Pakistan today has almost become synonymous to terrorism. After four wars more than 60 years of independence, the ice between India and Pakistan has still not completely thawed. Therefore, Romancing the Border is an initiative under iPakistan which has been spearheaded by a group of students from the Hong Kong University. While surfing the internet, these students found out that the most dangerous border of the world is the India-Pakistan border and that made them question where the two countries stand today.

We sincerely hope that you will join this cause and help these students raise awareness about the issue.

______________________________________________________________

Do like iPakistan on Facebook, see their photos and, follow them on Twitter.

He looked ahead, straight into an infinite horizon. He had nowhere to go, not a single direction he could call his own. And thus, he could go anywhere. He took a humungous gasp of air, and with that, a pinch of hope, and started walking. Aimless, but determined. All that he had with him were a few blank sheets of paper and an undying pen. And a pair of wings. Of course, wings!

“I have hope,” he thought, “and, thus, I believe.”

But hope in what?

Belief in what?

Belief in whom?

He was brave. Oh yes, he was! Brave, but unsure. He never lacked the courage to spread his wings, but was always unsure of where the winds would take him. But today, he was not going to think of the consequences. Simply walking would not get him anywhere, he thought. Yes, he was going to trust his wings.

He, thus, spread his wings, stretched them to the limit to which they could be stretched. His mind began racing as he felt the air beneath his wings, as the winds began to carry him to a completely unknown destination. He was gasping for breath. His heart hammered within his chest. And even though he was tempted, he did not open his eyes. The winds finally let go of him. He gently floated to the ground and gradually opened his eyes, expecting to be greeted by blinding lights. On the contrary however, there was darkness.

He was in a room enveloped by darkness. But, there was warmth in this darkness; a certain very uncannily pleasant essence hovered in the air. There was a window through which the soft light of dusk nonchalantly glided in. And in that mellow light, he found a poem lying in his arms. The poem smelled amazing; so pleasant was the aroma that the atmosphere was complete. And soft, so soft! The heart of the poem was soft. Instinctively, he grabbed it, wrapped his arms tightly around the poem. His breath was shaking.

“What are you thinking of?” the poem asked, a beautifully deep feminine voice, perfectly garnished with a few pinches of huskiness.

“I don’t know,” he began to answer. “I am just so calm right now. I am so aware of everything – this cacophony of silence, every grain of light that is streaming in through this window. I am just so calm. I am at peace with myself.”

The poem smiled a satisfied smile and he found himself doing the same. He glanced at the sheets of paper which he had let go off, as he put his arms around the poem. This time, however, there were words on them. The sheets were not blank anymore. His pen was still undying.

And there he sat, in his moment of truth, in their moment of truth, where no emotion mattered. Thus, he sat there smiling, embracing a poem.

____________________________________________________________________

Illustration by Bhumika Ray

The Israel-Palestine conflict traces its roots to the late 19^th century. Marred with periodic bloodshed, the said conflict has set an unprecedented example of human rights’ violations and failure of international diplomacy.  It has been defined by right to self-determination, statehood and territory.

To start with, it is definite that there was a time when both these communities lived in harmony. The daily accounts of  Babatha (a second-century Jewish woman) which were found in the Judean desert on the Southern fringe of the West Bank reflects a peacefully co-existing society without friction between the Jews and the Arabs. With the passage of time, escalating hostilities led to the intervention of the United Nations which in 1947, produced a plan for the partition of the area of Palestine, between the Mediterranean Sea and the Jordan River.

The plan seemed benevolent and was welcomed by the Jews but outwardly rejected by the Arabs. Consequently, this conflict has taken many violent forms and has given rise to an Israel-Palestinian conflict which  forms a part of the wider Arab-Israel conflict. These conflicts have not only undermined the principles of the Charter of the United Nations but have also laid a bitter imprint on the minds of the Palestinians.

At this point in time, bearing in mind the violation of the International Humanitarian Law and the ceaseless cycle of death in the Gaza Strip and the West Bank make me feel for the Palestinians. Organizations like the Hamas have claimed to be the voice of the Palestinian people and yet, their actions have been greeted with unprecedented criticism. However, the people living in the West Bank and the Gaza strip have come in terms with this new “culture” – that of fear, oppression and abuse. A Palestinian child living in the Gaza Strip has seen horrors of war. The distant sound of the machine gun and the sound of exploding shells have become a part of a conflict-torn childhood.

Palestinian terror attacks on the Israelis (such as suicide-bombings) have been counter- productive, leading to their dehumanization in the eyes of the Israelis.  Such acts of violence have boomeranged and thus, have become major hindrances for the Palestinian resistance movement. Even the international community has failed to acknowledge and recognize the harsh realities and the surprising truths of the Gaza Blockade.  When dealing with conflict resolution, it is crucial to address underlying human needs and values and question if they are being violated or not.  In the complex Israel-Palestine conflict, there is a strong need to include actors at all levels of society in a peace-building process. There needs to be vertical co-operation between all levels – from the grassroots to the civil society; from middle-range leadership to the top leadership.  An important way that Palestinians can participate in conflict transformation is through resistance based mainly on civil disobedience.

It is also essential to deal with underlying structural causes for the conflict and to aim at fulfilling basic human needs such as security and the correct expression of cultural and national identity. Building peace in Israel and Palestine is a long process which requires continuous and sincere efforts from the international community at large. However ‘ideal’ these solutions might sound, they have a chance of transforming this conflict. As of now, it stands still and has already surpassed the pillars of international diplomacy.

]]> http://dfuse.in/dscribe/redrawing-lines-israel-palestine-conflict/feed/ 1 http://dfuse.in/dscribe/butterflies/ http://dfuse.in/dscribe/butterflies/#comments Tue, 07 Feb 2012 14:09:35 +0000 Neha Joshi http://dfuse.in/?p=4479 The smoke, filled with underlying tones of sandalwood, blurred my vision. My eyes teared and I blinked.

I was home early that evening only to find Aparna in the garden. She had always loved the outdoors – flowering bushes, trees and butterflies – even the cactus possessed beauty in her eyes. She was tending to her roses that day, those timid little pretentious flowers. They were her favourite. Ayesha trailed at her feet, tugging at her mother’s kurta while barraging her with a volley of incessant questions.

“Why do the roses have thorns?” “Why are there so many different coloured roses?” “Why do we need to water them?” “What happens to the roses after they become big?” 

Aparna shifted her attention from the flowers for a brief moment. I was still searching, but she had the answers to all of Ayesha’s questions. “Just the way you eat fruits and vegetables and become a big girl, the roses too need water to become big. Once they become big, they fall back to the ground where they came from.” Ayesha’s big, grey eyes welled up with tears. “But then they become little butterflies and fly from one garden to another!” The smile was back. Aparna had saved the day yet again. I smiled at my superwoman as she found me staring at her from the kitchen door. She winked back.

I blinked again. “Rajesh,” the priest put his hand on my shoulder, “it’s time.” I held the burning wooden stick in my right hand and drowned the remnants of my life into flames.

The fire ravaged every house in Atlanta as Vivian Leigh tried her hand at maneuvering a horse cart. Even though we were just halfway through Gone With The Wind, Aparna was tired, swollen and sore. It was five days past her due date and she was ready to burst any moment. I helped her into bed and kissed her on the forehead. “Promise me this will be over by tomorrow, Raj. I can’t take it anymore.” Her pleading eyes looked right into mine. I wished for her sake that it would end. A shooting star must have been falling somewhere.

The first stars were beginning to dot the evening sky. Dusk spread itself in a myriad of salmon and magenta. The fire had played its role. I stared blankly at the ashes that were the last eight years of my life.

The ash tipped off the edge of my cigarette. It had all happened so soon. Waking up at 3 am to Aparna’s screams, getting Saumya to babysit Ayesha, the ride to the hospital, the flurry to get upstairs, the worried look on Dr. Tyagi’s face and the red light of the operation theatre. I needed to get out of the claustrophobic waiting area. It had been two hours already. I flicked the cigarette butt and walked back into the waiting area just as Dr. Tyagi walked out of the OT. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry for disturbing you again Raj, but you really need to get out of bed. Ayesha will be up any moment. She needs you right now Raj. Please.” Saumya begged me. I knew she was right. I walked to the bathroom and splashed icy cold water on my face. I looked just as crappy as someone who hadn’t slept a wink would look. I turned around to find Ayesha standing at the door, tentative and calculating, almost like she wanted something from me. “Where’s mummy?” she asked in a small voice. “Come with me,” I said as I scooped her into my arms. The sun was shining when we entered the garden, filling the air with a warmth I could not feel. I planted Ayesha on the grass, right next to the rose bush. She counted the roses in bloom. A puzzled look washed over her face. “One is missing from the last time I counted Daddy,” her voice trailed off as she counted again. I scanned the undergrowth and found the missing rose fallen against a rock. I pointed at it and said, “There, it has gone back to where it came from, just like mummy has.” I pulled my 4-year old into a tight hug. And just like that, a butterfly flew into our garden.

________________________________________________________________________

Photograph by Anurag Banerjee

]]> http://dfuse.in/dscribe/butterflies/feed/ 4 http://dfuse.in/dscribe/fairy-dust/ http://dfuse.in/dscribe/fairy-dust/#comments Wed, 18 Jan 2012 15:40:17 +0000 Aditi Mehta http://dfuse.in/?p=4402 Editor’s note: As your read on, you will realize that Aditi Mehta has put soul to paper in this piece of writing. Seldom do people possess the quality of moving someone to an extent such as this. We assure you that you will love reading it.

Anurag,

The death of a dream is in many ways like the death of a child. The mourning of unbound potential.  Is that how you felt when your dream of us died?  

You and I are beings of silence.  We don’t owe each other any explanations. Words were always inconsequential, a shy smattering of fairy dust, but there are some things that I will not leave unsaid.

You must  must know that I left to escape.  I reached my place from yours in a daze, packed my shoes, money, and toothbrush, and boarded the first train to Puducherry, where I lived with a group of teenage Italian backpackers. I smoked pot, made love, celebrated the moonlight and read Austen and poetry with men and women I will never see again, and I felt alive with the joy of reuniting with a not so forgotten past, wrapped in novelty and a sense of denial.  I hugged my solitude, my aloneness, as we walked through the city (me fuelling their teenage radicalism) and I hugged them tighter in the night to feel an all pervasive sense of a thoroughly confused but independent self.  I was honoured and thrilled at the prospect of spending a married life with you Anurag, I truly was, but I equally dreaded losing the self I had spent building in the twenty five years before I knew you.

You always understood and respected my sense of self and space, but regarded my zealous guarding of the same as immature and selfish.  You were worried it would make me love and share less over time. Why? Walls and distance do not matter to these emotions. You know that.

You had left for Mumbai when I returned to Poona, and just as our silences whisper to each other, I knew you didn’t want to be found.  I fail to understand why there is something about a woman’s comfort with aloneness is such a threat to the male ego.  Why did it yours?

There are perhaps some questions that should remain unanswered, and there are some that just do. We came together because we questioned, and a part of me believes that we drifted apart because neither was man enough to face the answers, hovering above us like purple fairy dust.

When I read about you in the newspaper yesterday, after five long years, I was (quite characteristically) ridiculously annoyed to find you only to lose you again. I do hope you find your answers (perhaps this time hovering closer to the heart?) where you are going.  I found mine in Puducherry.

Farewell, my Wentworth.

I watched her fold the letter, slip it into a violet envelope, and gently place it in the palm of his dead hand.  His wife tried to keep the questions and suspicions away from her eyes as the pundit began chanting the final mantras until all there was left was violet perfume in a swirl of musk and fairy dust.

__________________________________________________________

Illustration by Priyadarshini Sivakumar

Starting off, I’d like to remember all the folks that left us this year. A lot of people who inspired me; Amy Winehouse (her songs will be the soundtrack to my life), M.F.Hussain (for sticking the finger to all his nay-sayers),  Sidney Lumet (12 Angry Men, enough said), Dev Anand (the evergreen, never-say-die attitude), Mario Miranda (for being genuinely funny with his art), Patrice O’Neal (insanely hilarious), Steve Jobs (for inspiring a whole bunch of losers on Facebook who were completely unaware of his drug history and asshole-ness ). There was also a whole lot I didn’t know (care) about until they trended on Twitter like Christopher Hitchens, Ryan Dunn and Osama Bin Laden.

The White House at the time of Osama's death

A special mention to two people, Gaddafi and Kim Jong-il who left the world and made it a slightly better place. Yes, we do have a reason to celebrate. They were probably two of the biggest liars that the world has ever seen. However let’s not make fun of the dead. They must be pretty pissed off anyway that they left earth one year before the Mayans said it would end. Returning to the world of Chuck Norris and Rajnikant, there was a lot that happened in 2011.

23-year old Adele released her sophomore album 21 (the previous one was called 19) and proved that you don’t need to dress supremely weird to sell 208,000 copies in a week and make it the bestselling album of all time (in the UK, obviously. Americans worship Kanye West, remember?) Besides that, she also gave us a new break up anthem, Rolling in the Deep.

On the flipside, Rebecca Black’s mum spent $4000 on putting out Friday and its music video. Those were probably the worst use of American dollars in a long time. She went viral because people hated her. She left school because people hated her. She earned shit loads of money because people hated her. God damn it. Only if Adolf Hitler had sung Friday – he would have died a richer man.  She’s writing her second song now, it comes out in 2012. I guess the Mayans were right.

Google pulled a fast one with Google+. It’s just good ol’ Google with a social angle. Wait! So what happens to Orkut now? I bet even the folks at Google don’t know. Even if it hasn’t caught up with the public, it does promise a lot of things. Even Epipheo’s video about Google+ hasn’t managed to save it. I am just hoping it doesn’t meet the same end as Google Wave and Google Buzz.

Inspired by the Jasmine Revolution, the Americans took clue and started their own with Occupy Wall Street (‘coz most Americans believe that’s the capital of the world) and trust Americans to screw with revolutions; they redefined the word itself (read more here). This led to second-order chain reaction in India when someone had the idea of Occupy Dalal Street. Without saying much it failed just like Slut Walk in Bangalore. Kudos to our system, though. Even when Time Magazine has name The Protestor as the ‘Man of the Year’, we are still scared of change and more importantly the truth. Speaking of change, there was Anna Hazare, who became the most talked-about man in the nation, for good and bad reasons. I am nobody to comment on his motives but I think he adds some amount of credibility to the sometimes-tainted Gandhi topi. No comments on the Rajya Sabha though.

Kapil Sibal got mothered by the Twitterati and he had no clue about it (he’s still hunting down communities on Orkut). His ideas were lame, his points were baseless and he just proved one thing – most Indian politicians no nothing about social media.  While we are on that, Kolaveri Di went viral with a buttload of Rajnikanth’s son-in-law-related jokes that followed. Companies made a lot of money selling Kolaveri-branded apparel just the way plastic surgeons made money selling Pipa Middleton-kinda bottoms.

This year was a historic year in Indian concerts. Metallica realized that Gurgaon isnt the best place to have a concert. However, they realized that a tad bit late. Late enough for folks to break the shit out of the equipment. They then went to Bangalore but there too there were reported thefts, reassuring the fact that DNA is probably the worst event managers in the world. On the contrary, the organizers of the NH7 Weekender proved that you don’t need to be bulky and rude to organise the best fucking festival in town. Also, the 500th year of rock in India was also held across numerous Indian cities.

Imogen Heap at the NH7 Weekender

A lot of good movies released this year. Personally, I loved Tree of Life, Midnight in Paris (excepting the forced Woody Allen-ish portrayal by Owen Wilson), Dhobi Ghat, I Am, Shor in the City and Shaitan amongst many others. Movies like Hangover II and Ra. One did not live up to most expectations while it would be safe to not even talk about others such as Green Lantern and Bodyguard.

Now, how the hell do you end a year-end article? You can be an optimist; you can be a pessimist; you can be a cynic or you can be a Mayan! But frankly, 2011 was just another year. When I say that, I emphasize on the fact that every year is more or less the same; whether we choose to believe it or not. Something is big; something is not. Something is good; something is not. But the fact remains – it IS just another year and another reason why anti-aging creams and Botox sell well.

_______________________________________________________________

Imogen Heap photograph by Anurag Banerjee

Behind the confounding streets of Delhi must lie the drunken unfettered imagination, irreverent poetry and unscrupulous enterprise of these men and their progeny.

Sweat dripped down his forehead and onto the tip of his nose. There it perched precariously as his head bobbed to an unpresent rhythmic music in a way that clueless boys hope passes off at a discotheque for dancing. There it perched and then it dropped, into the batter for pooris he was rolling. On the left of his uncle’s eatery was a flower shop and on its right was a butcher’s. Sweetmeats, flowers, meat, sewage and sweat to go – you could tell that the air around was confused. How was it supposed to smell anyway?

 Out of the corner of his left eye, Aseemullah could see a barber’s shop that offered Bollywood hairstyles. The wall in front of him partially blocked his view of the dome of the 16^th century Moth ki Masjid. To his far right lay the imposing back walls of posh south Delhi houses. And behind the circus-like row of shops lay a cramped residential area where illegal first floors fused into illegal second floors. Also, illegal and shaky-looking balconies jutted out above narrow streets. You could poke your head out of your first floor bathroom window and catch yourself facing your neighbor, watching in mutual bemusement as he stood there in his balcony.

  An expensive car playing loud music stopped at the corner of the street. Two teenage girls stepped out, blew flying kisses to the boys inside and walked off slyly towards the posh houses. Fourteen-year old Aseemullah eyed the girls dreamily. He knew he wanted them but he had no idea what he would do with them if he got them. Perhaps he could walk out of the barber’s shop at the corner into a cool Delhi evening, dressed like a Bollywood hero. The two girls could be waiting for him in his yellow, open-roof car. The girls could intersperse swooning over him with orange bar ice creams. And they could be shouting jubilantly too! They were after all with Assemullah- the hottest prize in the whole of Delhi!

The car could be decorated with Diwali lighting even. Fataak. His dream met a violent intervention. As he nursed his cheek after the slap, his uncle informed him that the poori batter wouldn’t batter itself and that the customers wouldn’t feed themselves. Since his father passed away a couple of years ago, Aseemullah had helped out at his uncle’s shop in the afternoons, after school every day.

That evening he sat on the roof of his house, the roof surrounded by a tangled web of criss-crossing electricity and telephone cables. He sometimes wondered how the cables would look from above. He wondered if there might actually be a pattern to them, if the chaos might somehow transform into order if only you looked from far enough. From where he sat, he could see the setting sun fuse with the dome of the Moth ki Masjid. He sat there outlining shapes in the mosque’s architecture; he knew all of them were the way they were for a reason. And one day, he would find out. He wanted to be an architect. Of course his uncle and his teachers thought he had little talent for anything. And sure enough, his dream was distant and things look orderly and manageable if you look from far enough. The seeming impossibility and tangle of things hit you only when you are right near them. But he was prepared for ‘Aseemullah Against the World. “Aseemullah!”, called his mother from below and he walked off towards the stairs with a smile.

Illustration by Priyadarshini Sivakumar

It’s as cold as Ahmedabad gets. A regular winter almost-morning, un-slept through the night, not because I had to, but because it’s this odd hour that inspires me in strange ways you know. I mean, toasted pink shades filling the air and all that (I had to pitch that because this is the only time of the year our skies have any colour at all). The out-of-tune singing-along by intoxicated somebodies lying around after the night’s party. Some all-night conversation leftovers at the jute benches by the basketball court. Of course, the instigating and ever-invigorating, chai. There’s no time of the day that could ever define your intake of this life-giving elixir, you know. There’s no substitute, whatsoever, to its sidekick, the five a.m. maska bun – your own custom-made dawn meal. My unbeatable regular, chocolate- and peanut butter-oozing sandwich, well-butchered into four equal parts in the softest of buns (or so it seems when cravings are relieved) by one of  the most dexterous hands I’ve seen – probably waiting for me right now, as I write this.

I am in an attempt to contemplate and recollect, like every time, how the past few hours swept by. There was some indiscreet blabbering, something about unseen somebodies’ stories, mythologies, music blogs, and train journeys. I recall table-sketching masterpieces at the night mess as evidence of nonsensical two a.m. conversations followed by some early good nights and other loud nothings. A walk below the sleeping pigeons. Some plans and other pondering. The tempting smoke of freshly-lit cigarettes on cold winter dawns. Not just quite sleepy yet. not quite awake either. Still, hours to go before I am awake again. I come to conclude that it’s these unaccounted for time-gaps, these in-between days, that really keep me alive for yet another. Such are the ways of nature which I need to succumb to, without much choice, to shake away my blur of night from day. It’s these things, you know, sleeping, shitting, eating, that really makes us human isn’t it? I mean, come what may, we must, for at least a while, pave our way into the other world, of reveries and surreal happenings. Anyhow, it’s clearly past the hour that I’m going to make any sense anymore, so till I am awake again, let me clutch my warm blanket while pigeons, peacocks and early sun rays try hard to steal these few hours of sleep away from me.

Photograph by Shivani Singh

The Death of a Goldfish 

Sadness is an upturned goldfish in a fishbowl; glistening in the morning sun. Sadness is the tears that flow down Millie’s face as she discovers Mr Goldy lying still in the water. Just yesterday, she was feeding the fish and tapping gently at the sides of the bowl to make him do a trick. Today, he lies lifeless; locked forever in the illusion of performing a trick.

Millie runs straight into my arms sobbing inconsolably; a deep hacking, guttural sound that comes from the deepest part of her soul. The sheer raw pain echoes in that cry and her tears flow unabated like torrential rains. All I can do is to pull her close to me and make gentle soothing sounds and hope that my little six year old daughter’s heart won’t break.

We need to say goodbye to him”, I say.

She nods her head silently.

We look together for a box to bury Mr Goldy in. I find an old white shoebox in the cupboard. Millie gently puts him in. I start digging in our backyard. Just when I think its deep enough, the neighbor’s cat appears ominously. I dig another couple of feet.

We both place the box tenderly into the shallow hole and a grim moment later, we lay Mr Goldy to rest. I step back after piling on the last bit of black dirt into the hole, which is now a grave.

You were a good goldfish. It was just your time to go.

Millie’s eyes cloud up and she sobs gently but does her best to hide her tears. I kneel down and put my arm gently around her shoulders and pull her in close and we mourn silently.

“He’s in a better place, Millie.”

 It’s what anyone would say.

Millie looks me in the eyes and in her most vulnerable and innocent voice, asks, “Really, dad?”

I stare at the grave; the poor dead fish buried in a musty white box, just a few feet below the moist, dark earth.

Cold, unfeeling and lonely.

And for the life of me, I cannot bear to look into her sweet black eyes and repeat my filthy lie.

A Death in the Family

The blood in my veins freezes every time I hear my mobile phone ring. For two days, I’ve been expecting a call from my mom confirming the worst. I expect to pick up the phone to hear her distorted voice from a seemingly faraway place, uttering the words I dread to hear. I imagine myriad voices in the background: my grandmother’s wails of despair with my mother’s incoherent words mixed with sobs. The nurse’s sensitivities are numbed by years of service as she tries to usher my family out of Intensive Care and the doctor dispenses hollow platitudes in a vain attempt to assure that my grandfather is in ‘God’s hands’ now.

I imagine the sea of faces, both familiar and not, visit our domicile to give their condolences. Grandpa would lie in his iced casket – a mute spectator to the throng of relatives, friends and neighbours who would linger over him, shedding tears and consoling my aggrieved mother. My uncle would have to steady his heart and heed the instructions of the scholars schooled in the traditional wisdom of commending souls to their creators. There would be elaborate rituals involving sandalwood, holy ash, silver vessels and water. There will be womenfolk crying silently into their saris. I too would be standing in the corner observing the grim proceedings and holding my mother’s hand whilst holding back my tears. The time would come when Grandpa would have to be carried out to be ‘witnessed’ by all, one last time. The assembled gathering would place grains of rice near his mouth as a token of respect before he is taken away and his ashes subsequently liberated to the very womb of nature itself – the ocean. The unbearable silence of the household would trigger memories of immeasurable sadness for years to come.

The ringing of the phone brings me back to reality.

I pick it up and I listen.

Oh God.

Oh God.

Note: The author also blogs at The World as I See It.