Teej Festival today. Hindu women swarming the streets in red saris, dozens of bangles jingling in their wrists, hands made up in henna, hair with flashy adornments of red and gold and green. Street corners on my way up the hill from school blasting in Bollywood and disco music, the series of platforms packed in pheromones of lost looks, swaying hips and shaking wrists to the beat of music. Young girls in new dresses, women made up, arm in arm to one another, men flocking around the gates of private houses where the driveway holds the women of the block. It is very much a woman's festival. Single women ask the gods to bring husbands round their way, married women fast the days leading up to Teej for the long life of their husbands and consorts and lovers.
I stop around at every gathering, looking at the women dance, laughing at what I've come to associate as 'typical' Indian-style moves. They look so beautiful.
As I make my way around the last corners of my block, I hear blasting music once again, and see a small gathering of men on the street. This gathering is a little different though. The men are wearing kurtas (Indian blouses) and shawls and have some makeup on, and the handful of men that make this group are not dancing but bustling around something in the floor. As I get closer--eardrums popping at the loud music beat--I see they are surrounding a man limp in the ground, eyes wide open. They are placing his wrists together in an X shape and aggressively pushing and pulling the limp body into a sitting position, where by they knot his hands and feet, punching him once in a while in the back or slapping his face. I wonder whether he's had an epileptic attack and this is their way of helping? But no--soon they've finished tying his hands and feet and they actually carry the young man this way between 5 guys as if a deer they've shot or a robber they're about to lynch, and they finish tying him to a light post. What's wrong?! my head asks.. The men are yelling among themselves and at the young man, so thin I can see his pelvic bones as he slides this way and that at the bottom of the post. Some men come and press the young man's head against their leg, as if to give support, but moments later are hitting him violently and throwing his bound body into the ground. I'm so confused. A pitcher of water is brought and they're pouring it on his head and face. His decent pants look wet, I don't know why. And he is limp, and tied, and screaming things once and again.. Finally a police motorbike comes round, talks to (what has become) the mob of guys for 5 minutes and drives away, as the mob carries the bound man back inside a small shrine where their festivities and music hide the prisoner in dark. Really?! I wonder, you're just going to drive away and leave him there? I tear my eyes away from the dark shrine where I hear the man screaming and yelling. If I knew the context of what's going on, perhaps it would seem sensible somehow. But the language barrier itself allows me to glimpse at the violence and brutishness of the mob that no man, no robber, no assaultant, no human could deserve. I think Camus has an example of the 'Absurd' when you watch someone inside a telephone pole and you cannot hear the content, but only see the meaningless gestures from outside. I could see the raw gestures, the violence, the behavior of the mob in a way that language and context might have obscured and excused it. I tear up as I walk away, feeling hopeless, tasting humanity's violence as I make my way through the mud path and vegetable patch that winds in streets up to my house.
As I make my way around the last corners of my block, I hear blasting music once again, and see a small gathering of men on the street. This gathering is a little different though. The men are wearing kurtas (Indian blouses) and shawls and have some makeup on, and the handful of men that make this group are not dancing but bustling around something in the floor. As I get closer--eardrums popping at the loud music beat--I see they are surrounding a man limp in the ground, eyes wide open. They are placing his wrists together in an X shape and aggressively pushing and pulling the limp body into a sitting position, where by they knot his hands and feet, punching him once in a while in the back or slapping his face. I wonder whether he's had an epileptic attack and this is their way of helping? But no--soon they've finished tying his hands and feet and they actually carry the young man this way between 5 guys as if a deer they've shot or a robber they're about to lynch, and they finish tying him to a light post. What's wrong?! my head asks.. The men are yelling among themselves and at the young man, so thin I can see his pelvic bones as he slides this way and that at the bottom of the post. Some men come and press the young man's head against their leg, as if to give support, but moments later are hitting him violently and throwing his bound body into the ground. I'm so confused. A pitcher of water is brought and they're pouring it on his head and face. His decent pants look wet, I don't know why. And he is limp, and tied, and screaming things once and again.. Finally a police motorbike comes round, talks to (what has become) the mob of guys for 5 minutes and drives away, as the mob carries the bound man back inside a small shrine where their festivities and music hide the prisoner in dark. Really?! I wonder, you're just going to drive away and leave him there? I tear my eyes away from the dark shrine where I hear the man screaming and yelling. If I knew the context of what's going on, perhaps it would seem sensible somehow. But the language barrier itself allows me to glimpse at the violence and brutishness of the mob that no man, no robber, no assaultant, no human could deserve. I think Camus has an example of the 'Absurd' when you watch someone inside a telephone pole and you cannot hear the content, but only see the meaningless gestures from outside. I could see the raw gestures, the violence, the behavior of the mob in a way that language and context might have obscured and excused it. I tear up as I walk away, feeling hopeless, tasting humanity's violence as I make my way through the mud path and vegetable patch that winds in streets up to my house.
A beautiful sunset ends the scene. I didn't think I'd have time to capture it as I saw the gold horizon and pink lazy clouds laying on the mountains across the valley as I walked away from man of screams. I love that susets are available every day, to everyone across the globe who cares to see.
2 comments:
What a frustrating situation, in the case of the screaming man!
Wow. Good, bad, right, wrong, beautiful, ugly-- perhaps these things aren't so easily discernable. It seems, if anything, they are enmeshed tightly in one another. But I think that sunset says it all.
Post a Comment