.

When our parents finally agreed to meet, a new problem cropped up- in our culture, people from the girl’s side come with a proposal and in their culture, the boy’s side does. We decided to meet on neutral ground,

KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018

LOVE MAKES THE WORLD GO ‘ROUND 2

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o take our minds off temperatures that seem to be competing with petrol prices to break record highs, we decided, for this sixth edition of Khirkee Voice, to focus on somewhat softer matters of the heart.

‘Love’ is that ephemeral feeling that eludes precise definition or description, and yet, few emotions have found more avenues of expression. Love for a lover is not the same as love for a child, or love for a country, or love for God, but in the written word, it is always Love. ‘The Love Issue’ unpacks some of these complex and timeless expressions of a universal ‘feeling’, into vignettes

that take you through a range of emotions that the ephemeral sensation of ‘love’ might make one feel.

Speaking with residents of Khirkee about the ways they express their love for their country was refreshing - the timeless wisdom of the working class prevails in our streets - live and let live, respect everyone around you, be productive, were some common sentiments. Quirky wedding rituals from some of the places Khirkwaasi’s hail from reveal the universal sense of play and joy associated with unions of love across the world. A child speaks of the nostalgic love for her mother, and a mother speaks of her

unwavering love for her child. A lover of cities, and of books, takes us for a walk through her “fictionhood “. An artist draws the kinds of love that are and are not forbidden, and an illustrator illustrates its many moods in the city.

As the days get longer and hotter, we hope this issue of Khirkee Voice brings our readers some respite to the soul, with these stories that make real the adage, “Love makes the World go ‘Round”. Like the love two people feel for each other can help them overcome the odds, the love we feel for another, and for ourselves, can set us free and help us reach unimaginable highs.

Summer Edition, 2018 • KHIRKEE VOICE

I SEE AS I READ, I READ AS I SEE THE DISTANT

HORIZON Punyasil Yonzon

consider myself to be a very blessed person. The realisation has only been recent though, however, I also realised I shall not run out of it at all! As a matter of fact, the blessings shall only grow, maybe even multiple but never recede! Mother thinks I need medical attention to recover from this blessing overdose.

Speaking to her the other day, she asked if I am coming home anytime soon. She worries every time my voice sounds heavy to her on the speaker phone as dad and she eagerly wait to hear of my return plans from Delhi. As I tell them about the excitement at work and my obsession with herbal tea, the conversation does not leave any scope to cover the topic of return plans. Relieved, I get going with my Sunday chores, which include, other than my beauty bath, a rigorous task of dusting my room. I remove every item carefully, dust the table top and put the items back, perfectly as they were. Dusting is therapeutic; to me, it is extremely so!

the iconic Krishna mandir lane in Khirkee extension. At the balcony, I have kept a few plants to give me the illusion of my room overlooking a garden. Waking up to see an areca palm from the window is very peaceful. Stepping out to the balcony to stretch and breathe deep is when this illusionary peace gets shattered. I sneeze uncontrollably like a machine gun that leaves me feeling distressed through the day and people around me concerned.

This condition of mine, called ‘hyper allergy to dust’, has precisely been the reason my mother worries about me staying in Delhi. This is one of Delhi’s prominent features, one that I never imagined existed when I stepped off the aircraft at IGI airport in 2006. I remember there was a dust storm that evening, but never thought of it as an omen of my bodies’ reaction to it.

Khirkee draws a lot of attention of its municipal contractors and urban planners. On any day, we can find some form of construction, or destruction for better construction, in progress. Sewage lines are fixed every year before the rain hits, followed by laying the tar on the

Ambitious as a free bird and curious with thoughts, I had arrived in Delhi in 2006. I found it to be an exciting city, vibrant and with Fifa World Cup being telecasted every evening, it was even better. As I stand here today, checking if the candles are sitting in perfect angles to the corners of my table top, these memories run fresh through my head. I struggle to conclude an answer my mother has so long been waiting to hear from me. Perhaps, it never was there in my thoughts to make me curious enough to delve into. Or, Delhi has provided me with so much of its prominence that it pushes me further away from the thought of planning my return from here. These are the dilemmas that I fight with every time I pick up my dusting cloth and channelize my anger as I lose the battle, both with my heart and the dust that has settled evenly on my table top.

My room overlooks Gauri Shankar mandir which is along

road, followed by digging up the tar to lay the water pipes, followed by laying the tar to be followed by another digging up to fix the sewage line before the rain hits. Concerns of Khirkee are widely heard by all. However, this very attention has got my mother concerned as I struggle to breathe in the cloud of dust that always looms heavy along every narrow lane of Khirkee.

Waking in the middle of night gasping for breath, I am left hazy through the day; work becomes tough to deliver, editing several times what I write. It is monotonous and cannot be exciting. I take recourse in coffee to keep me awake; herbal teas only make me calm but doesn’t provide the energy required to keep pace with work demands. I am still ambitious and curiosity still drives me, however, fulfilment is always looming on the horizon, only making me chase faster, faster till I gasp for breath.

Like any human, I am always wanting more. I don’t know when 9

I photograph: malini kochupillai

Najrin Islam

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n avid reader since a young age, I found in words a channel to whimsical imaginative flights. At some point in my formative years, I realized that I retained in my memory strong visuals from my reading experiences- whether it’s a street teeming with people on a busy day, or the hue of a particular attire a character wore. I remember the short poems from Tagore’s Sahaj Path (Easy Verse) speaking to my sensibilities intimately as I found in their language a strange validation of what had become my second nature. The rhyming lines conjured everyday vignettes of rural life with enough imaginative fodder in descriptive details and accompanying illustrations in simple monochrome templates.

The text informed my material memory of my own native roots in Bengal, and thus began my obsession with language and imagery. I started making connections between the printed word and personal observations before they were re-arranged into fanciful narratives in the quiet privacy of my head. Khirkee turned out to be one such palette for my stories.

When I first moved to Khirkee, I remember being struck by the uneven height of buildings and the sliver of sky between them while the dense labyrinth of alleys under them went about its routine. The streets are thronged on either side by rows of shops and mobile trolleys selling vegetables and condiments. I have become familiar with the disembodied smell and streams of music, and the cadenza of creaks and crashes from the vehicles and routine supplies of goods at the local vendors’. Amidst this life, I caught glimpses of colourful graffiti all over the neighbourhood. A huge creature akin to jellyfish covers a vast expanse of concrete, towering over the alley where I reside.

A vegetable vendor parks his cart by a piece of wall-art everydaythat of two female faces framed by painted windows. I remember being struck by a feeling of déjà vu until I realised that what I saw around me had resonance with

images of another busy city, Calcutta, as I had conjured them in my head while reading the elaborately descriptive accounts of its streets in the detective fiction of Byomkesh Bokshi and Feluda. Centred on fixing seemingly irresolvable crimes in the city, their prose (and subsequent graphic-novel iterations) contained enough visual information to paint an image of the city in the mind of the uninitiated. Having also lived in this city for the better part of my life, Calcutta has come to inform much of my visual sensibility; my vision of Khirkee fused with the material density of North Calcutta’s streets.

A story-board of fragmentary images, I sometimes imagine the graffiti on Khirkee walls coming alive; the shapes seem to lift above the surface and fire off into animated flights. I save these daydreams for the early morning walks when the towering shapes seem to take over the village in their enormity.

I have memorized the turn of the first alley, the descending height of the buildings opposite mine, and the filmy gait the slightly eccentric electrician of my building assumes every time he answers a phone call with a verbal flourish.

As I begin to read Haroun and the Sea of Stories yet again, I find my reading experience altered by the space I inhabit now (as I had the second and third times by the respective physical spaces I inhabited then); the fervour of the written word has fused with the air of Khirkee: “Nothing comes from nothing, Thieflet; no story comes from nowhere; new stories come from old- it is the new combinations that make them new”. My reflections on the open-ended prose of the novel had found a new anchor in the physical space of Khirkee.

The density of purposes, the sheer degree of energy and industry on the streets of Khirkee, and the people I have come to know through sight and conversation, have sinuously entered my mind and nestled comfortably as backdrops to my habitual flights of imagination, infusing the book with an essence of its own. When Haroun looks into the water, for instance, to see the ‘Streams of Story’: a tangled mass of a thousand different currents of

varying colours (each strand containing a single tale), I’m reminded of the criss-crossing of the many telephone and electricity lines that form the canopy in busy Khirkee, each active, dead and non-functional wire bearing the weight of its origin and end. My cocoon in a corner of Khirkee has become the site of my ruminations as much as the urban village has come to manifest itself in my literary sensibility. The pockets of worlds I imagine while reading now welcome Khirkee in its shapes, colours, and all that elides the limits of map and page; the jellyfish has permeated my cocoon.

As I climb one flight of stairs up to the roof of my building every once in a while when the weather allows it, I’m greeted to a panoramic view of the whole of Khirkee as all the rooftops are levelled in an endless, even horizon. It’s the exact ‘underside’ of the ground at the root of this concrete labyrinth; there is more sky than feet.

I wonder how my love of reading (and the attendant imagining) has come to extend itself to the space I inhabit. My mother often said how I would remember the flavours of the food she cooked and how they would come to influence my cuisine later when I learnt to cook on my own no matter which part of the world I lived in. Now that I have, I remember her words with some fondness, as I consciously draw from my memory of maa’s dexterity with ingredients at the kitchen table. I guess that’s how your formative years come to shape you and inform the life to be lived hence; my love of stories and sensations found a happy canvas in Khirkee as my love of reading has found an anchor in 23/1. Excited at my throbbing love for this new relationship, I welcome this backdrop to my stories, as the strain of the plaintive morning azaan from the distant masjid settles in the summer air. My mind wanders back to those early years in Calcutta when the morning azaan this month meant my father waking up to begin his fast for the day; today, perched on a concrete sill on the terrace, I just watch the rest of Khirkee rise.

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KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018

EXCLUSIVE SERIES

FORCED INTO THE OCEAN 6th installment of an Artist’s rendition of his great grandmothers forced migration.

Crossing the Courantyne

TEXT + ARTWORK ANDREW ANANDA VOOGEL

That there exists something in this world, something that drains you completely by filling your soul with ecstasy, bringing you to heights outside the self, where the mundane ceases and the infinite begins.

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aramaribo, Suriname, South America 1977

“Hello Miss, is Mr. Kahn in?”

Through the sharp slivers of bright Atlantic morning light, Mala, who was busy dusting the racks of Mr. Kahn’s clothing boutique in downtown Paramaribo, looks towards the entrance and her eyes make out a tall silhouette entering into the space.

The man’s voice travels lightly through the air in a foreign accent.

She winces and responds, “Yes, Mr. Kahn is in, please wait one moment.” She focuses her eyes in the direction of the voice in attempts to clearly make out his face before heading upstairs to fetch her employer. The stark contrast of the morning light shifted onto his face and she glimpsed a tall and slender man, slightly different than what she had expected upon hearing his voice. She gently paced up the stairs and towards Mr. Kahn’s office. Mala knocked at the door and a loud bellow came from the inside. “What is it?” muttered Mr. Kahn. He was a slightly heavyset man, who was as infamous for his shrewd business dealings as he was for his wandering hands. Mala had been working there a month, and so far she had been able to avoid

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the perverse wanderings of both his hands and his eyes. It’s rumored that Mr. Kahn had fathered multiple children from his previous employees and had provided for them well. Though, she highly doubted that that’s what they had expected when signing up for a job at his boutique.

Anyway, none of that troubled Mala because a few months earlier, she had been married off to a powerful family in the outlying villages.

The marriage wasn’t of her choosing, but it had occurred so quickly, like the way a bad dream interrupts the magic of a deep dark sleep.

Mala had trouble reconciling the events that occurred around the time of her marriage, and why she was married off to begin with, but she was making due with her new circumstances. She had been living in Parimaribo for less than a year with her sister Kamla and her family. A year earlier, on the morning of her 18th birthday, her father Lifta’ Man Polo had woken her up, well before dawn and told her to pack her things. The political climate in her small nation was shifting rapidly, as a new Prime Minister had been recently put into power, with the support of the American CIA. His opponent was beloved by all the people, Black, Indian and Indigenous, but American fears of

rising socialism from the popular politician led to a small coup, where the people’s candidate was hastily hurried out of the spotlight.

This Prime Minister, the one who signed up as an errand boy for US interests in the region, fueled racial tension between Indians and Blacks through propaganda campaigns that were rapidly turning into violent outbursts throughout the villages and plantations. First it started with the tax on flour.

The government said that Indians were using too much flour to make roti and naan and this was leaving the African communities with less flour to make their own bread and baked goods. From this point of deceit onward, the new government began to ration rice and other necessities. As it saw fit it would blame either Blacks or Indians, while it gradually siphoned out taxes and other levies from all people. The violence was slowly making its way towards Mala’s village, and with her 18th birthday quickly approaching, Polo knew that the new government conscription would be coming to pick her up and bring her to the military barracks.

Polo thought desperately about his daughter the night before she turned 18. Some of his neighbors’ children had not faired well under

the new conscript and this new Prime Minister’s reign was quickly deteriorating into a dictatorship.

As dawn broke on the morning of Mala’s 18th birthday, Polo was sure of his decision. He was going to bring Mala to his eldest daughter’s house in the neighboring country. They would keep her there till things had cooled off in the villages. That morning he had paid a local smuggler the standard fare to motor him and his middle daughter across the Demerara River on what was known as the Backtrack.

Usually, people would smuggle rice, coffee, gold and other things across this route. An Amazonian Silk Road of sorts. It wasn’t a pleasant journey but in 3 to 5 hours, they would be on the banks of Suriname and the Corantyne River, and his daughter would be safe from the conscription atrocities that would have been awaiting her. He would make up some story when the officers came to their door, that she had been lost in the jungle or that she ran off with some boy and he hadn’t seen her, something ridiculous that they wouldn’t argue with.

He grabbed her hand and as she wiped the sleep out of her eyes, she felt her mother’s hand brush hers, as her father lead her out the door. They jumped onto the boat, she looked at her father “Daddy,

where we a go?” Polo looked down at his daughter “We a go backtrack daughter,” he said with a commanding tone in his voice. The smuggler dropped them off somewhere in between the jungle and the Corantyne River. Polo rolled up his trousers and Mala and him jumped into the waist high water.

They tracked through the swampy jungle for three hours as the mosquitos and sand flies bit away at their exposed flesh. The shards of light shot through the trees as the morning sun rose and Mala began to see the rushing waters of the Corantyne River. The river itself acted as a natural border between Guyana and Suriname and was infamous for the amount of illegal commerce that took place along its banks. A boat was waiting for them on the other side and a weathered hand reached down from a dugout canoe and pulled Mala up from the water. The man had a slowly burning cigarette perched in his lip. Polo leapt up into the canoe and the man reached for the throttle of the boat and they motored across the Courantyne River. They reached the banks of Nickerie-a small port town on the Suriname side of the Backtrack by late morning as the watchful eye of the sun began to glare down upon them.

Polo still had to make it back home

Summer Edition, 2018 • KHIRKEE VOICE

Facing page: Courantyne River, Silver Gelatin Print Above: Boatmen on the Courantyne River, Silver Gelatin Print Below: Mala’s Home, Silver Gelatin Print Right: Atlas map of the Courantyne and Esquibo Rivers. Full Map on Page 10

and to the plantation to show up for his shift at work later that day.

He brought Mala to a local Indian shopkeeper and explained the situation to him. The shopkeeper, a Mr. Kumar was old and had a gentle face had seen many similar stories in Nickerie recently. It had seemed things in Guyana were not going well for the Indians. Polo gave him a small sum of money, and asked if he could look after his daughter for a few hours before she was to catch the local bus to his elder daughter’s village. Seeing Polo’s plight, he gladly obliged. Mala was sad to see her father go, but was also excited by this new and abrupt adventure.

She sat with Mr. Kumar, who had brought her some chai and tried to speak with him. He spoke Dutch and she only spoke Creole English.

The only way they could communicate was through each other’s bits of broken Hindi. He brought her to the bus stop later that day and she bid Mr. Kumar farewell as she boarded the bus. She was excited to see her sister, she had heard Kamla had been married in Suriname and had had many children, whom she had never met before.

The bus ride was bumpy and leaving the small port of Nickerie sent Mala’s heart racing. She paid close attention to the road, the turns, the twists, as she knew the further they drove from the Courantyne River, the further she was from her village. She arrived in the evening at Kamla’s village, a small Indian area just on the outskirts of Paramaribo. She asked at the local shop after her sister Kamla and the shop owner pointed her in the direction of their house. As she walked down the dirt path, the dull timber homes who all stood stilted stuck out in stark contrast to the vibrant purple and pinks of the early evening sky. This was her first time to the former Dutch colony. It felt like her home in the neighboring British colony, but something felt a little different. She came upon her sister’s house. She knew it because in the front was a small pooja space where Shiva sat still and peaceful amidst the tense summer heat.

Mala had received a letter from Kamla years before, with a picture of Kamla’s family standing in front of the makeshift shrine. Mala knocked at the old timber door.

She heard a creak in the floorboards.

Mr. Kahn trudged out and peered down the stairwell. He strained his eyes to see who had come to pay him a visit so early in the morning. “Ohhhhh…Mr. Voogel, how are you, please come up to my office” Mr. Kahn shouted loudly, but in a polite tone. The figure, who Mala could now clearly see was definitely a Dutchman, his curly blond hair and blue eyes caught her off guard as he passed by her on the stairs. He stopped when he was standing just in front of her.

“Thank you Miss,” he said with a comfortable smile. Mala watched the man disappear into Mr. Kahn’s office and hurried back downstairs to finish her morning tasks. She wondered who the man could be, but couldn’t be bothered for too long about the mysterious visitor.

Mala walked over to the windows of the old boutique and flung them open. The bright early morning light flooded the shop floor and the sequined sari’s and delicate fabrics began to wistfully sparkle through the dark and musty corners of the old shop. To be continued…

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KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018

PYAAR PREM IS OK....

BUT ISHQ NOT ALLOWED 6

Summer 2018 • KHIRKEE VOICE Winter Edition, 2017

BHAGWATI PRASAD 7

KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018 suresh pandey

SWEET NOSTALGIA Dorcas Chawarika

H Voices From The Margins Cultural Representatives from New Delhi. From L-R: Yanki, Leeda Ferozy, Ismail, Nagina, Muzammil, Ashif and Suraj

Aditi Chauhan

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eeda, Ashif, Romeo, Muzammil, Ismail, Nagina and Yanki have been a presence in each other’s networks, with Khirkee being the common factor- as home for some and a frequented place of work for others. This transit point may seem to be a part of their routine, yet it always appeared to be unfamiliar and segmented in their view.

On March 20, 2018, they met each other for the first time as part of a cultural exchange program that would eventually become a driving force in aligning their visions for a more inclusive social environment. And that expression will not be dictated by the standards of communities around them, whether it is the ones they belong to or are coexisting with.

“People expect me to be covered head to toe because I am a muslim.”

Leeda voiced her displeasure with stereotypes that are propagated as cultural norms. Romeo nodded in unison with her sentiment, for a lot of his companions from fellow African nations have been at the receiving end of crude biases. That day, they all described themselves in a language of choices and interests that had no bearings on their inherited cultures. Very soon, just like Suraj, who has felt marginalized for his non-conforming body language and sartorial choices associated with femininity, they all created a third space for themselves, a safe-space. This space is a part of their collective imagination and

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individual drives, coming to life only in the presence of the group, but hoping to be a reality. Along with their counterparts in New Mexico, the team from New Delhi is exploring their cultural heritage and identity through a virtual exchange program titled Voices From the Margins. A community arts initiative lead by Khoj International Artists Association and Global One to One (USA), and supported by World Learning (USA), as a part of their global project- Communities Connecting Heritage, the program has compelled the group to question the relevance of margins and cultural heritage in their perception of self, through creative mediums of communication.

Nagina, Muzammil and Ismail have been able to empower themselves to speak their minds through theatre, social activism and experimentation with guidance from Aagaaz Theatre Trust.

Ashif, ceased to cherish the meaning he once derived by offering regular prayers, after facing backlash from his own community for choosing to become a dancer. The former three faced similar marginalization by their kin, often making them reconsider the significance and uniqueness of their chosen way of life.

Our assumptions often shape our attitudes, making it easy to promote false notions about the ‘other’.

Muzammil : People fear change... any variance from a standard norm threatens their collective existence Ismail: and in case a change is

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I have broken the cage

I am zero

Do not tease we are injured find some other shelter The caravan has been robbed.

I am a woman I am zero I am always positive I become the horizon of love I absorb all frustrations all sadness.

I am a bird, I need an open sky do not misguide I have broken the cage.

Find some other lover do shed tears I have already jumped the walls of love.

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I am zero I dream of moving ahead starting from zero..!

I am zero...I am a woman but I can do the impossible I can die for people

proposed, at times, it is imposed rather than being adopted Leeda: We forget that we have more control on culture than the other way round. I can change if I don’t like something..we can change. If we want, we can be the force and not the sheep!

It seems now we are bigger than culture. Since individualistic drives are stronger than ever, cultural heritage is becoming optional. Isn’t it?

Ashif: But then, aren’t we simply bartering our identities like our needs?”

During a weekly session, discussing how one is expected to adhere to traditional behavior in a community, Leeda agreed that “Culture emerges from and for our needs..”.

While Ashif believes that “Despite of all atrocities brought along with colonization of India, the cultural barter (even if by force) did, to a great extent, enable us to diversify our traditional practices and adapt with changing times..”. Through all differences and distances, the battle and vision for a fairer world system that enables the coexistence of diverse cultures, unite the teams from New Delhi and New Mexico.

This four month long project will conclude with an in person exchange of both teams, and an exhibition in June, 2018. The exhibition aims to take this discourse to the larger public in an effort to promote cultural diversity and preservation of heritage, while laying the groundwork for rethinking personal and collective identities.

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who die for their goals can pick those people Who have a pure heart I am zero grow to be number I make my place...

• Yes, I am a fighter People say, that I am a fighter they speak truth I am a fighter I am fighting since childhood I fought when I was a teenager when I was supposed to play would carry younger siblings

ave you ever had one of those days when you feel very sad and want to cry for no reason? Feeling lonely and depressed, all you really want for is a warm hug from a family member, but unfortunately they are all far away. That really sucks!

2015 August was my very first time to travel abroad and being far away from the city of Harare, in Zimbabwe, where l grew up and spent almost of my life. At first l was really excited that l got a chance to come to a country I have long been curious about, one l always admired and wanted to visit. But not even a month after arriving here, my feelings gradually changed from the excitement of a new adventure to a continuous nostalgia for family and friends.

Most of the times l always found myself in deep memories of my home place. Thinking of how much l missed Mommy dearest, her sweet smile and melodious voice singing for us as we sit under a huge avocado tree in the backyard. I cannot help tear up- I always want her homemade chicken soup and sadza each time l feel hungry. Although she always calls and reminds me to be strong, but most of the times l really can’t take it, all l want is to be in her arms cuddling like a small baby.

I nearly cried one day when a friend of mine invited me to her home. The way her mom treated me, the family, laughter and love

reminded me of mine. I got carried away by her uncle’s jokes, he reminds me of a beloved uncle of mine, l used to call him uncle Jonso the joker, who used to crack similar jokes whenever he visited us.

Some of the things l used to take for granted, I now realize their importance. One of the most difficult times for me is during the holidays, all these memories come flooding back, making me more depressed.

Back home, every Christmas, New years and birthdays we used to do big family gatherings and all the relatives will be present. For these past three years l have missed those moments and always wish l was home.

Back home we used to watch Indian movies and my mom and sister used to like them a lot. That’s where l got inspired by Indian culture, music and dances. Whatever l expected India to be, is what l experienced, a nice country with lovely people. But however, no matter how interesting it is, l always wanted to be with my family.

Every time l visited malls it reminds me of my favorite mall-Joina City where l used to hang out with my friends, teasing the security guards and doing some naughty stuff.

Nevertheless, l really did enjoy being in India and I’m going to miss it when l go back home. Gosh!

Nostalgia for friends follows again, it’s just like a continuous feeling, anyway such is life. But above all it hasn’t been easy to cope up with homesickness and nostalgia.

The Avocado tree in the authors family’s yard in Harare

B in my lap when I was supposed to study I was indulged in daily chores when I was entering my youth it was frustrating and suffocating amidst domestic violence and suffering dream of touching the sky shattered in family slavery I would spin like a top People wanted to see the miserable me That’s why they say I am a fighter...

To rise from miseries I like being called A fighter my life a cycle of empowering my reflection.

Y my friends...foes Only a fighter can challenge you can reveal all your masks can condemn Your games, power, fraud pride and pretense Please ‘typecast’ me, a fighter this form of me will break your pretense.

• Woman Woman is a body in the silence of the night inside closed doors

Summer Edition, 2018 • KHIRKEE VOICE

THE MANY MOODS OF LOVE IN THE CITY

THE DISTANT HORIZON /from page 3

BY ALIA SINHA

I will be ready to tell my travel plans to mother; I want it to be soon, but only for my ambition.

As I walk along the Khirkee lane towards Saket mall to splurge a little from my recent bonus, I search for the Buddha graffiti. This graffiti was really special to me; it reminded me to be persevering, even if it meant staying curious to attain your Nirvana or your ultimate ambition with an oxygen mask on as you surf through the dust storm looming around you. The Buddha has vanished now but I feel all the more blessed. Khirkee has provided me with so many friends that have been its residents at one point or other in their life, that every time I sneeze, I always have somebody by my side to ‘God Bless’ me. And I chase my ambition with all the rigour, strongly counting my blessings.

Dear mother, I shall see you soon!

I LOVE MY COUNTRY /from page 1 India for several years. Talking to him, we realised that love for the country goes beyond boundaries and ideology.

Sonu Sharma and Mohammad Rashid run facing shops at J Block in Khirkee. Both stressed that it is wrong to ask people to prove their patriotism to anyone. “Instead of understanding the difference in opinions, nowadays, politics divides people in the name of nationalism. It is upto us citizens to understand our duties, but also the media must play a big role, and talk about positive developments in society “ said Sonu.

If everyone takes care of their duties, we can truly understand and experience independence.

Conversations with the people of Khirkee led us to understand the many aspects of patriotism with some nuance. Put simply, patriotism and nationalism are best left as a private matter, and raising these questions is mostly argumentative.

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is an object of desire beneath the blue sky every morning she appears with her soul but her leash is in the hands of some master the body she carries

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I imagined marriage subtle silence roof of love walls of feelings but it turned out a kitchen and bed and orders of masters

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Love

Where are the books

I thought the world of love Will be beautiful life will be colorful with ‘him’ I found love an experience an object a tiresome sleep

The books I read are not in libraries the history of rise and fall of powerless is incomplete.

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Kids with miserable conditions.

How do I say

Played with

My ears echoe Gulabo kalbeliya’s Anklet screams, no university documented Their cries. naked -hungry kids Whom the sweets and books Tease These innocent souls are sacrificed every century.

how do I say my miseries by law secrets will be revealed, If I hide the matters of my heart It hurts a lot How do I say….

Even If I try I can’t hide the silence of my eyes If I want to smile the life of stolen feelings can’t smile there is a ban On my heartbeats.

Even today Sita is burnt alive on stoves Tender flowers are robbed In childhood before they could bloom Soft beautiful smile becomes a victim of passion even if its Ramayana or Mahabharata or Modern India everytime the emotions of a woman were Played with

Where are the books with their testimonies?

The books I see do not mention the ragpickers, hungry-naked

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MAPPING MALA’S JOURNEY

KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018

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Summer Edition, 2018 • KHIRKEE VOICE

A VIBRANT C0LOUR A

few years back when I come to know that my daughter is disabled, my first reaction was, why? Why me?

To be honest, while writing this I still can feel the trauma of that period. But I think myself lucky that although the harsh reality of my daughter’s disability came as a shock but that difficult time soon passed.

Yes, I have a 5 year old lovely daughter, she has cerebral palsy, a state of mind where coordination between mind and body either is less or not there at all. In my daughter’s case her legs are most affected and she is still learning to walk with the help of special shoes.

Soon after two months of her birth I started noticing difference is her reactions and responses. I used to pay more attention on each of her actions and reactions, and complain also. Fed up with my regular complains my family started scolding me, that I only see problems in her. Though I had some idea but doctor told me about her condition after 22 months and when it was official that my daughter has cerebral palsy, I cried my heart out. How will I bear this big responsibility and then ofcourse the same questions, why? Luckily A LOVE STORY /from page 1 KV: You must have had differences between your cultures and lifestyle, how did you handle everything after marriage?

SC: Lot of it depends on the wife.

My wife adapted to our ways and means in a very short span. We now have two daughters.

KV: What faith will you ask your children to adopt?

SC: We have decided together that we will give them the freedom to choose any faith. When the girls are old and educated enough they can decide their life and faith for themselves.

her therapy started the very next day leading to the beginning of a big struggle, but despite all this I still didn’t want to accept that my daughter is disabled, to me she is just a little special.

Once while I was talking to my therapist about filing for income tax return, he suggested that I should get a disability certificate made for my daughter. As she has 60-70 percent of disability, I will get good concession.

Disabled? And my daughter?

This term, it seems pierced my heart……

To be honest, I took few months to accept the fact about my daughter’s disability. But now the next step was to get myself ready to face all of this. It was difficult and still is, to accept this without feeling vulnerable. But then whose situation is perfect in this world? And if you befriend yourself with this thought then only you realize that although may be your struggle will remain the same but your courage will become twofold. And besides, these are all just the perspectives of our mindset to see and to feel things.

With the help of family and friends, I soon overcame the period of denial, but to make outer world understand this is the toughest. At times their attitude is very painful, when they know the answer

they still ask you, as if disability is a hitch.

At times when in the market or on the road, as I help my daughter to walk, people come and ask “doesn’t she walk? And I always reply, why? she is walking you see.”

After this they ask another interesting question, ”no, but is there some

and unable to walk. Likewise when I was taking a shared taxi, a woman sitting in front of me suddenly exclaimed on seeing her splints that if I had given her proper massage in early days it won’t come to “this”.

Once in the market, my daughter and I were walking slowly, one person came and said why don’t

this or doing that your child will become “more normal”, still I don’t argue but very subtly point out that “you mean so called normal”.

By putting it like this I make them realize when nothing is perfect in this world then why in the name of “normal” we aspire for this perfection.

“... I soon overcame the period of denial, but to make the outer world understand this is the toughest. At times their attitude is very painful, when they know the answer they still ask you, as if disability is a hitch.” problem” to this I tell them lightly if you can’t see then there is no point in telling. In this chain there was an another incident. I was taking my daughter to her class, one woman came and asked, “will her legs get better?” I consoled her that yes someone day my daughter will walk on her own.

I don’t know but people love to tell you again and again that your child is not “normal”. And I felt like shouting and asking them “what is normal?” a few days back an aaya from my daughter’s school told me that because I am a working mother and have left my daughter in doctor’s care and not giving her message etc myself, she is “like this”

aspiring wr n a u ite o y r? re

A

Sahba Syed Illustration: Alia Sinha

you pick her up and clear the way, without any argument, me and my daughter stand to one side.

People’s attitude is painfully interesting. Mostly I don’t argue but I don’t give anybody the right to make my daughter any less or weaker.

It is very difficult for many people to understand that there is so much diversity in the world, and each one has different needs and qualities from us. Why do we always want to classify people between normal and not normal?

Why do we think that disability is an obstacle for us and for others?

Many a times therapists and doctors also tell you that by doing

Like colors there are many kind of people in this world and they all struggle to keep up with the world whether disabled or non-disabled.

Every color is there. We too must include our color in this world with such vivacity that it becomes visible and respected. When this might happen, and how, nobody knows, but yes we can try our best.

And then the efforts of so many people won’t go waste and someday soon we will see the vibrancy of our many colors.

• This article was first published by Skin Stories, a digital publication on sexuality, disability and gender.

#KhirkeeVoice Your Chance to be a

PUBLISHED PHOTOGRAPHER

Khirkee Voice Announces a Summer Long

Writer’s Workshop With the generous support of Khoj

To enter, just post your best pictures of Khirkee on Instagram and tag them with #KhirkeeVoice

For more details and updates, follow us at: https://www.facebook.com/KhirkeeVoice/ Or email us at: khirkeevoice@gmail.com

Three of the best images will be published in the September issue of Khirkee Voice and will be awarded a Cash Prize!

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The Jewellery Shop

Poet

Ashwini Soni has run a jewellary shop in

Khirkee Extension since 1999, and writes poetry in his free time. He started writing pretty late, at the age of 28. When we asked about his inspirations, he told us that his father used to write poetry, and that he was probably inspired by him. As a child, Ashwini never liked writing, but started in order to relieve his boredom, eventually writing poems on society and on his observations of the world around him.

The themes of love, politics, social vices and social change are quite prevalent in his poetry. He says that over the years his writing style has evolved and become more mature. Here we present a selection of Ashwini’s poems and couplets.

Ashwini Soni reads from his notebooks at his shop in Khirkee Extension

A miser’s wedding

Realised, it’s all in vain, I accepted defeat will never go to any miser’s treat If you ever go take your own dough.

At a miser’s wedding the miserliness was in full glory he casually made everyone fill their stomachs with sweets What of the kaju-katli Which melts in your mouth and that imarati dunked in milk such an enticing aroma!

Not only the sweets he showed miserliness with water as well. in casual talks he added ice cubes to mineral water.

I started to give up patience he took the money envelope turned his back on me I was not going to give up when he opened his mouth I added more stories to it.

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Oh! Twinkle in my eye Oh! twinkle in my eye Look at me, look at me people whom I trusted robbed me take some responsibility hold some, care some I am cutting my own branches the creepers entangling me remove them everyday, my light is dimming

mahavir singh bisht

make friends with the winds or call the storms love for country is not just a thought bring some passion some intention be done with transactions being a trader Bring the change.

• How do I ignore your beauty come by my side, someday your gentle gestures touch my heart Sometime, look at me and smile I always wait for you when I see you you grace my eyes every breeze reminds me

of her last breath I remember her scent When I see blood, wound I think she arrives and spreads light loneliness doesn’t make me cry all the time, I feel her with me • Keep some candles and lamps to distribute do not keep in passion your poverty they are religious let them be you are humanist keep it alive

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I cannot get over the intoxication of your eyes, I have left the whole world. what will I get in a temple, mosque and gurudwara when I have visited your doors seeing the world in your face I have left the household. finding peace in your in your love, I have quit all the luxuries.

I do not know laila-majnu I have left siri-farhad behind. on the call of your eyes I left my shadow behind.

If you are not in this world, I gave up breathing let’s build a new world, I left the world behind me.

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DIAMONDS

for that quiet escape into the night

Layout design by Malini Kochupillai

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Edited by Malini Kochupillai & Mahavir Singh Bisht [khirkeevoice@gmail.com]

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Supported & Published by KHOJ International Artists Association

lo c a l ta l e n t s

KHIRKEE VOICE • Summer Edition 2018