Here I am...

Name:

Notes, observations, reflections,and memories.

Monday, December 18, 2006

Welcome to Sambhavna

Dada: His real name is Kallol Dutta, and he is the computer tech guy at the clinic. He doesn't work here for the money, since he has a private software development business. No, he works here because no else knows jack about computers. He cracks me up, because he's always complaining and giving Sathyu a hard time during the meetings when he's not sleeping during them. But he's a good man, reminds me of Papa.

Saba: The librarian of the clinic, she is always smiling and cracking jokes. She's extremely educated and is one of the few people at the clinic who can speak English fluently. She's leaving the clinic soon; I'll miss seeing her scurrying about in the library, stressed about how there's too much to do but no one does what they are supposed to.

Amita: She works in the pathology lab, for whom I'm entering the pap smear data into the computer- not the most exciting job, but necessary nevertheless. When I first met her at the weekly staff meeting I was a bit intimidated by her aggressive personality. The one-on-one conversations I've had with her, however, have led me to believe that she's not a scary person, quite human actually :) She's the type of woman who isn't afraid to express herself, and I truly admire that about her.

Natasha: She's only a few years older than me, so we get along well. This girl eats a ton yet has to safety pin her salwars tighter because she's so skinny! We both are in love with two songs from the movie Anwar: "Maula Mere Maula" and "Javeda Zindagi". They are played at least 10 times daily and it drives Shweta insane, but Natasha and I- giggling like schoolgirls and playing the song one last time- derive immense pleasure from it. She's Punjabi too and we both pig out on chole bhature whenever we go to Manohar Dairy, a reasonably priced restaurant that has become the clinic hangout for the volunteers.

Biju: He's originally from Kerala, and Hindi is his third language (after Malayalam and English), but he is by no means uncomfortable speaking it. In fact, he's quite the talker. The "cool dude" at the clinic with his studded ear, short pony-tail, baseball cap and tattoo on his hand, he takes care of his male Panchkarma patients during the morning and flirts with the ladies in the afternoon, all of whom call him "bhai" to his utter dismay. He's the clown who isn't afraid to speak his mind during meetings either, even if no one agrees with him.

That just gives you an idea of the diversity the clinic has to offer. There are plenty of interesting people that work here, some of whom I'm getting to know better than others. Some people love their jobs, others can't stand it- it's like any other work environment. There are internal politics, there are allegiances, it's the day-to-day reality for these people.

Oh, I saw Dhoom 2- great action, bad songs, women with skimpy clothing, and gorgeous guys. It's Bollywood at its best, but in the words of Levar Burton, don't take my word for it.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

Why?

"Ganda pani saaf Karo!
Bhopal mein insaaf karo!"

It's not that they were asking for clean drinking water, they were demanding it. Demanding the right to be able to live without waking up every morning and being envious of the thousands that have died, because they don't have to suffer like you do. They are the lucky ones.

This past weekend made being in Bhopal all too real for me. Yes, Bhopal is known for what happened five past midnight on December 3, 1984, but it is not something that is discussed everyday. You don't see hundreds of people marching down a dark alley with flaming torches in their hands, shouting their deformed lungs out until they are gasping for the little air that is left in their spongy organs. Hope is the thread that binds us all together. Hope for justice, hope for life without poison, hope that children will be born without missing body parts.

"Awaz do! Hum ek hain!"

We are one- white, black, brown, purple, Hindu, Muslim, Christian, Atheist, man, woman, young, old, and in that instant of saying those five words, we are Bhopalis, we are survivors, we are strong and we are loud (really, really loud). We are fearless despite the police that surround us, we are angry that the government is capable of being so unresponsive to the world's largest industrial disaster. We burn an effigy representing Dow and the Indian government; the quickly roasting limp straw inside them is not as weak as the morals of the officials who choose to make false promises their profession.

"Ladenge! Jeetenge!"

We will fight and we will win. No ifs or buts. It's a done deal. Wearing masks of crying ghosts, holding the signs that we made till 1 am in the morning, we walk for two hours as the sun shines directly down at us. It is hot, yet the sweat is quenching my fatigue. We walk to the factory where it all began, the cursed ground that has partially blinded the woman next to me. She cries. We hug, but the pain in her tears is more than I can comprehend. How many children has she lost? How many more will she lose? How will she survive on the meager earnings that are quickly dwindling? And the largest question of all, the one that looms over her, refusing to leave our minds. The question that she probably asks herself everyday, hoping that today, yes today she'll find the answer. Why? I wrote this a few years back, but it is for those who have lost so much and still have more love to give than any one of us.

Why they ask
Does it happen to those
Who already lost all they had

Must it be so
This tragedy of tragedies
This horror story beyond words

The tale of unspeakable sufferings
Why must it be us they ask
Who live this dark, muggy reality

This reality of death and deformity
Of life as a curse
Why must misfortune
Always knock on our doors
Why must this haunting
Stomp on our floors

Is there hope
That I may live this life as you do
Is there a chance
That I may breathe the air without choking
This air thick with poison
Like a thousand needles it stings
This air that enters my being
Not to give me life, oh no
But to strangle every strand of resolution
Every ounce of energy that remains
It slowly and surely drains

After my bones collapse beneath my skin
What is left inside this mortal
Is a slowly beating heart
A pulse which quickens with every victory
With every success my blood rushes to my fingers
And they unite to create this powerful fist
This symbol of my strength
This mark of my resolve
It hails our triumph
Against those that curse our existence
It hails our triumph
Against steps that you thought impossible
It brings us together
With immeasurable persistence
And helps us see
The faint but determined glow ahead

Why they ask
Must it happen to those
Who have already lost it all

Because you never really lost
What was taken from you
The freedom to breathe
The freedom to live
The freedom to act
Regain what is rightfully yours
The time is now