Now, Anjali is a teacher, Rashmi develops e – courses for students,  Soumya is working in NZ after completing her MBA, Kushi is happily married in Lagos, and I am a lawyer working in Gurgaon. Even today, we talk, we discuss, we poke fun at people, and we laugh. But the content of our conversations has changed remarkably. We are worried over our families. We feel bogged down by liabilities. We want to own bigger cars and better houses. But the truth is that we dont know what we really want. We dont know what we have all become. The situation is somewhat different now. There are means. And there are moans. Allen Solly trousers paired with Van Heusen shirts; rebonded hair dipped in outrageous colours; elevators in the garb of heels; screaming nail colors; nails that could put knifes out of employment; jewellery spelling the bank statement; perfumes concealing the human scent and revealing the brand; and an accent that accentuates a complete disconnect with life… 

And he answered saying, “Yes, death is always the revealer. And if indeed you would know my worth it is that I have more in my heart than upon my tongue, and more in my desire than in my hand.”

Abha may not have been a poet, but her death too proved to be a revealer. And she definitely had more in her heart than upon her tongue. Her peculiar circumstances and upbringing may have failed her hand in sharing her misery with her loved ones, but her desire for justice seems to have survived her. It was the desire of her wounded soul that worked behind the rejection of the petition for anticipatory bail filed by her husband. Today, I feel a little less suffocated. The court order rejecting the bail petition has not only reaffirmed my shaking faith in the judicial system and the solidarity of the legal fraternity – which was manifest by the number of lawyers present during the court proceedings – but has also given an auspicious start to Abha’s fight for justice.

“A truth is to be known always, to be uttered sometimes.” (KG) 

The matter is still sub-judice. The investigation is pending. The charge remains to be framed. The trial has not begun. The witnesses have not been examined. The judgment is yet to be delivered. All of us know the truth though. What is tragic is not only that a girl like Abha was found hanging from the ceiling of her house, that she had been kept hungry for atleast seventy two hours before she died, that nobody bothered to rush her to the hospital, that Abha was forced to abort the life within her more than once, that the topper of the law school became the victim of the very offences she had vowed to fight against … what is truly tragic is that she had to undergo all of this…HAD TO DIE…before she could take her first step towards justice. Abha found safety only in her grave!

Does this mean that one has to undergo the harrowing experience of being a victim before one can hope for justice? Or, that souls have now been entrusted with the task of seeking justice for bodies long dead? Have courts started demanding filing of presence from graveyards only? Is there no way to stop a killer gas from destroying and destorting generations? Are we bereft of means to  save a girl from being shot after refusing to serve alchohol to a rich brat of a corrupt politician? Seems like my job, and yours too, is easy. For the answer to all these questions is in the affirmative, unless someone has examples to show that it is not. It is almost ludicrous that we sing hymns in praise of life and leave the most important business to death.  The business of revelation. The business of bringing truth to the fore. And I am sure that Abha’s death will do the same…it will reveal more than her life could. If life in her was hung by a ceiling, her death will pierce through the veil like a BULLET.

Amen.

I take the grasses of the grave, And make them pipes whereon to blow.

The traveller hears me now and then, And sometimes harshly will speak: ‘This fellow would make weakness weak, And melt the waxen hearts of men.’

Another answers, ‘Let him be, He loves to make parade of pain

That with his piping he may gain that praise that comes to constancy.’

(In Memoriam; Alfred, Lord Tennyson)

I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I am doing it again…writing yet another obituary! I had hardly come out of the shock of the well deserved cold reception of my last post and was still considering subjects that could restore my blog’s lost glory when I got a call from my long lost friend from law school. She seemed to be in no mood for pleasantries and straight away asked me: “Do you know about Abha?”. A chill ran down my spine and I knew something had gone wrong. Abha had committed suicide. Suicide? Abha Jha? The same woman who stood around five feet and five inches above the ground, was well built and pretty, had been living by herself in Delhi and far away from her home town for over a decade, and had a hand that could put all the fonts and printers in the world to shame? No. My friend was certainly under a wrong impression. It had to be a mistake. But I knew it was not. At 32, Abha had left for her heavenly abode. My friend further informed me that Abha’s  life after marriage had been miserable beyond description and that her untimely and unnatural death could be a consequence of her inability to cope with the misery any longer. Abha had never complained though. She had never been a cry baby and did not believe in narrating sob stories. I wish she had thought differently. We would have known what she was going through.

“The reality of the other person is not in what he reveals to you, but in what he cannot reveal to you. Therefore, if you would understand him, listen not to what he says but rather to what he does not say.” (Kahlil Gibran)

In our society, the moment a girl choses her own partner, she is deemed to have given up her right to complain of the atrocities inflicted upon her by her partner and/ or in laws. She is considered to have signed a tacit agreement to be responsible for and even deserving of the inhuman treatment meted out to her after such marriage. In some cases – I am sure this was not Abha’s case -parents even take pride in the fact that the girl’s choice turned out to be a bad one. They feel like winners. Often, it is this social conditioning that prevents a girl from sharing her woes with her near and dear ones. Somewhere down, she feels guilty for having married against her parents’ will and this baseless guilt holds her back when she wants to regale her family with her condition. This may very well have been Abha’s story. Nobody can be sure though. After all, she never shared the whole story with anyone. She was always busy making future plans, talking about her career and all that she wanted to be. And with her brand of diligence and meticulousness we were sure that she would get whatever she wanted. Last known, she was working on a UN disaster management project in India. Ironical. Isn’t it?

But what is it that we want to do for someone like Abha? Are we ready to let Abha become merely an occupant of paid obituary columns in newspapers? Are we fine with Abha dwindling down to a name in the “victim” column of the First Information Report that might not even get converted into a chargesheet? These questions are not here to increase the word count. They are here to elicit response. In a case like Abha’s where very few facts are known and there is hardly any possibility of reaching out to the family, leave alone getting their cooperation, what is it that we can do to get justice to the departed soul? The question becomes trickier in the wake of the fact that in our society even talking about such things may be seen as an attempt to bring disrepute to the family, particularly unmarried female siblings. In our kind of set up, a girl child is expected to carry the burden of frail egos and fake honour even after she is dead. Any war that is waged to uphold her dignity is necessarily seen as a war against the social norms that refuse to make any distinction between a woman in a burqua and a woman adorning a black gown (worn by lawyers). This is not to mean in the least that a burqua clad woman is any less respectable than a woman arguing in a court of law. It is just aimed at laying bare  the hypocrisy of a society that is ready to take credit for the journey of woman from burqua to gown.The truth is that while gowns and lab coats may have changed (increased, that is) the duties of daughters and wives, these symbols of progress have not been allowed to do much for their rights. It has been a journey backwards.

It is time to understand that ”The injured party does not want to be compensated because he has been wronged; he wants to be healed because he has been hurt.” (G.K. Chesterton). It is time to for all of us to respond to such incidents, instead of just reacting. 

‘”Mitch,” he continued, softly now, “you don’t understand. I want to tell you about my life. I want to tell you before I can’t tell you anymore.”

His voice dropped to a whisper. “I want someone to hear my story. Will you?”‘

(tuesdays with MORRIE, Mitch Albom)

Sipping  ilaichi tea under the popular wisdom tree of our law school, I would often tease Abha and say “Abha Jha means Abha JA (go)”. Being so used to taking everything seriously…to my utter dismay and horror, Abha WENT…without telling her story…

Now that I have justified my absence, I can talk about what I wish to talk about. I am not writing this post  from the office of the ASG. Unstable, indecisive, defeated, hyprocite….these are the adjectives I expect to attract. But, CLEAR is exactly how I feel. It is amazing how years of  can be swept off by a moment of clarity. In one of my posts, I had written that I would take on the world and succeed in becoming an ace first generation female lawyer. So I took the first leap and joined the office of none other than the Additional Solicitor General of India. I was where I had always wanted to be. I was in an office that was home to twenty odd counsels and had endless cases pouring from all the directions – CBI, NPPA, Ministry of Commerce & Industry, etc. These are the only directions when you are working with someone as grand as the ASG of India. It was a different world altogether. This world had its own rules for space and time. The concept of Sunday was alien to the inmates of this space which was legal in all aspects. Cause lists would be discussed at the lunch table, case law would be shared while having snacks in the evening, and judges would be discussed while working. I had been thinking about myself as someone obsessed with law, but I was wrong. These people literally talked law, ate law, and slept law. There was hardly any conversation without the L world. That is when I realised that I had always respected law as an anticipator and not as a prisoner. Law for me always represented something organic, something dynamic, something that kept growing and evolving, something that could  never be seen as a fossil formula. All of a sudden, I started seeing law as more than just a subject. I started respecting it as a tool…as a way to think and act. I was feeling liberated. I had been freed of my self and my illusions. I had grown up dreaming of flaunting my black gown and gift of the gab in the High Court and the Supreme Court, but when I did make it to the most envied team appearing in the High Court, I realised that litigating was just one of the acts of law. Also, the realty of our legal system laid itself bare before me and I felt that there were hundred other ways in which I could use my legal acumen. That is when I thought of my job with Genesis Burson-Marsteller where I was bringing my legal acumen to manage crisis for my clients. I was doing reputation management, drafting representations for or against a particular policy/ amendment/ circular/ notification. This was my moment of clarity. This was the moment when I decided that I would go back to my job. As far as litigation is concerned, I would appear in the  courts of law only for those who needed me. I resolved not to accept even a glass of water for appearing in a court of law. Now, I am at peace. I am clear. I do not wish to be a part of a web that is only held together by an invisible favour bank and  invincible desires to crush others in a bid to achieve something that exists only in imagination. I do not wish to soil something as pure and powerful as law with the age-old weapon of “networking”. So I bid farewell to all those ambitions and dreams that stemmed from love of self and self-image.

No pun intented. No hidden meaning. No ulterior motive. No vested interest. This IS an obituary. On 27th January 2010, I had slept with a resolution to chose a hard hitting subject for my next post. On 28th January, I woke up to more than that when I woke up to seven missed calls from Sangeeta. I returned her call to receive the apprehended news. Sonu was dead. My apprehension had its source not only in Sonu’s doctor’s prediction made just two days before, but also in my painful knowledge of the state and fate of thalassemics in India. Yes, my friend Sonu was suffering from thalassemia. Thalassemia is a genetic blood disorder which renders the patient’s bone marrow incapable of producing healthy red blood cells. Patients suffering from thalassemia have to rely on fortnightly/ monthly blood transfusions for their entire lives. That is not all though. Due to repeated blood transfusions, iron gets overloaded on their vital organs, including heart and liver. Highly expensive and mostly painful medicines called chelators are recommended to extract extra iron out of the patient’s body. Additionally, whether on chelation or not, thalassemics are required to undergo regular tests ranging from a simple CBC to T2* MRI. Obviously enough, not everyone is able to afford these chelators and tests. As a matter of fact, there are patients who find it hard to spare money for travelling to their closest blood transfusion centres. For those who did not know about thalassemia, please take out some of your precious time to express your heartfelt gratitude to the Government of India for your blissful ignorance and let that feeling of gratitude be based on the knowledge of the fact that the government has been far more inclined towards painting and repainting DTC buses, spending millions on giving lessons in civilized behaviour towards foreigners through hoardings and mascots, and carrying forward the legacy of inertia in practice and the art of rhetoric in speeches. It is interesting to note that our government does not even consider thalassemia worthy of consideration! Patients get blood transfusions in wards populated by critically ill patients with contagious diseases; doctors prick these patients mechanically and without using gloves and any consideration that thalassemics are regularly pricked and therefore need more care while cannulation; authorities doze off while thalassemics shiver and wreathe with pain due to unavailability of filters that prevent blood transfusion related reactions; patients die because of poor treatment, lack of knowledge and unavailability of medicines in government hospitals; and new thalassemics are born due to no provision of mandatory pregnancy tests.

I know that your mind and my heart will never agree until your mind ceases to live in numbers and my heart in the mist.  Honestly, I will not be able to give you impressive figures to convince you about the the magnitude of this problem. All I can tell you is that Sonu’s cremation was the third  I attended in a year, that Sonu was barely 25 years old, that he is survived by two unmarried sisters and old parents, that his family was not able to administer the recommeded dose to him, that due to uncontrolled iron overload his heart and lungs had developed complications and his whole body was swollen, and that…WE LOST HIM!

Sonu was someone who could not stop gushing about photography, which was his passion. One could not have known him and not known his secret plans for his sisters and their futures. Playing pranks on doctors and fellow patients was Sonu’s favourite passtime during transfusions. His words “Didi, didi, didi…aap aa gaye?” still reverberate in my mind. It is surprising how I heard the news of Sonu’s sad demise with a composed mind. There was no display of emotion whatsoever. I disconnected the call and immediately applied myself to selecting the appropriate dress for the occasion. I dressed in a speckless white kurta, wore my regular make up, summoned my driver, and left for the cremation ground. I did all those jobs while my other self stood in indignation and amazement. I reached the cremation ground and was able to maintain my cool even after seeing Sonu’s face through a tiny space in the flawless white sheet he was sporting. Cheapster…prankster…he was fooling people…his face was serene like never before. Of course, he would get up and start chuckling. But he did not. Sonu did not get up. I maintained my composure though, more so for my parents who get very concerned with my state of mind on such occasions. I came home and it started sinking in. My heart was becoming heavier by the moment. I did not wish to speak to anyone. I found myself completely by myself, alone in my grief. I was suddenly hit by the fact that a thalassemic’s life span depends on how much his family is able to squeeze out of its private coffers. Just as my head touched the pillow, I realized that I am the real prankster, not Sonu. Hypocrites like me blow their trumpets and tell the world how much they are doing for peope like Sonu just by facilitating a handful of donations while so much more needs to be done. Sleep evaded me and tears started flowing uncontrollably from an unknown source. There must be something stragely sacred in salt. It is in our tears and in the sea!

“When you long for blessings that you may not name, and when you grieve knowing not the cause, then indeed you are growing with all things that grow, and rising toward your greater self.” (Kahlil Gibran)

I experienced the sanctity of tears and an actualization of Gibran’s philosophy articulated in the above lines when rediscovered that I arrived in this world for a far larger purpose than donating a few medicines once in a year or two, travelling to Europe for conferences that give me recognition based on my eloquent talks, and writing obituaries for patients I have not been able to help. 

They say that if you do not understand your friend under all conditions you will never understand him. I don’t know whether I understood Sonu while he was alive but I certainly understood him in his death. I understood the message in the smile that froze on his cold face. That smile mocked life without purpose…without action. His smile urged me to take a pledge that every thought I have imprisoned in expression I must free by my deeds.

You, wayfarer in the universe who go through life like a meteor,

 make sure your fall into the void is not in vain

do not go straight from nothing to nothing

but give a meaning to your fleeting presence

in this fleeting reality

cultivating the most sublime of achievements

and the highest goal of Consciousness

which makes Matter great:

love through non-attachment.

A buddha is inside you: make him grow until you become

Another of his incarnations.

In the eternal flow from nothing to nothing

Make sure that between one nothing and the other

Consciousness and Love

Take their place in the evolution

Of this Universe.

(Giulio Cesare Giacobbe)

Sonu and his message shall always be remembered by me. All of us will miss this prankster in the ward. May he rest in peace…forever.

While Hemant wanted me to write about doctors and nurses, Arun expressed his desire to read a post on IQ and the Education System. Rahul could not conceal his love for cricket and demanded for a post titled “Howzzat!”. Out of all those who got back to me with their suggestions, my most religious reader and critic, who likes to go by the name of “unbiased”, came up with the most powerful thoughts. I instantly realized that my unbiased friend had not given me a topic for my next post, he had given me the post itself! Not willing to be booked for the offence of copyright infringement, I sought permission from my learned friend to reproduce his thoughts in the blog. The man who does not credit the art of writing with the power to communicate, wrote:

Hi Anubha,

saw Janta Bol…so u r searching 4 a title….let me put my nominations…

I think “Play Safe” should be a gud title 4 ur next post…ya u read it perfectly right “Play Safe” …now lets come 2 d point…wat I mean when I say “Play Safe” ….these dayz most of us “Play Safe” … v c many wrong things happening around us.. e.g. if a guy gets severely injured due 2 road accident n dying  on road , 99.99% choose not 2 take him 2 hospital but 2 wait 4 ambulance…not bcoz they don’t want 2 help ..just 2 avoid a police case n inquiries…they put the life of a dying person at stake without realizing dat few minutes can be d diff b/w his life n death….in other words they “Play Safe”…..another xample … 2 ppl fighting on road n 99.99% people watching them…just bcoz 2 be on a safer side ….there r numerous examples…ppl closing there eyes 2 things, just 2 avoid any unwanted side effects..where a little initiative can make the difference..but most of us don’t show that little courage n initiative…being a criminal lawyer , u can think of numerous such instances & mention 4-5 in your post..u can encourage people 2 show little courage without risking themselves of course…don’t just stay out of anything & everything ..This would make world a better place 2 live…u can share ur own opinion…

my parents always tell me to “Play Safe” ..but some day I will find courage 2 do my bit..without risking myself…I think u must have grasped d point I m trying 2 make…give it a thought..the title will magnetize crowds, give ppl a message & u being a criminal lawyer is the best person 2 write such post…

Nomination  2.. 

these days most of us try 2 find courage by looking  @ inspirational quotes…actually v choose the best quotes which suite us..v believe what we want to believe & take help of such inspirational quotes 2 get going…but these quotes r very funny & most of the time contradicting each other.. 

Actions speak louder than words.
vs

The pen is mightier than the sword. 

Everything comes to him who waits.
vs

He who hesitates is lost

 Now if u search on google..many web sites have a collection of contradicting quotes…u have 2 pick d best ones & add spice 2 it by putting ur own stand on these quotes n invite readers 2 openly put their stand forward through comments..there is a lot of scope to put humor in both the topics I suggested..  “contradicting quotes” will b a simple title..dont use it..apply ur creativity 2 find a gud ..funny1..i m sure u will do it…. 

I haven’t put these suggestions on blog..bcoz if u choose them 4 next post..ppl will come 2 know b4 the post itself..which is nt gud.. 

Thanks”

The piece reproduced above may not found worthy of reproduction by many, especially those who look for delightful reading offered by well-knit sentences and space hogging heavy duty words dipped in the nectar of flawless grammar and divine articulation. The piece has been reproduced to drive home the fact that if we live in a world where all is NOT well and people seldom display courage to ensure that all gets well, we also live in a world which cannot be written off yet and which offers tremendous scope for one thought sparking off the other, one candle lighting the other…

I am glad that my posts were able to elicit wonderful thoughts out of my erudite readers…I am glad my baseless application for adjournment was DISMISSED.

The title can stand on its legs now, but will not make any sense to our generation. It is ludicrous to see how much more we have started using the word “commitment” and how much less it makes sense to us. We cannot keep our commitments to jobs, friends, partners, clients, seniors, and the world around us. Pople who do persist in honoring their word tend to lag behind the rest. The moment I left my old job, I was offered a position by my previous employer in his office. I could not accept his attractive offer as I was looking for a different role and could not join him only till I got a job of my choice. However, I was shocked to hear my friends call me “mad” and “impractical”. They wanted me to draw inspiration from people who resign without giving a day’s notice. Apparently, there is nothing that goes by the name of commitment these days. FYI…I have not been able to find the job of my choice in over three months…and I have not been able to join my previous employer either!

That nobody sells this commodity called commitment is best displayed by the oft-hailed fraternity of builders. I still remember preparing the most detailed and elaborate construction contract of my life in the hope that the esteemed builder would religiously comply with the clauses that had dervied their strength from his verbal promises. Mr. Builder actually put Santa Claus to shame when he sent chauffeur driven luxury cars to his potential client’s doortstep for facilitating a thorough inspection of buildings made by him before the contract was signed. I hear that impressed with the end and means of the inspection, the deal was finalized by the client and the builder developed an overnight dislike for Santa’s robe. All his chauffeurs and cars were put on the busy mode and in the changed circumstance the 72 years old client had to send paid cabs to drag the builder to inspect his site. The builder drank the water of Lethe (the river of forgetfulness), watched Ghazini and could not remember any of the commitments he had made. All the commitments had been buried with the contract.

Do not be disheartened though. There is something very nice about evaporation of commitment. It is uniform across all the sections of our society and no disparity has been observed yet. Our dear cha wala at Delhi’s India Gate can be invited to deliver eloquent lectures to our students of marketing. This sweet chai wala could so not contain his sweetness that he sold a sugar mill within a cup of tea to my diabetic friend inspite of a clear agreement between the two for the supply of one sugar free cup of tea. By the time my cheated friend realized what had happened, our chai wala was practicing his marketing skills elsewhere.

These are just a few examples in a world where the ruling party is more committed to ruling than to the nation, cricketers are more committed to modelling than to the game, and the police are more committed to harassing the public to protect corrupt politicians. In such circumstances, if you were to question me about the deteriorating quality of my posts or about the arrival of next post, I would say…There never was any commitment!