The meeting started emphatically, as these meetings do, with a counter agitation by the ABVP with guns being pointed towards the sky. Rayees glanced at me as if to reassure me that this was as normal as the a Kashmiri eating beef. I stared, scared, into the blissful distant forests that the Ganga dhaba allowed to with the hope of surviving this protest march. Unperturbed, Rayees proceeded to the dais and began his speech with a solemn oath, he screamed, ‘Today, as Kashmiris, we mark the death of one of the latest martyrs for our cause. When he left to Jannah, he left with the fire that burns in Kashmir. His death adds not only fuel but also anger to this fire of our bloodied valley and country. If we don’t reclaim what is our birthright, no one will. I invite Shaukat Hussain Guru to enlighten us about our own cause against this imperialist, inconsonant, irrational India.’

Shaukat Guru was shortly built for a Kashmiri. His face was affixed with a frown which seemed to have been derived from the unpacifiable anger gathered over the many years in prison for an uncommitted crime. Rayees sniggered and said, ‘Shaukat has said that even he was found to have committed the crime, he wouldn’t feel he wasted his years in prison because his murder would have outraged the valley. He is right.’

Shaukat, sarcastically started, ‘These kafir say in their pledge that In our well being and prosperity alone; lies their happiness. Let it be known that they think our wellbeing is when they kill us. They probably do this because we can’t have a well being here. These encroachers say in their Constitution that they want to promote their own fraternity. How do they do it? They have an inside joke of killing Kashmiris and laugh about it. That’s how they do it. And they still want us to be part of them.’

At this point, the ABVP protestors switched off the electricity to the hall. Rayees got up and told me that the meeting was over.

The next day, I read in the papers that the protestors had punctured the tires of Shaukat’s car and slept the entire night in front of it to cause loss to Shaukat and the Kashmiris. I met Rayees in the office for the last time that day. He started by telling me that the meeting was successful because it got reported in all the right newspapers. Rayees said, ‘You’re a brave Indian. I wouldn’t go near any of my meetings if I were you. The injustice that is perpetrated in my country is unbearable for all of us. My own brother has been in jail under suspicion of being a terrorist, for 3 years and he is 24 years old. We lose our entire future on our collective identity that is not understandable for anyone outside Kashmir. There will be always paternal, patronising Indians, questioning our claim, telling us that we will be no good if there were no India, telling us that Pakistan is waiting to pounce on us. They don’t understand our identity. As a Kashmiri, I want to face these fights with my brother Kashmiris, and help from India and everybody else. I do not want you encroachers to scream into my ear that Kashmir is useless. If we are so useless, then just let us go. We are more than happy to fight our own battles. Remember that you have no claim to rule a people who do not wish to be ruled by you. Let us determine where our hostilities lie.’

Rayees left to Kashmir that night after his father was killed in mysterious circumstances.

Lucknow has always been my second home. After my grandmother’s death, my mom and grandfather shifted from Calcutta and permanently settled there in 1991. My mom says she bought every single light bulb, fan and painting in the house all by herself since my grandfather was busy with work; and did it all while she was pursuing her Ph.D. To cut a long story short, that house was my childhood getaway- where my grandfather spoilt me in absolute violation of the ‘How to handle kids’ Code prescribed by my mom. Over the years, the city grew on me- the regular visits to the zoo, the chaat at Neelkanth, the kebabs, watching the first day first show at SRS and shopping for Chikankari work at the Chowk. My grandfather continued to live there all by himself despite his rapidly deteriorating health, bound by the love of his neighbours and perhaps the peace he felt in the house.

Last week my parents informed me that they had finally managed to convince him to move in with us and that we will be putting up the house for rent. Although I was happy that he will be in our care, I was quite shocked- this felt like an abrupt goodbye. So as soon as my vacations began, we set off for Lucknow. The house looked just the same, except there was board hanging out the front which said “Available on rent, Contact”. Over the next two days, my family toiled through boxes full of paperwork, met neighbours, relatives and several interested tenants, while I mostly slept on my favourite sofa in the house, visited the corners I used to hide in as a child, strolled on the terrace and read the Readers Digest editions found in the store that went as far back as 1961. The night we were to leave, we discovered a huge box with my grandmother’s name written on it. It had her books, her own writings, her Ph.D. thesis, her astronomical charts, and her photos. I realised how our tastes matched as I went through her collection of novels, and how we would have made great friends if we had met. It was strange how cleaning this 24 years old house gave me the opportunity to meet my grandmother for the first time.

Soon it was done- the house was put up on rent, all the papers sorted through and the furniture sold. It was time to say goodbye. I felt quite tearful at the thought that this would be my last visit to the house, and in all probability, to Lucknow. Then I looked at my grandfather. I feared that he would break down, but he showed no signs of emotion. I asked him if he would miss the house. He simply  smiled and then went and sat in the car outside. I don’t know if he had already made peace with the situation long ago, or if at his age one understands the futility of attachment, or perhaps acquires the strength to overcome it. I didn’t shed a tear either. If he didn’t cry at the thought of being forced to leave the house he had built, loved and lived in for more years than I’ve lived on the Earth, how could I?

Mukul: “Papa, mujhe neta banna hai. Yeh desh badalna hai.”

Papa: “Haan beta! Tum banoge. I can see that spark in you.”

What exactly is this spark which the encouraging father is referring to? On what basis did he reach this conclusion? Is he misleading Mukul into believing something that is probably not true? Or is he himself being misled? The answers to these questions will probably become clear if one probes deeper into the life of our protagonist.

Mukul is a kid who who talks, eats and sleeps politics. He scores reasonably well in his school examinations and participates in extra-curriculars day in and day out. Further, he is a certified stud in his school, a certification which came not only from his peers but from elders alike. Come the board examinations and without a doubt, he aces this as well. He can thus see his dream of becoming a neta coming true, given his glittery credentials. In pursuance of this dream, he decides to sit for the entrance examination of one of the best law schools in the country, considering law to be a gateway to politics and clears it with flying colours. One would hardly require the services of a soothsayer to predict his journey in the college of his dreams, which, as one would expect, was full of accolades.

Thus, it is not entirely wrong to blame the father for goading Mukul into believing that he’ll become a neta at some future point of time. This is a kid who claims to have mastered the system, so what can possibly stop him from fulfilling his dreams?

Unfortunately, Mukul could never have imagined that it would be this mastery over the system that would precisely be a hurdle in him pursuing his dreams.

Mukul soon realises that he is not the only one who claims to have mastered the system. There are thousands like him with the same credentials – bright, talented and smart. The only difference is that they are not netas. Nevertheless, such people are recognised as successful by the society. Entry to this elite club is coveted by one and all as the membership of such a club guarantees one the privilege of leading a comfortable life, a life full of respect, a life comparatively free of tensions, a life guaranteeing security and a life full of that much sought after fruit called happiness.

Come the moment when our protagonist has to make a choice! As was expected, Mukul did receive the golden letter from the coveted club; a letter congratulating him for having made it so far; a letter promising him a gateway to a life full of pleasures; a letter which comes but once in a lifetime. However, our protagonist, who was by now a mature adult, wasn’t entirely happy, so to say. His childhood dream of becoming a neta flashed in front of his eyes. Should he risk the opportunity he had in hand at that moment to pursue his childhood dream? Was it worth the effort? Isn’t netagiri meant for uneducated people? Aren’t smarter people like him made for bigger things, such as being a member of the coveted club mentioned above? Plus, what guarantee did he have that he will succeed in politics? Facing such a dilemma, he consulted his peers, one of whose comments was, “I never expected a smart person such as you Mukul, to entertain such foolish thoughts in the first place.” He then spoke to his father, the same old encouraging father who saw the spark in him to be a neta once. “Aisi bachkaani batein mere saamne mat karo! You are a man now. Think like a man”, was the reply.

Thus, with a heavy heart, our protagonist accepted the invitation to join the coveted club, consoling himself by thinking that he was probably foolish to entertain the thought of becoming a neta in the first place; that the thought was probably the product of his immaturity, an immaturity that did not take into account the harsh realities of life. Of course, why would anyone as bright as him risk his entire educational career to plunge into something which did not guarantee success?

Little did he realise that his childhood dream essentially required him to break out of this system, the system that he had been trying to master for these many years; little did he realise that his childhood dream was for becoming a lion rather than for winning the rat race and still ending up as a rat; little did he realise that inspite of all his abilities, he lacked the one core element required to transform himself from a rat to a lion – that of COURAGE.

And yet, somehow, I am a little put off by the thought of competitive sport. My earliest first-hand experience of approaching a sport competitively was swimming in middle school. Overnight, my conversations changed from being about how cold the water was and whether I thought Ash could ever tame Charizard (a Pokémon character- for the unawares) to a talk of timings and techniques. What had once been an afternoon of fun was now approached with some amount of trepidation. I was no longer merely happy with the fact that I was a good swimmer and enjoyed swimming; I now needed to ensure that I would be on the team. Eventually, my interest in the sport tailed off until it was rekindled almost a year later by the scorching heat of Bombay’s summer.

My second brush with competition came barely a year later when I found myself on the fringes of the school cricket team. I had started playing at the school ground (read: parking lot) because friends in my building had stopped coming down to play thanks to our collective obsession with board exams. Once again, it started off as me going to play a sport I enjoyed, and culminated in me struggling for my place in the XI. The stories I’d tell my parents on going home changed from ‘woah, I actually swung a ball’ to ‘I think I’m better suited for this position than him’.  Wanting to hang on to my love for the sport, and buoyed by the fact that a whole set of friends had finished their boards, another sport was quit.

Recently, I had occasion, yet again, to quit a sport in order to hold on to my love for it. This time it was debating. You may laugh at my characterization of debating as a sport, but that was precisely my problem: along with several others, I had begun approaching debating as a sport. It started with a love for debating for the sake of debating itself. I was fascinated by the idea of being forced to think about things I’d never cared for, often in support of positions I abhorred, trying to find that argument that would clinch it. A year in, and I found myself hankering after breaks and wins. Like many other law school debaters, I was reading up as much as I could to be prepared for any motion that could come my way. Arguments were not always things that were arrived upon with great thought in those fifteen minutes leading to a whoop of delight; they would often be ones I had used before and was refining or had read in an editorial. Thinking was on its way out.

The fact that competition changed the way I approached the sport wasn’t all. In each instance, with little in the first and a lot in the last, came along sniping and whispering. There would be talk of who was better and quite often, it wouldn’t be very pleasant. At the start, I would always tell myself not to let others affect my enjoyment of something I loved. But it did.

Competition does push us in ways that we wouldn’t dream of otherwise. I have swum with cuts all over my hands from a fall, stinging with each stroke, merely because that practice session was essential. But if it stopped being fun, what was the point?

As I write this, I am less than 24 hours away from graduating, once and for all, from this place that has been my home for the last five years. And if someone asked me right now, ‘what is it that you learnt in law school?’ , I’d have to say: “I learnt to have fun!”

It’s ironic that my first ever post on 19(1)(a) will also be my last one. But if I didn’t post on this typically law school forum once before I left, I’d probably regret it for a long time to come. And God knows, I already have had a few significant ones in this place!

To be honest, sentimental hand washing is not something we are used to seeing on this august forum (which is usually reserved for the far higher purpose of entertaining cat fights!). However, I would be lying if I said I won’t miss this place…a lot. And, for a lot of time to come, possibly… forever.

Soon, we shall be lost to law school. Another set of alumni.  And while, there seems to be no prima facie ‘rational’ reason to explain what connects law schoolites through generations;  it probably is the knowledge that, like it or not, we chose to be here. No matter, if it was our first option, whether our parents forced us to write the CLAT, or foreign admissions just didn’t happen; in the end, we did nail that one two hour paper…and in doing so, became an unmistakable part of this place.

 I know, a lot of things aren’t the same as they were before. And when I came in, we were systematically taught by some of our seniors that those changes were proof of falling standards of law school.

In the last 5 years, I have been witness to and, more importantly, lived through quite a few significant moments. We won Jessup, Man Lachs, made finals of Vis, helped poor farmers in the remotest of areas, won an international debate and kept getting our jobs. We also fired our best professor, vandalized the acad, mismanaged funds and never fixed the damn internet. Mostly though, we (or at least some of us) drank a hell lot, smoked like chimneys and abused illegal substances that so deserve to be legal (:p).

And yet, here we are, after around 3000 hours of class with over 90 exams in 60 courses with 58 projects down the line…just as abnormally normal as the ones who have gone before us.

Are law schoolites of today failing at life more often? No. Are some of them losing their way abysmally? Yes. Are some of them poised to change the world? Hell Yes!

So…where is the fall? Maybe, just in our attitude towards this place.

What is often ignored in the cacophony of negatives is that there is still ample learning for those who want it. Ample opportunity for scam for those who want that. And, in my opinion, that’s been the best and the most unique thing law school has had to offer: The opportunity to do what you want and be who you want to be.  (I believe debaters have a term for that stuff :p)

Because college, for me, is the ideal (and probably the only) time for experimenting and learning new things…about the world and yourself, without serious repercussions. We can be stupid without fear. We can and should make mistakes.

And as long as NLS continues to remain the same open, all-encompassing society it has been in the past, law school and law schoolites will not fall. For the one thing that has not changed (and I hope never does) is that, no matter what and how many attempts at the opposite, law schoolites have remained zealous guardians of their own liberty.

My parting two cents: Guard it with pride, flaunt it, experience it, and most of all, strive to be worthy of it. This freedom is really hard to come by anywhere else. 

Maybe, law school was, once upon a time, a more ‘classroom-oriented’ rigorous place. However, I think today’s law school is rigorous for those who want it to be. There are more academic activities outside class, more opportunities for learning the law there.

It is also true that some of our best professors today happen to be ad-hoc faculty. But, for a professional course, it is naive to expect otherwise. The focus has shifted and needs to continue to shift to learning from the best professionals in the industry, coming back and teaching us in short bursts. Single-credit courses, seminars, special lectures, even teaching one or two modules out of a course characterize the way forward. Gone are the days when the best professionals in the legal area decided to shun work and become permanent faculty for peanuts. And while, some of us may choose to whine about it and make great romantic arguments about money-mindedness and what not, the smarter (or atleast the more dynamic ones) ought to adapt.

We need to create space for the above, either by combining some of the existing courses, reducing class hours for some ones or figuring other alternatives. That classroom learning has better substitutes is undeniable (and I think project exemptions are one of the many ways the college already recognizes this). Our aims have changed too. While some of us love the law, many of us see learning the law as ancillary, and as an instrumentality, to other aims. (I am not sure which part of that divide I fall in personally!)

That said, it true that our lead on the top has narrowed. Or more accurately, the top tier now has some non-schoolites and does not have some law schoolites. My guess is, that’s only natural.

In any case, maybe, when a national shooter, a female footballer who nails almost all males in her batch at it, a steadfastly driven Rhodes scholar, two of the sharpest logical minds with the eloquence that could put Obama to shame on most days, a perpetual convener who has arranged for more courses than can be counted, a politician whose heart very literally beats for anyone who is screwed and many many others get together for five whole years and work, sometimes in their self interest, sometimes for the greater good, mostly just discovering themselves without realizing it, the results are…well, pleasantly unexpected and unexpectedly grand.

My aim is not to paint an overly rosy picture of law school or the world. However, this happens to be the only place in my experience where one can pick up a conversation with 350/400 students (and quite a few MPPs too :p) and learn something utterly new and interesting.

I cannot end this post without mentioning the administration and our VC once. And, while I will be hard pressed to say that I agreed with all decisions made by the admin (I have reserved my strongest disagreement with some measures) however, on the whole, I am glad I was a student here during his tenure. He has, and at various points most others have, been encouraging to say the least and assiduously liberal to say just a little more.

As far as I am concerned, I think I grew as a person in law school. For that, I have a certain sense of gratitude towards this place. It allowed me to prioritize things my way and live on my own terms. It was a conscious decision from me to not consider classroom academics as very important. It allowed me the time to try out various different things, but mostly, after a somewhat checkered school life, college was, for me, a phase of life where I  just wanted to ease out. NLS allowed me that, and for that it will always have my thanks.

In the end, as we walk off into the sunset and face the ‘real’ world (a phrase that continues to confuse me more and more each day)…new challenges, new friends, new experiences await. For now though, there are the old memories which bring about a satisfied smile and a few tears of nostalgia.

And if I might take just another moment to preach to the choir, I’d say:

‘Always hate losing, I hated it with all my heart. But the only thing I hated more…was to not try for the fear of losing.’ 

Goodbye my fellow law schoolites and good luck!

Jon Stewart’s retirement last week restarted discussion surrounding the United States’ dependence on satirical news programs. Much as Jon Stewart might have liked to call himself a person who merely made jokes, the fact remains that he was one of the most trusted voices in the media. And he’s not the only one. The US has a pantheon of such satirists- Stephen Colbert, John Oliver and Bill Maher, to name a few. Intentionally or not, Arnab Goswami makes a mockery of the news. In all seriousness, AIB has, on occasion, forayed into commenting on the political space, as has Justice Katju in his inimical manner.

America’s reliance on ‘infotainment’ made me wonder why we prefer getting our news from comedians. It struck me that America is not the first such country- monarchies through the ages relied on ‘fools’ or ‘jesters’ to be honest with the king along with providing entertainment. Jesters have been recorded in Europe, China, America, India, Japan and Africa. Jesters played a vital role in royal courts because most people were afraid to be honest with kings. Quite often, the task of delivering bad news was left to them.

The methodology used by John Oliver is actually strikingly similar to that of one of the most popular jesters in Indian history- Birbal. Oliver not only humorously lampoons the government and institutions, but often also instigates trolls to do things like crash the FCC website. This reminded me of one of the more popular Birbal tales in which Emperor Akbar believes that a man survived a winter night in a freezing lake by relying on a fire miles away. He accuses him of cheating and doesn’t reward him for completing the challenge. In order to make Akbar realize his mistake, Birbal invites Akbar for lunch and cooks his biryani from five feet above the flame. Jesters, modern and old, rely on witticisms to prove a point.

Jon Stewart often joked that it was a shame that people relied on him for news. And I agree. Effective as Stewart’s methodology might have been, he is no substitute for news. Nor is John Oliver. I can understand the rationale behind the existence of court jesters. They lived in an age when you could be whipped, beaten or worse for saying a word against anyone of note. These were men who were either ‘naturally fools’ or appointed and licensed to speak their minds. Their contribution to courts was significant in terms of addressing the information asymmetry that that naturally existed as a result of the court structure. America, on the other hand, considers itself a bastion of democracy and free speech. Freedom of the media has been extended to include fears and potential harms in the form of the chilling effect doctrine. The media and the ballot, not comedians, are supposed to be checks on institutions.

However, it is undeniable that they have a huge impact as this article suggests. And this isn’t because they are the only ones saying what they do say. John Oliver was certainly not the only one talking about net neutrality, as the various clips in his show demonstrate. And yet, he was the one who managed to make the FCC sit up and take notice. The FCC has no responsibility to either him or any news outlet. It is, however, accountable to public opinion. The fact that John Oliver did what several newsmen failed to do, speaks volumes not about the state of governance, but the average television viewer. Do we, the people, the new sovereign, also need jesters to tell us things we don’t want to hear? The jester must speak, not because no one else may, but because we wouldn’t care if they did. The jesters of old thrived on fear; jesters of the day thrive on apathy.

On one of those tiring internship days in Delhi, I stumbled upon an interestingly titled book written by Ravish Kumar “Ishq Mein Shahar Hona” amongst the numerous books laden on one of the typical bicycle book vendors right opposite to Triveni Kala Sangam at Tansen Marg. Ishq Mein Shahar Hona is a compilation of micro-fiction stories, each story being only a few sentences long. A loose translation of Ishq Mein Shahar Hona is ‘a city in love’. This is obviously my own inference, but the point should nevertheless be made: The phrase conveys a message completely different from “Shahar mein ishq hona”, which would be ‘love in a city’. The book is not about how the experiences of love in rural setting are different from experiences of love in urban setting. Instead, it is about how one’s being in love can affect his urban experiences. The book is about the blending of experiences of love and experiences of becoming and being ‘urban’. While on one hand, it gives us a different picture of Delhi, on the other hand, it also creates its own niche in the ways we read and write about the themes of ‘love’ and ‘urban’.

The most enthusing part of the book is its introduction titled “shahar ka kitaab banna”, which can be vaguely translated to mean, ‘a city turning into a book’. The introduction narrates Ravish’s personal experiences of ‘becoming urban’, for one who migrates from a typical rural environment. Beautifully described by him, the journey of becoming ‘urban’ begins with a distinction between ‘temporary address’ and ‘permanent address’ which hovers over the newly urbanising people, constantly reminding them of the insecurity of still not having procured permanent address. He describes the process of transforming from a quintessential ‘rural’ to ‘becoming urban’ as one where clear lines between ‘permanent’ and ‘temporary’ first become fuzzy and subsequently, the feeling that the city after all is just a temporary address vanishes away. The process where city transforms from a ‘temporary’ address to a ‘permanent’ address is, according to him, what essentially characterises the process of becoming urban.

Delhi is read and written about from different lenses: political corridors, historical monuments, famous moments etc. While Delhi is burdened with the heavyweight of historicity and politics in our readings, in its daily existence, it also shares some light moments with lovers who are historically and politically irrelevant. Ishq mein shahar hona brings out this aspect of Delhi very beautifully, entombed in the shared experiences of the many individuals who constitute its public spaces.

The book covers multiplicity of urban experiences from the occasional middle class protests, the daily travel insecurities to religious and caste tensions. While in some stories, ‘urban’ is shown as anonymous, and thus facilitating closeness between two people, in other stories, ‘urban’ is shown as a constantly surveilling state force. In some stories, the lovers are compared to different parts of the city, while others showcase the lovers’ longing for lonely surroundings. The book brings out the dual forces of public anonymity, yet more intimate personal space that a city may breed between two people.

The narrative doesn’t separate the quintessential urban experiences from the experiences of love. Ishq mein shahar hona does not hide the necessary ingredients of Delhi like politics and history. The love stories are not apolitical or isolated in vacuum. In fact, at times, there are strong political commentaries through these stories. The idea that it is difficult to escape from ‘being political’ in Delhi is beautifully portrayed by Ravish. In one of the stories, where two lovers are participating in a political protest, one lover asks the other – “Are we in love or in politics?” To this, the other replies – “How does it matter, if we are in love or in politics? We are in Delhi.” In another story, where one lover mentions that he sees Anna and Gandhi in his dreams, the other replies – “tum bahut political ho gaye ho”(you have become very political).

Ravish also locates the daily urban problems in the context of experiences of love. In one story, the lovers lament that they meet less often now, due to rise in petrol prices. In another story, they are struggling with the status connotations that are attached with different areas of Delhi. Another very prominent theme is the urban obsession with English and its role in status connotations. In one story where a woman uses English to show off her status in a fish shop, Ravish has a very elegant way to express his concern with this obsession -“English is not supposed to be the weapon for every status battle.”

It shows us how even urban love is not really disconnected with what we may ordinarily understand to be stereotypically rural experiences. While urban may be representative of progressive society, the specter of caste and religious divides often haunt the urban experiences. However, the book showcases the sentiment that this doesn’t hold back the young urban from falling in love and imagining a future, which can chart the course that the Constitutional idea of India is supposed to provide for. While the social change that the Constitutional ideals may bring, these lovers place their trust in the Constitution for the limited purpose of struggling through the oppressive social customs for getting united. Portraying this very idea, I conclude this post with my favourite story from this book titled “Khaap kahin aaspaas” (Khaap is somewhere nearby): Two lovers are sitting with each other under the statue of Ambedkar. She asks him, “Why does this man in blue coat always stand there with a book (The Constitution of India)?” After thinking for a while about Ambedkar’s dream of casteless society and the Constitutional ideals, he replies, “I assure you, this book will one day unite us”.

]]> http://www.criticaltwenties.in/reflections-2/of-love-and-urban-experiences-ravish-kumars-ishq-mein-shahar-hona/feed 0 http://www.criticaltwenties.in/reflections-2/guest-post-by-ananya-mody-thoughts-from-travel-why-i-need-you http://www.criticaltwenties.in/reflections-2/guest-post-by-ananya-mody-thoughts-from-travel-why-i-need-you#comments Sun, 26 Jul 2015 05:31:39 +0000 Dhruva Gandhi http://www.criticaltwenties.in/?p=5779 We are what deep, driving desire is. Hypothetically, if I were to be granted unlimited means, I’d use the opportunity to fund a dream which might be mostly clichéd but extremely desirable nevertheless- to travel the world. It’s quite hard to explain why I enjoy traveling the amount I do. I find my love for travel in the interesting food I sample, the artful streets I walk down, the way it creates a portal to world history and the new people I meet and stories I hear. Travel leads to all kinds of encounters and experiences. And you never return the same person. I’ve had my fair share of them which have been quite entertaining and insightful at the same time. I’ve always come home with the ability to look at life from a different perspective. However, there was one such incident in particular, during my travels, which really got me thinking.

If you were to see a hitchhiker on the side of the road, would you stop your car for them? Would you give them a second thought or just drive by? I’ve asked this question to a number of people and received wildly innovative but essentially similar responses- it’s dangerous. They could be murderers. They could have guns. They might steal your car. They could kidnap you. The possibilities are endless and Murphy’s Law will not fail to prove itself. Yet we hear countless stories about successful hitchhikers and their memorable journeys- and I would like to add mine to the list.

A couple of months ago, I was volunteering at a farm in Sebastopol, Sonoma County- about 55 miles from San Francisco when I had my first ever hitchhiking experience. On the weekend following my arrival, my fellow volunteers and I decided to make a trip to San Francisco. And we unanimously agreed to hitchhike for the sake of experience despite being advised against it quite severely. Being five people, we split into teams of two and three and turned it into a race to the city. The first team had three different people take them on at various points until they were forced to take the bus by the San Rafael police. Hitchhiking on the highway isn’t legal. We, on the other hand, took an hour and a half to get a ride but when we did, we were dropped off past the Golden Gate, straight into the city. Oh and we won the race. The lady who gave us a ride said, “You guys are crazy to be doing this, that’s why I’m going to take you.” She made us some space in her crowded car and spoke to us throughout the ride. She spoke about her job, where she was headed, her family, her ex-husband, her boyfriend and everything else you’d share with someone who you’re probably never going to meet again.

So why did a sole lady driver stop to give three strangers a ride? The probability of three girls being a threat is as high as in any other gender group. But as most hitchhikers will tell you, people do so because of their need for companionship. Their desire to talk and share. Their need to be acknowledged. Sometimes, the thirst for companionship is too strong to be quenched by a radio. Man is a social animal, after all.

Psychological needs are as demanding as physiological ones- they just happen to be severely underrated. Even the most introverted person requires human interaction to survive and thrive. Maslow’s hierarchy of needs clearly states the importance of social groups in civilized society which has fulfilled its physiological survival needs. We grow through external stimulation which is more often than not, provided by other individuals. Our life is incomplete if we do not have other people to share our achievements with and fall back on in dire circumstances. And after the acquisition of a strong social group, people will tell you that they have found it much easier to cope with the loss of needs lying in the lower rungs of the pyramid. There are two reasons I attribute this to. The first is emotional support which one is more privy to once they have acquired companionship. The other is that the loss of needs is temporarily compensated for by pooling and sharing the resources of other members in the social group. We need company to prevent us from losing our sanity. History has proven that groups have a higher chance of survival than individuals do. Our need for company can be so intense that it overpowers our common sense. In those moments, we like to put our faith in humanity and take a few risks to fulfil our emotional needs.

This need for company is what enables a solo traveler to travel alone. Because in truth, a solo traveler never travels alone. He just travels with a little more personal space. It is also an effective cure of introverted-ness. People who find it hard to talk to new people, simply have to be left in an unfamiliar environment. You could keep quiet for a while but eventually, your inner need for companionship will present itself in one form or the other and you’ll be out there talking to new people. It’s a survival strategy nature has blessed us with. And it is this very same survival strategy which gives us the power to build a network of individuals from across the globe. It is what take businesses and people forward. It is what makes communities develop. It is what makes us go out and enjoy ourselves on a Friday night. It is what enables us to love and have and preserve meaningful relationships. The need for companionship may run deep and be quite thought provoking but it presents itself to us in various forms every day.

So for the next time you wonder why somebody picked up a hitchhiker on a deserted stretch of the highway, why somebody put themselves at risk for people they hardly know, why they hoped the universe will prove to be a kinder place- you have your answer.

I sit in my classic white lab-coat, clutching a pen and a pad, entombed by the shelter of my desk. She sits twiddling her thumbs opposite me.  She looks up at me over the landscape of my desk, a classic bundle of nerve, as though unsure of where to start.

“Start from the very beginning”, I flash an encouraging smile. The seconds tick by.  In our profession, we are taught to gently prod the patient and not to coerce them.  “They pay you for your time, listen attentively”, they would say. Every psychiatrist will probably carry this old saying to her grave.

“It all started in the fourth month, when he came home one evening from work”, she begins with a stammer.  “He seemed to have had a bad day, and we got into a fight over something so inconsequential I cannot even remember anymore. When our argument seemed to be reaching no conclusion, he gingerly shoved me into the cupboard.  When I yelled at him to stop, he turned around and hit me across my face”

Her deep, dark secret out in the open, she looked up at me for any signs of shock, maybe even disgust.  “ Was this followed by many other such incidents?” I ask calmly.

“Again after a month. Drunkenly, his strong hands grabbed hold of my waist, and pulled me close enough to growl at me in my face. When I refused to back down, it was followed by the same fate” she continues, more confidently.

I stare at her, my face impassive. Her choice of adjectives, her entire demeanor, it dawns upon me that she might actually enjoy it.  Yet, if she did enjoy it, she surely would not be seeking help for it, would she?

“Was this the first man who treated you this way? Maybe you were witness to this before in your past?” I ask, gauging her every expression, trying to decipher why there was more reverence than disgust in her voice, when she speaks of him.

“My father used to hit my mother” she begins slowly. “At first, it used to be only when he used to lose at chess, and was in an inebriated state. Then, it began to happen more often. My mother’s cries stayed with me, through my adolescence and into adulthood. They reverberated off my college dorm and the images haunted my every dream. I promised myself that I would never allow myself to be a victim of the same. Yet, now, in the face of love, stuck in my very own limbo, I cannot seem to leave” she finally looks up from her fingers. They’re weaving their own imaginary cloth, as she knits them lost in thought.

She seems to be seeking approval, more than an escape route. She just wants a logical explanation for her behavior. She’s completely at crossroads with herself, one path is her logic and her sense of reason, and the other denotes who she is beginning to realize she really is. It occurs to me that this is what she wants. The thought of being dominated over is not as repulsive to her as she once assumed it would be. She’s looking at me with her confused expression, and her most heightened sense is her sense of guilt. Her guilt at how pleasurable she finds it. I begin to unravel, that the only thing that brings her to my office is society’s opinion on how it should be. Maybe, she whispered her woes into the wrong ears and they absolutely insisted that she seek help immediately.

So how exactly does one explain this? We live in a time, where every billboard, every speech or school play is preaching women empowerment. Yet, she stands as a lone exception, clothed in her own definition of domination.  Was she just a patient of Stockholm syndrome or maybe just a victim of her own deluded ideals of self worth?  Is it an absurd idea to enjoy your captivity, to feed off the drama? We could pin this on her demons of her childhood, throw her into the basket we reserve for damaged goods. However, we cannot ignore the fact that people like her still exist. So now what? Does this make her mentally ill? Or even completely bonkers?  Where we see freedom, she sees a long lonely stretch of land. Where we see equality in love, she seeks to be the submissive.

The chiming of the clock interrupts my thoughts. I watch her silhouette pass through the swiveling doors. The sound of her retreating footsteps takes her story with her.  They bring the reality of how during the hour, she has managed to teach me more about life than I could have ever taught her.

You can contact her on trishasunderajan93@gmail.com

]]> http://www.criticaltwenties.in/reflections-2/all-of-my-demons-guest-post-by-trisha-sunderajan/feed 0 http://www.criticaltwenties.in/reflections-2/its-the-new-twenties http://www.criticaltwenties.in/reflections-2/its-the-new-twenties#comments Mon, 13 Jul 2015 17:04:18 +0000 Aradhya Sethia http://www.criticaltwenties.in/?p=5650 My first encounter with the Critical Twenties was during my first month at law school, when my professor of Legal Methods wrote a post on this blog on a topic which was being discussed in class. As a first year law student, I remembered this forum as an interestingly named blog.

This blog has developed leaps and bounds since its inception. From Amir Khusro to Roger Federer, from securities and arbitration law to science digests, from movie review to the General Budget, from the Mahabharata to the Hobbit, Critical Twenties has attempted to make a foray into a wide range of areas. On the way, it has also hosted insightful guest posts and interviews.

However, for the last one year, owing to certain constraints, it could not be regularly updated.  Critical Twenties is about to re-start after a hiatus of a year and a half. A new bunch of people have now turned twenty and are ready to take over the management of this blog. We hope to revive this blog, and to evolve through our critical twenties with our future contributors and readers.

The baton named Critical Twenties has been passed not only to a new generation of contributors, but also in a sense, to the many more new readers. We are reviving the blog with starry-eyed optimism. We seek to survive the restraints that may come in the form of academic deadlines and professional commitments by sailing in the ship of the enthusiasm that the twenties are well-fabled to bring about. Our enthusiasm is, of course, almost entirely fuelled by your encouragement and participation. We intend for this to be a journey, which reflects the attitudes, ideas and opinions of an evolving generation realising a very critical decade of their lives. And we want you to meander along with us.

Aradhya Sethia