I wrote a piece for Youth Ki Awaaz on how people take offence on jokes about religion and god. Consequently, people on Facebook were enraged. They started making rhetoric arguments like why I didn’t express outrage on issues like Charlie Hebdo’s death. These people alleged that a meme on Ganesha (used only to support my arguments) shows that the post was intended to insult Hindus.

The idea of writing the post was to move away from the angry rhetoric argument ‘why you didn’t write or talk about wrong things in other religion?’ By making such statements, you are refusing to accept wrongdoings in your religion. It depicts how people have become intolerant about jokes against any religion.

When we go through posts or Twitter threads on social media, we will often come across those crooks who will take offence in every post, meme or video saying that it’s offensive or sometimes taking offence in the name of someone else or a religious group.

Earlier this year, actress Swara Bhaskar had tweeted out an endorsement post for Amazon India. Some people ganged up to turn it into a massive outrage. They pressurised Amazon to remove Swara as a brand ambassador, threatening to boycott Amazon.

The people had issued the same rhetoric argument to justify calling her a hypocrite for not outraging rape committed by people in other religion. In a way communalising the crime.

Every time someone is offended by something I share the clip from ‘I am Offended‘ by Jaideep Varma. The documentary brings forth the plight of those who spend their lives walking the tightrope of making people laugh, knowing very well that the same laughing crowd might topple them. The documentary begins with the lines, “We don’t have it. We just don’t have it – a sense of humour.”

The video starts with a stand-up comedian joking about Jats. The Sikhs in the crowd were enjoying the jokes but objected when the comedian asked them about the tattoo Kalsa. They responded by saying that ‘Please don’t make a joke on it, it’s our religion.’ These people below are of the same kind, who enjoy jokes on other religion but can’t take on theirs.

In countries like US and UK, comedians don’t get arrested for making a joke against the Church or anything close to ‘hurting religious sentiments’.  We are better that way, right?

I have to tell the people who don’t want anyone to make jokes on religion, is your faith in your Gods so fragile that a pun on the internet hurts it? God is a stand-up comic himself; his favourite joke is people who take offence on his behalf, without consulting with him first.

If you are confident and resilient about your Gods, a joke shouldn’t have the power to shake them up. By rushing to their defence, you expose the vulnerabilities and insecurities.

If you don’t agree, you can continue making the rhetoric argument.

The post I Wrote About People Taking Offence On Jokes About Religion, And People Took Offence appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

I am an educated person who has a bunch of degrees including – B.A., M.A. and PhD. The title “student of the year”, was conferred upon me by the President of India himself. This was a proud moment for me and my community.

A few days back, an overbridge collapsed in Kolkata – claiming some innocent lives including that of a “bookworm” who was on his way home after purchasing some books from the College Street. I have seen people from all walks of life coming out on the streets to protest a tragedy. But, I usually decide to remain voiceless. I did not utter a single word condemning Mamata Banerjee’s government for its inertia in taking care of the concerned overbridge; despite the repeated pleas of the locals to repair the dilapidated bridge.

I am an educated person, and I am well known in my community for my apolitical outlook. Under any circumstances, I don’t let trivial issues (like the collapsing of the bridge) taint my image as a “neutral person”. Besides, I should feel proud that I did not take any dig at the Modi government or questioned their recent hike in the fuel prices. This is really satisfying for me. After all, I am an apolitical person.

Minorities are being brutally lynched under the suspicion of consumption of beef every other day. But I have maintained my silence by not uttering a single condemning word. I was once asked, “Do you think it is justified to maintain silence at this crucial hour when people are being lynched without thinking about pros and cons?” Do you know what my reply was? I puffed out my chest proudly and replied, “I am an apolitical person. Sometimes a prolonged silence can be fruitful than hundreds of tirades”.

A few days back, a video was doing rounds on various social media sites. A man holding a lathi in his hand was beating a Muslim guy black and blue, and that too in the presence of people – who were enjoying the scene like mute spectators. I beautifully remained silent in this case as well, since, I am a person known for my apolitical attitude. And most importantly, I was not related to that person. So, why should I bother?

Do you know that at the time of subsequent firing by the police during the Tuticorin violent protests, I did not utter a single word condemning the police brutality – despite it being the most debated topic across the nation? I should be really proud of myself. People who visit me, advise their children to follow my footsteps – to be like me – a person who has never attempted to indulge in any activity except studying in my entire life! When Mamta Banerjee’s government-approved goons (the police force), gagged innocent voices and propagated an atmosphere of intolerance – by shooting a youth just because he wanted a Bengali teacher in his school instead of an Urdu teacher, I remained silent.

The post My Apolitical Stance Is A Political Statement That Supports Injustice appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

On August 28, Pune police raided the houses of prominent human rights activists across the country and arrested five activists – Gautam Navalakha, Sudha Bharadwaj, Varavara Rao, Arun Ferreira and Vernon Gonsalves – sighting their alleged involvement in instigating the Bhima Koregaon violence, in Maharashtra this January.

The arrests triggered outrage and furore from human rights defenders across the globe prompting members of the civil society including historian Romila Thapar, economists Prabhat Patnaik and Devaki Jain, sociology professor Satish Deshpandey and human rights lawyer Maja Daruwala, to move to the Supreme Court – seeking the immediate release of the activists. They have demanded an independent investigation into the allegedly arbitrary arrests. The Supreme Court since then has placed these activists under house arrest and the final verdict on the arrests has been reserved.

I started an online petition on the popular human rights and advocacy platform – Change.org for the release of these activists. The petition has garnered over 4000 signatures, and more and more people are signing the petition every day. The huge response to the petition is an indication that the people of this country have realized that the arrests of these activists, is an attempt to muzzle dissent and prevent human rights defenders from doing their work. The Bombay High Court has also questioned the Police and their intention behind justifying the arrests of the activists in front of the media when the case is already being heard in the apex court.

I have sent the petition and the list of 4180 signatures to one of the petitioners, Ms. Romila Thapar, who appreciated my effort and has shared the list of signatures with the lawyers in the case, leaving it up to them to use it in their favour in the court. The petition has also been signed by Sagar Gonsalves, son of arrested activist Vernon Gonsalves. It has come into the notice of Ms. Julie Ward, who is a British Member of European Parliament. I hope that the Supreme Court rules in favour of these arrested activists on  September 24, and sets a strong precedent to protect human rights defenders in the future.

Readers can also sign the petition and support the human rights activists by clicking on this link

The post More Than 4000 People Have Supported My Online Petition For The Release Of Arrested Activists appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

I underwent an abortion in 2014 in Pune. It was a medical abortion. I had no knowledge whatsoever, and I was extremely scared.

All of this started when I missed my period. Five days later, I took a test and to my shock, it was positive. In that moment, I felt devastated. I was only 22 at that time and I wasn’t even sure of what is going to happen to me next. My boyfriend at that time was extremely supportive and together, we tried finding clinics around.
The problem with abortions is that even though it is legal, you’re looked down upon, and most doctors even judge you. The stigma is not unreal, and this is still Pune; you go to the smaller towns and cities in India, it is way worse.

I was too scared to go to a big clinic/ renowned hospital. Thankfully, my roommate understood something was up and she spoke to me. That’s when I got to know that she had been through this too and she gave me her doctor’s details, which sort of made things wee bit easier for me.

I went to a shady clinic, the doctor was nice. I could see a lot of pregnant women around me and that scared the hell out of me. I was extremely emotional at this point because the way we have been brought up, it was always said and believed that abortion is a big deal, that you’re killing a living being.

The doctor then sent me for a sonography where the lady judged me and made me feel like absolute crap. She asked me a number of questions which were completely unnecessary. She asked me if I’m married, when I said no, she asked if I was engaged. When I said no again, she said “patanai kahan se aate hain”; and I still remember it because I came out crying.

Since it was a medical abortion, it did not take so long, the doctor explained both procedures to me – medical and surgical. I opted for medical. He then gave me a few pills which were to be taken for three days, post which they asked me to visit the clinic again for another set of pills which were shoved into my privates. This, again, scared me because all that I had read online about medical abortions – a lot of those links said it is not safe , it can kill you, result in your death etc.

I was scared about a lot of things – my family finding out, someone seeing me at the clinic, and killing a living being (blame the internet for me not understanding the entire process of foetus development).

Once the medical procedure was over, I was sent home. I immediately started bleeding and I was bleeding for seven days, with immense pain for the first few days.

It was extremely emotionally draining. That is the one thing I can never explain in words. I was crying, every single day. It still disturbs me at times but I do understand now that abortion is a woman’s choice, it is her right to her body. Married/unmarried/engaged/committed/ divorced it does not matter. I just wish I knew more about it back then and could get more information – from the doctor or the internet.

Slowly, once I was okay to talk about things, I told a few of my closest friends about this and they were very supportive. I think that’s what was needed – a conversation. You should be able to talk to someone about this. Because it is definitely not easy to go through something so disturbing all by yourself.

The post My Abortion Emotionally Drained Me As I Didn’t Realise I Had The Right To My Own Body appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

By Pat:

“And this is our local digs”, said Stephen, turning inside a glass fronted shop, narrow and long, with a profusion of potted plants; “This is where us homos come to cheer our favourite Footie players.” Stephen was being butch referring to the hyper masculine game of Australian Rules football, where hunky and drop-dead-gorgeous players wear a sexy and scant ensemble. I had cycled straight from the Uni, all the way to that den of inequity, Fortitude Valley, for my second official date, and my first with an Australian. I think it was one of those places on Brunswick Street, but can’t remember the name. I was thirty-one and like a babe in the gay woods, felt lost.

  (Image: Couple hug, Artist: Raphael Perez)

I had had my first ever date the week before with Yasushi, whom I had thought to be an extraordinarily beautiful man. I had burst into tears after being kissed and embraced by him at his house. The evening before this day, Yasushi had asked me to meet him outside the main post-office so that we could check each other out. I remember him, sitting on a bench, reading a book, in a tee and shorts. He was probably the only Japanese guy around, so it was not difficult to spot him. Two things I noticed, and remember: cascades of glossy hair and bee-stung red lips. He was tall, toned and had that glorious golden hue that many Japanese people have. “Come in the afternoon, my flatmate will be away,” he said.

So I had taken the ferry and walked the rest of the way. And then, we were alone in the hall of his house and all I could do was stare at Yasushi, drinking him in from afar.

“Is this your first time?”

I remember shaking. Not the shivering we get when we are cold, but a deeper, painful tremor of tiny pulses in the abdomen and the hams. I did not have a straight answer to the question. It was my first date, sure, but it was not the first time I was going to have sex with a guy.

I had lived in a hostel for four years and we would have sex very frequently indeed, sometimes with my roommate in the next bed, sometimes with the lad in the next room. Sometimes, boys would pop in for room service. All for a lark, and raging hormones, of course. This was pre-internet so one didn’t really know the mechanics of gay sex. I doubt if we even knew the word gay. None of us connected the sex with being gay. I didn’t. But I knew I liked looking at boys, I liked imagining being held by a boy.  I discovered that I liked kissing and nuzzling into my bed-mate after our orgasmic highs. But did not have the vocabulary to slot it. That came four years later. But that’s another story. I don’t think we were anything more than rank amateurs at lovemaking. We  tried, fumbled, failed and learnt. It was in Australia that I realized how much I had fumbled and how little I had learnt.

Since I was 21, I had imagined about loving men and had told myself that it was idiotic to expect another man to feel likewise. Sex, yes, but to feel all this roiling in the stomach, needle pricks in the heart? The emotions that I felt disturbed me. I had not yet figured out that gayness was a way of being; getting hardons was not the problem; adolescents get used to it, right from the ritual of the morning wood to the stiffening at every whiff, sight, touch and thought of the sensuous.

My problem was the thudding of the heart on seeing Tushi smile at me in the hostel staircase with his gold-flecked green eyes; or dissolving into a puddle when shaggy-haired, manga-faced Panjo crept stealthily from behind and folded me in his arms and gave a loud kiss just below the ear – his delightful habit. Or, on realizing that when I closed my eyes, I could remember Vinod Khanna’s dimpled chin and Tom Alter’s spare body and nothing of Parveen Babi or Abha Dhulia. I could not explain all this. And for a very long time, I thought I was possibly the only person who was created thus – a man who not only desired other men sexually but who also dreamt of being romantically involved with some of them, living together perhaps; cooking together, playing badminton and cricket, going trekking and cycling and long walks, and….and maybe keeping two Labradors…

And now here I was, all of thirty-one, already one year over-the-hill from the moment Brian Kinney first felt himself to be mortal – here I was, experiencing male erotic tenderness for the first time. And I told myself, O what a wonderful world!

 (Image: Two Men Hugging, Artist Raphael Perez)

Yasushi had pulled me gently, and embraced my shaking body and kissed me. And it had felt wonderful. I had realized for the first time since adolescence what it meant to hold a man, to feel his body, to savour his fragrance. And to realize Yasushi’s willingness – he wanted to hold me, he wanted to crush his lips on mine; he wanted to be tender, he savoured my being – the man I was, just the way I was. That is when I had started sobbing. I shall remember that till Alzheimer’s claims me, and if I had to share the experience with you all, a good approximation would be this YouTube of that little girl Lily, who is told that they were all going to Disneyland. I had cried that day in Yasushi’s arms out of happiness – sharp pangs of happiness; and out of relief that it was possible for me to feel tenderness and yet not feel my shoulders weigh down in heaviness.

The bar had a few people. Stephen and I had a beer each and promised to return later in the evening. I had been to a few bars in India. They were raucous and had bad music. I preferred going to restaurants instead back home. When we returned I was perhaps in an odd frame of mind – several times within a week I had experienced intimacy that was somehow different from the nocturnal hostel romps. I had already had one moment of epiphany when I realised that it was not just I who felt loved and cared for in another man’s arms; the other guy too felt the same. I was not alone to feel this kind of love.

This time the bar was busy and I remember sitting at one end of the very long island inside which were the bartenders, being rude and jokey, all at once, like any other Aussie male between the ages 18 and 40. I sat for hours, Stephen had gone home, he had an early lecture, but I sat nursing my intermittent VB, looking at the boys and men, eyes roaming in wonderment at all the beauty of limbs and face, of carriage and voice. But my eyes would mostly linger at couples kissing; at pairs, all arms and legs, entwined, lost to the world around, and no one gave a damn. There was serious fondling too if one looked carefully. Yet no one looked, no one seemed to be all worked up over this re-enactment of Sodom and Gomorrah.

There was laughter and good cheer. Shouts came from the groups bunched around large TV screens showing different things – horse racing, footie, gay TV shows and news. Random men would ‘how.are.ya.mate’ me, and typically, not linger to hear my reply. Some would pat and brush my shoulders. I cry at the drop of a hat, sometimes even before it touches the floor. That night too, I wept, to myself, within myself. I had never experienced something so beautiful, so liberating. Yet I wept acid tears, and a sense of deep loss overwhelmed me. Why had I not experienced this back home? Could I not have been like that lad, kissing and laughing with my boyfriend, hands clasped, pissing smartass at the bartender? Could I not have been that young man sitting on the floor between the legs of his lover, playing checkers with his friends?

(Image: Sauna Bar, Artist: Touko Laaksonen aka Tom of Finland)

Since all those years, life has taken me traveling, far from the small town I called home till I was 15. I have been to the Christopher Street bars in New York’s gay quarter a number of times. And to Minneapolis’ gay bars, and to San Francisco’s gay streets, to Chicago and Boston. Some places I have felt welcomed, other places, ignored. One place even glowered at. I guess not all gay bars are like home to every gay man. But I can imagine that those that are like home must be precious islands to that community. Perhaps Pulse, the gay nightclub in Orlando, was also home to some gay men. Some of whom would have died that night, their haven destroyed forever by hate.

There are bars in Mumbai that serve gay clientele on certain days. The last time I went to one was in 2006. Perhaps some of these are havens too. What is certain though is that life of a gay lad in Mumbai is qualitatively different now. A thriving community exists where gay men and women seek all manner of sustenance, from the instant to the long-term, from the vanilla to the kinky. YouTube abounds with gay-themed films, with coming-out sagas, documentaries of abandonment and violence, celebrations of marriages and adoptions.

In a roomful of students and trainees, I am reminded that despite the utter invalidation that Section 377 had imposed on gay men until recently, despite the perfunctory debates on sexuality in the media, despite the vaudevillesque depiction of gay men in mainstream films, one is yet to hear of gay-bashing in high schools and colleges in India. That is remarkable. Often, looking at the heads bowed in concentration over their projects, I try my gaydar and imagine which of them has questions like I had at their age? Which of them is out to their friends? Looking at the youngsters nowadays, one wouldn’t be surprised if their friends rib them good-naturedly over distractingly handsome jocks. For those who still secretly worry and burn, I wish I could reach their hearts and tell them it will all be alright.

The author is a consultant, an academic and a mentor.

The post In A Gay Bar For The First Time At The Age Of 31, I Felt Complete Liberation appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

Living in a metropolitan city like Delhi isn’t easy, especially when you have to travel from one end of the city to the other. Though the city is well equipped with the civic amenities to aid people in living lives a bit easier, the ongoing construction in most of the spaces at times can create havoc. Being a researcher engrossed in the field work and simultaneously making errands to the university, getting late in the evening has become a norm for two years now. But, recently, while meeting the subject of my research I discovered half-constructed foot over bridge that could have killed me. The bridge is near Rajputana Rifle Regimental Centre, on the prime road connecting om Dhaula Kuan to Delhi Cantonment.

Earlier this week, while returning from Tilak Nagar the auto driver missed a left turn to Gopinath Bazaar. As a result, the driver decided to take a U-turn from Dhaula Kuan, but the auto ran out of fuel, and I had to get down at the Rajputana Rifle Regimental Centre. I took the foot over bridge to cross the road and decided to walk on the ramp. As I reached the top of the bridge and walked for a while, I thought of taking the staircase, and to my astonishment, the moment I was about to step out my right foot I was almost in jitters as there were no steps. Fortunately, I held the railing of the bridge with my left hand and turned back to rush down the ramp. That evening could have been fatal for me. The efforts of the civic bodies in creating foot over bridges is a planned approach to minimise accidents resulting from road crossings. But under-constructed structures can be risky. So, through this post, I would appeal the authorities to take note of the situation, and proper remedial measures should be taken considering the well being of the citizens.

The post Negligence At An Under-Construction Bridge In Dhaula Kuan Nearly Killed Me appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

Through the #MeToo movement, the stories of women being sexually harassed and abused have gone viral on social media. The next step is to change the mindset of people through collective counselling. While it can be debated whether or not social media can bring that change, we can’t afford to sit idle. Something should be done because these crimes shouldn’t happen at first place.

Over 100 years of struggle with minimal resources at hand, got us independence. What stops now to bring a change when we have access to a plethora of technology? I propose a simplistic model of revolution- Self-help!

We have allowed society to define us (women). Even if mould ourselves according to them, it doesn’t take too long for a ‘goddess’ to turn into a victim. Soon after the crime, there are discussions on news channels. There are demands to bring strict laws and strengthen the criminal justice system. Ultimately, the outrage fades away leaving only pity and sympathies for the victim.

Adjusting to the situation is an easier option. But, it takes guts to volunteer and fight for the change. Fighting to change the situation that makes us vulnerable may leave some scars on us. But those scars would be of a fighter. I chose to fight when I encountered a horrifying situation.

My Story

I can never forget that pale winter evening when I arrived at the bus stand in Kurukshetra after travelling for five good hours from home. Kurukshetra is known for Mahabharata, an epic battle fought to bring justice to a woman.
I was appropriately dressed as per the society standards. I wore a knee-long upper and a pair of denim (not fitted). I was an 18-year-old girl who knew to be highly alert when travelling. But, still, I wasn’t mature enough to read intentions. I took an auto-rickshaw to reach my hostel which is very close to the bus stand. But since it was dark, I instead took a longer route hoping for few streets lights and people on the road. On my way to the college, two men, who sat parallel to me during my journey from home, started to follow me on their bike. It went unnoticed until they overtook the auto-rickshaw, pulled off the rickshaw driver and slapped him for not stopping at their command. I was horrified, more so when they approached me and snatched my phone as I tried to call. This moment reminded me of a childhood story where we were told that a monster would come to kidnap us if we don’t sleep. The only difference here was that I had to be up and face these monsters.

I had to do something to escape this situation, and along with courage, I needed some luck on my side. Within seconds I decided to run, hoping the traffic to either stop or crush me. I pushed that man with all my strength, jumped out of the auto-rickshaw and ran blindly to the other side. And as they say, god helps those who help themselves. I did receive help. Within a minute the traffic stopped, and people turned up to understand what’s happening. The police also came as they were on their routine patrolling. Those men didn’t give up initially and tried to convince the police. And while I was charging on the police officers for the lack of security and asked to arrest those men, those men managed to escape.

Failing to nab those men, the police offered to drop me to my destination. But I took the rickshaw, trusting on the driver who tried to save me in some way. And, I safely reached my guardian’s place.

Time To Take Action

A question always irks me, is there any justice that can heal our conscious? I find it funny when people say time is the best medicine. As time can only heal our choices and not the situations imposed on us. There is no standard mechanism to deal with such situations. We need a proactive approach for that. Those few seconds when I decided to fight the situation made a survivor.

If you aren’t trained to box a man, the mind is the best weapon you always have. Since it is the mind, where all the battles are won. I did that to change things in my favour. It happened to me and can happen to me. We shouldn’t hope for safety and luck, but should be ready to help ourselves and beat the situation.

The post We Should Fight The Predators, I Did That When I Encountered Two Such Men appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

Since the country is swept by Me Too wave, I got encouraged to narrate my #MeToo moment.

I was 17 when it happened. It was my first semester of Delhi University. Everything was new and amazing and DUSU elections are a crazy time, so naturally I was excited. A day before the elections, we planned to go for a movie. It was a big group of 10-15 people and as we all were new it was a time of budding friendships. I knew most of the people in that group but none of them were actually close to me, except a guy who I recently started commuting with and I was comfortable with him. Although he was self-declared playboy (read molester), I couldn’t care less since I knew him. So when he asked me to sit next to him, I didn’t hesitate.

With the movie, began the ordeal. He inclined towards me as soon as the lights were dimmed, making me feel uncomfortable. Suddenly he started touching my breasts and kissing me. He then slid his hands inside my t-shirt. By that time, I was in complete shock. I was numb and couldn’t speak up. I couldn’t understand what was happening with me. It was my first sexual encounter and I was completely clueless about how to deal with it. I was feeling embarrassed and ashamed to speak up, thinking that I will be mocked if I get up in the middle of the movie. So, I sat there letting him play with my body. And, he continued moving his hands down into my jeans. I let out a feeble ‘NO’ but I was not sure if even I heard my voice. I pretended to act normal and watch the screen, trying my best to hide from my classmates sitting next to us. Little did I know that they were part of it, that there was no real man sitting there who could even dare to stop the show. I was shivering inside and just wanted to get over with this. I sat there, ignoring his act, lewd comments and praying that it stops soon. But it didn’t, he took my hand and asked me to feel him getting hard. This was the last blow, I pulled my hand and finally asked him to stop. Luckily, it was interval time and I zipped up and left to sit with the other girls.

He later complained that I ruined his fun by not letting him finish post interval. I came out from that movie hall with a high fever that went on for next one week and later on for two months. I did not tell my parents since I came from an orthodox family where girls weren’t allowed to talk to boys, so if something happens, it’s on the girl (Yes, it happened in the 21st Century only).

After this incident, I found out that during his drunken conversations he boasted about what he did to me, possibly every guy from my class knew about this. Yet, I did nothing. Although I told a few of my friends, no one encouraged me to act upon it. I became the subject of mockery for few people. Still, I pretended as if nothing happened and graduated without acknowledging the fact that my friend sexually harassed me. I, once, confronted him when the realisation dawn upon me. He responded that I never said No and I was enjoying it too. I was speechless. All this time I kept thinking it was my fault that I did not stop him. This incident left a scar on my soul which I never tended to. How do I know? – Because even after living in denial all this time, I cried in real for the first time thinking about it.

But whose fault was it? Why did I not stop him?

I shared my story to throw light on a few subjects that are frowned upon in our country and culture.

First is sex education. I was never taught in my life what is sexual harassment neither by my family nor school. Whatever sexual knowledge I gained, it was through watching porn, which is unarguably the worst mode of sex education for any kid. I did not know the austerity of my own body, I did not know what is wrong or right and neither did I know that I have a right to stop someone. Some will say it is common sense. Maybe I lacked it, but I could have been made aware of it by educating me. Instead, I learned it the hard way and understanding of the ‘worth’ of my own body came even years later. Every child should be given sex education from a young age, especially when we live among sexual predators and paedophiles. So parents, if you shy away from teaching your kid, the world will teach them and not in a good way. Teach them not to be ashamed of it but to raise the alarm and fight it off and most importantly, listen to them.

Second is consent. Surely, nowadays there’s a lot of debate on ‘consent’ but how many of us understand it. I came across a few sexual encounters where the man could not comprehend that just because the woman is not saying ‘no’, or not doesn’t mean she is ready. Not true. Sometimes, a woman might not be able to know how to react. So, please make sure she is comfortable before doing anything if you don’t want to scar her soul. Surely, such men are not intentionally assaulting the women, but men need to be taught the real meaning of consent. It’s not just limited to plain YES or NO. It means to comprehend that she is in a state of understanding what she is doing and she is comfortable.

The post I Didn’t Know What To Do When My Friend Sexually Harassed Me; Was It My Fault? appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

The post मैं सोचती थी सेक्स करने से ब्रेकअप रुक जाएगा लेकिन ऐसा नहीं हुआ appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

अभी हाल ही में झारखंड सरकार की 108 नंबर पर डायल करने का संयोग हुआ। ऑफिस से लौटते वक्त सड़क किनारे एक लहुलूहान आदमी पर नज़र पड़ी, जिसे दर्जनों लोगों ने घेर रखा था। कुछ लोग वीडियो बनाने में जुटे थे, कुछ लोग घायल की दशा पर दु:ख जता रहे थे, कुछ ब्रेकर की मांग कर रहे थे तो कुछ लापरवाही से वाहन चलाने वालों को चिन्हित कर दंडित करने की बात कर रहे थे। मुद्दा यह है कि कोई भी उस आदमी के लिए कुछ नहीं कर रहा था, जिसके बारे में सोचने की उस समय सबसे अधिक ज़रूरत थी और जिसके लिए वह भीड़ जमा थी।

सरकार के द्वारा इतनी जागरूकता अभियान चलाने के बावजूद भी स्थिति दुर्भाग्यपूर्ण ही नज़र आती है। मैंने बिना विलम्ब किये ‘108’ और ‘100’ दोनों नम्बरों पर कॉल किया, जिसकी अप्रत्याशित रूप से तत्काल प्रतिक्रिया मिली और हेडक्वार्टर से आये फोन कॉलों पर मैंने पर्याप्त सूचनाएं दी। जहां 108 नम्बर से आने वाली प्रतिक्रियात्मक कॉलें एम्बुलेंस नहीं मिल पाने की बात कह हर 5 मिनट में स्थिति से अपडेट कर रहीं थीं, वहीं केवल 10-15 मिनट के अंदर ही स्थानीय पुलिस थाने की गश्ती वाहन घटनास्थल पर पहुंच गई।

पुलिस वालों ने ही घायल को उठाया और उसे लेकर अस्पताल चले गए। दो पुलिस वाले वहीं रुककर उपस्थित लोगों का बयान लेने लगे। मैंने उन्हे धन्यवाद दिया और घर के लिये निकल पड़ा।

इस घटना से पुलिस की एक बड़ी सकारात्मक छवि मेरे दिमाग में बनी। मेरा हमेशा से यह मानना है कि पुलिस और सेना की ड्यूटी सबसे कठिन सेवाओं मे से हैं‌‌‌‌‌‌। घर-परिवार, समाज-बिरादरी के मसलों से कहीं ऊपर उनके लिए देश की सेवा है। लोग अपने-अपने परिवारों के साथ छुट्टियां मनाते हैं लेकिन लोगों की छुट्टियां सुरक्षित बीते, इसके इंतज़ाम में पुलिस लगी होती है। इन सबके बावजूद खाकी वर्दी लोगों के बीच अपनी सकारात्मक छवि बनाने में असफल रही है। इसलिये उक्त घटना का मेरे लिये बड़ा ही महत्त्व रहा, जिसमें मैंने पुलिस को एक ज़िंदगी को बचाने के लिये तत्पर देखा।

ऐसी प्रतिक्रियाएं इसलिये भी महत्त्वपूर्ण हैं क्योंकि ये पुलिस और पब्लिक के बीच के सम्बंध को बेहतर करने में मददगार साबित होंगी, जो पुलिस को लोगों को उत्कृष्ट पुलिस सेवा प्रदान करने में निश्चित रूप से सहायता करेगी। छोटी घटनाओं के परिणाम बड़े ही वृहत होते हैं। छोटी सुधारों में ही बड़े और क्रांतिकारी सुधार निहित होते हैं। इस छोटी घटना को उस परिवार के नज़रिये से देखने की ज़रूरत है जिसने पुलिस की तत्परता से अपने घर को बिखरने से बचते देखा हो। पुलिस को धन्यवाद देने की बडी हार्दिक इच्छा हो रही थी मगर कुछ दूरी पर ही कुछ पुलिसवाले ट्रकों से वसूली में लगे थे। अभी-अभी पुलिसवालों को लेकर मेरे ज़हन में अच्छी छवि बनी ही थी जिसे ट्रक से वसूली वाली घटना ने खत्म कर दिया। इसमें कोई दो राय नहीं है कि देश के अलग-अलग इलाकों में पुलिस के द्वारा छोटी-छोटी बहुत अच्छी चीज़ें की जाती हैं लेकिन वसूली या पुलिस की बर्बरता वाली तस्वीर जब सामने आती है, तब फिर से पुलिस की छवि खराब हो जाती है।

नोट: तस्वीर प्रतीकात्मक है। सौजन्य: Flickr

The post “पुलिसवालों के लिए अच्छी छवि बनी थी, मगर उन्हें वसूली करते देख सब खत्म हो गया” appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

It was 6:00 am on my 21st birthday. I was wide awake, yet tired and fatigued while sitting in front of one of south India’s best endocrinologists, Dr. Bipin Sethi. From whatever I could remember of the two months that had preceded this meeting, Sethi was almost the sixth doctor we met in our everyday quest to find a solution to my health problem – diabetes.

I went back home to Hyderabad after graduating from a media college in 2013. While I was excited to finally start living at home again, little did I realise that there was a dreaded disease awaiting me. It started with a huge boil, just above my butt, that practically made it hard for me to function – I couldn’t sit, walk, ride my bike, etc. To top it off, I was a reporter covering hard news for a leading English daily in the city. I used to work long hours and my work had involved going around the city throughout the day. I had little scope to complain or ponder over what this boil could actually be. Further, I had dealt with obesity and a severe case of PCOD from my menarche. So I merely dismissed this boil as a ‘heat boil’ or as an offshoot of PCOD, literally put a bandage on it, and continued functioning. A few weeks later, I was hit with the worst UTI I ever experienced. And suddenly, a month later, my entire lower body and upper body had large boils, indicating to me that it was time to give a serious look at this.

A family doctor told me to get my blood sugar tests done. As a child, my blood sugars had always been on the higher side of the normal range, so this suggestion wasn’t surprising. Except, the results of the test are what I never saw coming. My fasting blood sugar were at 267 (normal range is between 70 to 100; 100-125 is pre-diabetes) and my post lunch blood sugar at 469 (normal range should be less than 140 two hours after eating). Life came crashing down in front of me. I was 20. Just out of college, with a head full of dreams.

My mother didn’t want to believe those test results. So we went to several other diagnostic centres and doctors to get my blood sugar checked – they were all the same. Before I knew it, I wasn’t working anymore, taking 64ml insulin injection shots per day, visiting doctors/getting blood tests done every single day, eating entirely different kinds of food (although my diet was never completely unhealthy, to begin with), crying on a daily basis, feeling exhausted throughout, and finally, losing my smile. I was devastated.

While I knew that my estranged father had diabetes too, it was something he had claimed to be stress related and got when he was 35. While the hereditary angle couldn’t entirely be ruled out, I was still not sure if getting diabetes at 20 meant I had Type 1 (juvenile diabetes where the body doesn’t produce insulin, more rare and dangerous) or Type 2 (more common, insulin resistance) diabetes. After confirming with several doctors and doing my own research, I figured that it was Type 2 only, which was honestly a relief. But that did not change much. My life still looked like it was over, and my future still looked bleak. I was 20, I didn’t want to live with a chronic illness like this for the rest of my life. To make matters worse, I never knew what the way of life for a diabetes patient was like because no one else from my maternal side of the family, who I grew up with, had diabetes.

I used to wake up every morning to cinnamon powder, take walks in the fresh air, get blood sugar tested, eat under 1200 calories to keep sugar in count and roam around hospitals for the rest of the day, only to come back home more tired, fatigued, and disappointed. There was no glory or a light at the end of the tunnel for my diabetic 20-year-old self.

Me living with diabetes at 20 made my entire household dysfunctional. While I gave up on the idea of ever finding a way out of this and making my world better and brighter again, my mom never gave up on finding solutions. She was keen that her daughter was not to live like this, and she searched and searched for solutions until the day we finally reached Dr. Bipin Sethi’s office for an early morning appointment.

He looked at my test results, changed my insulin dosage, gave me a reassuring smile and said, “If you want to avoid the risk of getting a heart attack before the age of 30, get bariatric surgery done.” The surgery, which would be done with the procedure of laparoscopic sleeve gastrectomy, would involve a part of my stomach being taken out. In simpler words, a football-sized stomach would be reduced down to that of a banana. This major surgical procedure would effectively reduce a person’s capacity to eat enough medium-to-large portions of food for the rest of one’s life. It would have to be little portions every 2 hours. Of course, it does have side effects – depression and vitamin deficiencies are the most common. And if I had to keep diabetes at bay, I would have to make some major lifestyle changes – take my diet seriously and work out regularly, never indulge in too much alcohol and so on.

Bariatric surgery is essentially done for weight loss. While I measured 106 kg on the weighing machine, which is lesser than the recommended bracket for surgery, living with diabetes and obesity both, meant I could go for it. But a major surgery was a big decision, and the surgery’s side effects were severe too. We took days deciding and trying to find other solutions, but all solutions wound us back onto the surgery. So I went for it, hoping that there would some light at the end of the tunnel. And there was. Post surgery and a week-long stay at the hospital and another week’s bed rest, my blood sugar dropped down to normal levels and I started seeing some sort of future for myself again. I just had to exercise, eat right and take vitamin supplements every day, there was no compromise on this.

Today, five years after the surgery, if one asks me whether I got rid of the diabetes and weight forever, I would say no. While I lost a lot of weight and my blood sugar is perfectly under control now, I know that it has taken me sweat, blood, grit and determination to be here, and it is the same sweat, blood, grit and determination that I will probably have to show to myself, for myself, for the rest of my life. I sometimes feel bad because I will never be able to eat an entire Onam Sadhya or full Andhra meals ever again, but will I ever trade my health for my lifestyle choices? Maybe not. I am back to eating complex carbohydrates and sugar once in a while, the idea of it doesn’t scare me to death anymore, but I make sure I keep them under control. I take metformin tablets (medication for diabetes) every day to keep my PCOD under control, as I learned later, PCOD is a precursor to diabetes for a few people. I am no fan of alcohol, and definitely not a frequent consumer of aerated drinks. And as far as the side effects of the surgery are concerned, I have had a moderate to severe case of clinical depression and even vitamin B12 and D deficiency in the recent years. But unlike the time I was living with diabetes, now I can see the light at the end of the tunnel, and I know I can emerge out of this better and brighter.

This World Diabetes Day, I am not here to glorify the strength it takes to live with diabetes (though I immensely respect and support those who do), because I never wanted to live with it, I always wanted to fight it out. Rather, I am here today to say that keeping fit and healthy was never a choice for me, it came as a compulsion. I wish someone had told me growing up that exercising and eating right wasn’t about avoiding fat-shaming, slimming down and finding acceptance and boyfriends. I wish someone had stressed upon this to me enough that a healthy mind and healthy body are some of the most prized possessions in life. However, I believe it’s never too late to learn such lessons for anyone at any age, and self-preservation for our own good can take us a long way. Managing to live with diabetes or constantly fighting to keep it away from yourself takes courage and determination, and is a battle that needs to be fought by each of us every single day to give ourselves the best gift of all – the gift of life.

The post Living With Diabetes At Age 20 Taught Me That I Had To Gift Myself My Own Life Every Day appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

TRIGGER WARNING

Every survivor of any traumatic incident would have certain triggers which make them relive the trauma. I’m not good at accepting that I have triggers too. It’s hard to avoid, though, when my head starts spinning, my body shakes, and breathing feels like sucking from a straw with holes in it. Sometimes it happens, and I don’t know the reason behind it. But, this isn’t one of those times.

A few weeks ago, I got a message from someone who knew about the abuse I went through. She was the girlfriend of one of the abusers and had chosen not to believe me, and when forced to confront the facts, had decided to blame me. She told me that guy hit her too and gaslighted her into sex before she was ready. She didn’t ever feel like she could say no. Her words were eerily familiar. She said that she thought that he would never do something like that to anyone else, because he only did it to her because he loved her, and his love made him out of control. Him doing that to me, could either not be true, or be something I made him do. She told me that the #MeToo movement, and the talk around believing women made her want to reach out. She apologised. It seemed sincere. And I was just confused.

I have hated that woman for almost 7-8 years now. But suddenly, I understood her more, and that makes hating her seem unfair. But even that’s not the trigger this time. The trigger is that he, her ex-boyfriend and one of my ex-abusers, messaged me too.

Do you know how it feels to hear from a man beat me to unconsciousness? Whose mouth was on my body while I was tied down? Who forced me to put my mouth on his body? To hear from a man who not only used my body as a mix between a punching bag and a sex doll, but also blamed me for causing his best friend, and the main abuser, to kill himself?

It took me days to prepare myself to read his message. But his name on my Facebook screen was enough to trigger me into a tailspin of panic attacks and desperation to find control. Desperation which brings out a slight recklessness and self-destructiveness that I need to battle alongside the panic attacks, the fear and the depression.

He says that he was a mess back then. A lot was happening which I didn’t know about, and he became a person he didn’t recognise. He says that neither he, nor his best friend was that person and that he tried to stop his friend, and then he couldn’t stop him anymore. He says that he doesn’t know why he or they did what they did. He says that he’s sorry, sorrier than I’ll ever know.

He also said that what they did to me and continued to do for almost four years was a desperate cry for help, at least for his friend. That him hurting me, was actually asking me for help and I didn’t see that, that I didn’t help him. He says that the death of his friend shook everyone in his life and that my decision to tell everyone what they’d done had ruined so many relationships.

I wish I didn’t read it because he said so much, and all that went through my head was snapshots of moments when I thought I was going to die. I thought about how I couldn’t even say my ex’s name for years. He used to force me to repeat his name over and over again to make sure I knew who I belonged to and then sometimes he would get furious if I took his name when he hadn’t prompted me to do so. At times the pain would be unimaginable. Every day I thought about killing myself until my best friend actually did it. I saw the impact of such a death on everyone around. I thought about how he made me complicit in my abuse by handing me a blade and ordering me to cut myself exactly how he directed it and threatened to hurt me if I didn’t.

Cry For Help, He Says

I remember the moment I stopped crying for help while they beat me, stuffed things inside me, touched me and tortured me. I realised I wasn’t going to get away from this.  I remember how after a point I became numb to whatever they did to me and stopped responding with the same level of terror. That prompted my ex to come up with new ways, new tortures, just because it wasn’t as entertaining or cathartic for him if I wasn’t in complete desperate terror.

Ruined relationships, he says. Yeah, because all of my relationships survived scar-free.

He apologised, and all I remember is the pain of my body tearing and the camera clicking because it wasn’t just enough to torture me. They needed photographic evidence to keep and then tell me in detail how they would jack off to it when I wasn’t available to them.

He ended the message saying he was happy I was doing so well in life. But, all I can read is the subtle threat which means ‘I know where you are’.  Now sometimes when I’m walking around alone, I expect to turn around and see him, see them. Because one is dead, doesn’t mean the other two aren’t out there, still waiting to get revenge on the woman who ruined their lives by not allowing them to destroy hers. They want revenge because I didn’t die. They believe they are entitled to having their life turn out perfectly, and maybe even to revenge because I dared not to break. Thus, he tried again.

Basically, my ex made me his slave for almost four years. He killed me over and over again, forced me to resurrect myself each time. And he involved two more men because apparently cruelty loves company just as much as misery does. And one of them feels entitled enough to send me a message with a half-hearted apology, shit tons of blame, and a subtle threat. The only reasons I found the will to survive everything is because I saw what happens when someone loses that will. And because if I had died, I knew these three men would have celebrated and that was untenable for me. I survived almost entirely on my own, and he wants to talk to me after all this time? Why? To get some satisfaction out of a new little power play? To get any vestiges of guilt dealt with because ‘he at least tried to apologise’? To just put me in a tailspin which I have to dig myself out of, Again?

I wish I hadn’t opened that damn message because his words don’t even deserve to exist, let alone being read. Honestly, he doesn’t deserve to exist.

The post My Ex And His Friends Abused Me For Years, His Apology Doesn’t Fix Anything appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

Finally on Tinder!

The post It Was My First Tinder Date And He Tried To Kiss Me, I’m Unsure Of Online Dating Now appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

On August 28, Pune police raided the houses of prominent human rights activists across the country and arrested five activists – Gautam Navalakha, Sudha Bharadwaj, Varavara Rao, Arun Ferreira and Vernon Gonsalves – sighting their alleged involvement in instigating the Bhima Koregaon violence, in Maharashtra this January.

The arrests triggered outrage and furore from human rights defenders across the globe prompting members of the civil society including historian Romila Thapar, economists Prabhat Patnaik and Devaki Jain, sociology professor Satish Deshpandey and human rights lawyer Maja Daruwala, to move to the Supreme Court – seeking the immediate release of the activists. They have demanded an independent investigation into the allegedly arbitrary arrests. The Supreme Court since then has placed these activists under house arrest and the final verdict on the arrests has been reserved.

I started an online petition on the popular human rights and advocacy platform – Change.org for the release of these activists. The petition has garnered over 4000 signatures, and more and more people are signing the petition every day. The huge response to the petition is an indication that the people of this country have realized that the arrests of these activists, is an attempt to muzzle dissent and prevent human rights defenders from doing their work. The Bombay High Court has also questioned the Police and their intention behind justifying the arrests of the activists in front of the media when the case is already being heard in the apex court.

I have sent the petition and the list of 4180 signatures to one of the petitioners, Ms. Romila Thapar, who appreciated my effort and has shared the list of signatures with the lawyers in the case, leaving it up to them to use it in their favour in the court. The petition has also been signed by Sagar Gonsalves, son of arrested activist Vernon Gonsalves. It has come into the notice of Ms. Julie Ward, who is a British Member of European Parliament. I hope that the Supreme Court rules in favour of these arrested activists on  September 24, and sets a strong precedent to protect human rights defenders in the future.

Readers can also sign the petition and support the human rights activists by clicking on this link

The post More Than 4000 People Have Supported My Online Petition For The Release Of Arrested Activists appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

This is my story about the world of ragging and how it destroyed my confidence and social interactions for years to come.

It was 2007, more than a decade ago, at a time when anti-ragging campaigns were unheard of. I was pursuing my MBA, and the first two days at college were quite good; I remember there being nice exchanges between junior students and their seniors. But everything changed on the third day, when, before the orientation program officially ended, our seniors told us to mug up basic details about people in their batch, double quick. Unsurprisingly, I had issues mugging up the details of over 100 seniors, both day scholars, and those living in the hostel with me.

The so-called anti-ragging programme at the time was pure nonsense. For ‘safety’, security guards were placed outside our hostels for the first 10 days of the semester to save us from ragging (code-named ‘PDP’). It was not much use, by my reckoning. The man in charge of overseeing that we were not ragged – let’s call him Mr S – used to act like our biggest well-wisher in front of us. But otherwise he himself used to send seniors to us for ‘PDP’. At various times, I remember calling him up, frightened, at 10 or 11 in the night, asking for help. He used to say, “Okay, okay, I am sending help, don’t worry.” But, instead, he used to telephone the seniors who were nearby, telling them to be relentless in their task.

The only unspoken rule of ‘PDP’ was that you can’t physically harm a junior, and that was the only saving grace of those activities – memorising databases; singing some weird, crappy song; learning dance steps, and a lot of things. The horror used to start after 10 in the night and continue till early morning. I had withdrawn into a shell. I walked past people on the streets, wondering who might turn out to be a senior, thinking God knows what they would do to me.

These were the two camps – the ‘locals’ and the ‘hostelers’. The camp system meant that ‘hostelers’ were not meant to interact with the ‘locals’ much. I was the most hated by my seniors because, in spite of being a hostel-wallah, I was equally at ease with the locals. In fact, I interacted with them a lot more, as we had known each other, thanks to social media, even before the college orientation programme. My seniors looked down on me, primarily due to this fact. To avoid even harsher ‘PDP’, I used to find ways to face my seniors as little as possible.

Sometimes, the horrors of the previous night used to be very visible on my face the next morning. I could do nothing about it. I used to be in college for as long as possible, because I dreaded going back to the hostel. There were many long nights I had to pass. Luckily, at the peak of my trauma, my mother had come to visit our relatives for three weeks, and after my classes got over I would rush to her and enjoy a at least a few peaceful nights’ sleep.

Seven of my hostel mates were my biggest support system during those days. They used to make sure that I was out of sight whenever a senior was around. I so badly wanted to enjoy my hostel life, but just couldn’t because the initial three or four months of ‘PDP’ had shattered me beyond belief. And even after seven years had passed, I never recovered.

I couldn’t talk to a classmate about this if they were a ‘local’. And if I did? A hostel senior’s chamcha (lackey) used to tell my seniors, and one of them would pull me up for this. This happened with me many times and I had to make sure to watch what I said, because anything could be quoted out of context to any of my seniors. Just because someone wanted a few brownie points, I had to face hell. Things improved a bit only after that particular batch of seniors graduated. And, finally, it was in my second year that I began interacting my own batchmates.

It’s not that all the senior students were bad. I’m still in touch with some of the best people from that batch (both locals and hostelers), and I respect them from the bottom of my heart. However, some who had graduated, and came back to visit, were a different story. I used to give the same respect to everyone, but some of them still won’t talk to me, and I am okay with that.

From being forbidden to talk to both our male and female classmates on social media, now, nine years down the line, I have a much bigger social media presence than anyone could have imagined then. This might seem very trivial when you compare it to the ragging that happens in engineering colleges, but at that time, everything seemed like it had come straight for help, and I had no help. Had it not been my relatives, my hostel mates, and my batchmates, I would have surely attempted suicide.

To Mr S, you were supposed to be a trustworthy man, and you were not. To my seniors, some of you surely did not earn my respect then, and after so many years, you still won’t.

The post I Never Recovered From What My College Seniors Did To Me Years Ago appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

एचआईवी एड्स की बात आते ही समाज में लोगों की भौंहें तन जाती हैं। तमाम तरह के प्रश्न मन में उठने लगते हैं कि एड्स से ग्रसित लोगों के साथ ज़्यादा मिलना-जुलना नहीं चाहिए, उनके साथ भोजन नहीं करना चाहिए। इन्हीं भ्रांतियों को तोड़ने और एचआईवी एड्स से ग्रसित बच्चों का जीवन संवारने का काम कर रही हैं केरल से झारखंड (हज़ारीबाग) आईं सिस्टर ब्रिटो।

हज़ारीबाग के बनाहप्पा गाँव में स्थित स्नेहदीप होली क्रॉस आवासीय विद्यालय की फाउंडर, सिस्टर ब्रिटो ने Youth Ki Awaaz से बात करते हुए बताया कि कैसे उन्होंने झारखंड राज्य में आकर एचआईवी एड्स के लिए काम करना शुरू किया। वह कहती हैं, “जब मैं झारखंड आई थी तब ग्रामीण इलाकों में एड्स से ग्रसित बच्चों की हालत देखकर मुझसे रहा नहीं जाता था। बच्चे बिना दवाई लिए ही खेलते रहते थे और उनकी देखभाल करने वाला कोई नहीं होता था।”

मैं साल 2005 से एड्स पेशेन्ट्स की देखभाल कर रही हूं। तरवा गाँव में एड्स पेशेन्ट्स के लिए एक अस्पताल खोला था। एक दिन मुझे लगा कि आगे भी कुछ करना चाहिए और तब मैंने हज़ारीबाग के तत्कालीन डीसी विनय चौबे से मिलकर अनाथ स्कूल खोलने की बात कही। साल 2009 में उनके सहयोग से अनाथ स्कूल की शुरुआत हुई जिसका संचालन एक सरकारी बिल्डिंग में किया जाता था। वहां वे बच्चे भी पढ़ते थे जिन्हें एड्स नहीं था और इस वजह से कई दफा भेदभाव वाली बात सामने आती थी। मुझे लगा कि इन बच्चों के लिए अलग से एक स्कूल खोलने की ज़रूरत है।

साल 2014 में रामकृष्ण मिशन के स्वामी तपानंद ने मुझे स्कूल की ज़मीन खरीदने के लिए पैसे दिए और फिर स्नेहदीप होली क्रॉस आवासीय विद्यालय की नींव रखी गई। यहां अभी 130 एचआईवी एड्स से ग्रसित बच्चे पढ़ते हैं। विद्यायल में 10 टीचर्स हैं। डेज़ी पुष्पा बच्चों की काउंसिलर हैं। डॉक्टर अनीमा कुंडू साल 2005 से अपनी सेवाएं दे रहीं है जबकि हाल ही में आईं डॉक्टर लाइज़ा भी शिद्दत से इस काम में जुटी हैं। जब हमनें स्कूल की शुरुआत की थी उस वक्त यहां 70 बच्चे थे। मुझे बहुत अच्छा लगता है जब यहां के बच्चे मुझे माँ बुलाते हैं।

बच्चों से बातचीत

समाज में लोग हमें लेकर तरह-तरह की बातें करते हैं। कोई कहता है कि अरे-अरे इसके साथ मत खेलो अपनी बीमारी दे देगा तो कोई हमारे साथ इस डर से खाना नहीं खाता कि उन्हें भी एचआईवी एड्स हो जाएगा। मुझे याद है साल 2004 में माँ-पापा के बीच किसी बात को लेकर झगड़ा हुआ था और उसी दौरान माँ ने ज़हर खा लिया। पापा एचआईवी पॉजिटिव थे, साल 2015 में वह भी हमें छोड़कर चले गए।

हम पांच भाई-बहन थे जिसमें से मुझे लेकर अब केवल तीन ही बचे हैं। साल 2007 में एचआईवी इन्फेक्शन के कारण ही मेरी एक बहन और एक भाई की मौत हो गई। एक और बहन की शादी हो गई है। भैया-भाभी से उतने अच्छे रिश्ते नहीं हैं।

सिस्टर ब्रिटो बिल्कुल एक माँ की तरह मेरा ख्याल रखती हैं। मुझे जब भी जिस चीज़ की ज़रूरत होती है, सिस्टर वह चीज़ लाकर मुझे देती है। उक्त बातें स्नेहदीप होली क्रॉस विद्यालय के छठी कक्षा में पढ़ने वाले धीरज (बदला हुआ नाम) ने बताई।

सातवीं कक्षा के उमेश (बदला हुआ नाम) बताते हैं कि हम तीन भाई और एक बहन थे लेकिन एचआईवी एड्स की वजह से दो भाईयों की पहले ही मौत हो चुकी है। एक भाई जब 6 महीने का था तब ही उसकी मौत हो गई थी और दूसरे की 14 साल की उम्र में करंट लगने की वजह से मौत हुई।

मेरे पापा और माँ दोनों को एचआईवी एड्स था। मेरे पापा मुंबई में काम करते थे और जब घर आए तब उन्हीं से मेरी माँ को भी इन्फेक्शन हो गया। पापा दवा नहीं खाते थे और जांच द्वारा बीमारी के विषय में पता चलने के 6 महीने बाद ही पापा की मौत हो गई। माँ-पापा की मौत साल 2002 में हुई थी।

आठवीं कक्षा की पूजा कुमारी (बदला हुआ नाम) कहती हैं, “सिस्टर ब्रिटो से हमें माँ की तरह प्यार मिलता है। यहां हमें किसी भी प्रकार की कोई दिक्कत नहीं है। हम दो बहने हैं जिसमें से सिर्फ मैं ही एचआईवी पॉजिटीव हूं। मेरी दीदी की शादी हो गई है।”

पापा मुंबई में काम करते थे और अचानक जब घर आए तब जांच कराने पर पता चला कि उन्हें एचआईवी एड्स है। जून 2017 में उनकी मौत हो गई लेकिन पापा के माध्यम से वह बीमारी माँ को भी हो गई। मेरे चाचा-चाची मेरे साथ अच्छा व्यवहार नहीं करते हैं। घर पर सिर्फ मेरी माँ अकेली रहती है। समाज के लोगों का भी सोच हमारे लिए कुछ ठीक नहीं है। वे मुझसे बात तक नहीं करना चाहते हैं।

वहकेशनल ट्रेनिंग इंस्टीट्यूट हज़ारीबाग से टीचर्स ट्रेनिंग कर रहीं प्रियंका (बदला हुआ नाम) इन दिनों सिस्टर ब्रिटो के स्कूल में क्लास लेने आ रही हैं। वह बताती हैं, “मुझे एचआईवी इन्फेक्शन है लेकिन मैं दवाईयां ले रही हूं जिससे मुझे हौसला मिलता है। परिवार में अक्सर मेरे बारे में कहा जाता है कि यह लड़की ना तो कुछ कर सकती है और ना ही इसकी शादी हो सकती है। हम तीन भाई बहनें हैं जिनमें मैं सबसे छोटी हूं। बड़ी दीदी की शादी हो चुकी है। भाई हैदराबाद से आईटीआई कर रहा है। मेरे माँ-पापा को भी एड्स है, जो चास में रहते हैं।”

मुझे 2012 में जानकारी मिली कि मुझे एचआईवी इन्फेक्शन है। उससे पहले इस विषय में मुझे जानकारी नहीं थी। मुझे बाद में बताया गया कि साल 2007 में हम तीनों को इन्फेक्शन हो गया था। पापा मुंबई में काम करते थे और वहां से आने के बाद ही पापा को एचआईवी एड्स हो गया था।

सिस्टर ब्रिटो बताती हैं कि बच्चों को यहां किसी भी प्रकार की कोई दिक्कत नहीं है लेकिन उन्हें अक्सर माँ-पापा की याद आती है। जब मैं फ्री होती हूं तब ये बच्चे और बच्चियां मुझे बताते हैं कि किस प्रकार से वे अपने माँ-पापा को मिस करते हैं। यहां आकर वे काफी मोटिवेट हुए हैं। उन्हें जीने की चाह मिली है जिसके ज़रिए वे अपने हर सपनों को हकीकत में बदलना चाहते हैं। मुझे आशा है कि एक दिन वे ऐसा करने में सफल हो जाएंगे।

आज के ज़माने में जहां देश और दुनिया में एचआईवी एड्स से ग्रसित लोगों को समाज में बेगानों की निगाह से देखा जाता है वही इस दिशा में सिस्टर ब्रिटो की पहल बेहद सराहनीय है। सिस्टर ब्रिटो ने न सिर्फ अपने विद्यालय में पढ़ने वाले तमाम विद्यार्थियों के हौसले को बढ़ाने का काम किया है बल्कि समाज सेवा के क्षेत्र में भी काबिल-ए-तारीफ पहल की है जिसे आने वाले वक्त में मिसाल के तौर पर देखा जाएगा। एड्स रोग से ग्रसित लोगों का मज़ाक उड़ाने वालों को ज़रूरत है एक बार सिस्टर ब्रिटो की कार्यशैली पर ज़रूर नज़र डालें ताकि उनकी सोच में भी तब्दीली आ सके।

The post “हज़ारीबाग का स्नेहदीप स्कूल जहां पढ़ते हैं 130 एचआईवी एड्स पेशेंट्स” appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

Today I am the first deaf woman selected to move to Ukraine an international UN Volunteer for one whole year. And I am the same deaf woman who people in my village once laughed at.

I was born in Nepal, and when I was six months old, I moved to Darjeeling because my father was working there. All members of my family are hearing, and I am the only one who is deaf. My poor parents could not afford to send me to study. They are uneducated but they always tried to understand my needs and did what they could.

My struggle started right from my childhood. When I tried to express myself using self-acquired sign language, people in my village thought the way I used sign language was like a ‘mad person’. They laughed. I was afraid. And I lived my life with this constant fear. I was unable to find my identity among the people who thought I was different. In fact, they thought that I was lesser than them. I knew nothing about sign language then.

When I was 22, I moved to Delhi. That was the first time I saw the deaf community. People in the capital city knew a common sign language and were able to communicate with each other using it. I tried to learn it. I met so many deaf people there. For the first time in life, I found people who would understand me, my story, and my struggles. There were some people who hated me. I don’t know why. But it didn’t matter. I was determined to learn sign language. I was determined to help others like me who waited for years to see even one ray of hope. That’s where my life found new meaning. My journey had started.

As the first deaf Indian woman volunteering with the UN, the opportunity I was given in Ukraine had a life-changing impact on me. I worked towards spreading awareness about disability rights. I traveled across Europe, and exchanged experiences between India and Ukraine; between the East and the West.

Today I know International Sign Language, British Sign Language, Indian Sign Language, America Sign Language, and basic Ukrainian Sign Language. Through learning all of these, I improved my skills and got the confidence I deserved. And I came back to India to support Indian deaf people.

In West Europe, I saw how all public places are accessible to people with disabilities. But it is a sad picture here in India. My motherland, unfortunately, is not accessible for everyone. I went to a museum last month and could find no one to help a deaf person understand the precious history of the place. I felt hurt to the core. When will India wake up? When will India be empathetic towards people with disabilities? I have been to many meetings, conferences where no one cared to assign an interpreter. Yes, we cannot hear. That doesn’t mean we cannot understand. An interpreter knowing a sign language is all we need.

Here I must mention that events by Youth Ki Awaaz were really empathetic and inclusive. There were interpreters, and it is thanks to YKA that some citizens didn’t feel left out. The rest of India should follow this example.

Inclusion is important. It is a necessity, not a privilege. More awareness is needed to give the deaf community quality education, access to universities, and open up colleges to women with disabilities. Indian women with disabilities, including deaf women, need opportunities, to study, and to work. We need social leadership programmes for young people with disabilities. We also need Indians who aspire to understand social issues and bring change to come forward.

Currently, I am studying in Subharti University in Meerut, Uttar Pradesh, and looking out for jobs. There are people who don’t even care to reply to the emails sent by a deaf person. Isn’t it the general perception to doubt that a deaf girl can be useful in any way?

One day, I was watching a spider walking on the wall, but falling down repeatedly. It was after seven or eight failed attempts that it finally reached its destination. And here I am doing the same. Just a little push, a word of motivation, and equal opportunity is my right.
I appeared for an interview with a well known development sector organisation, but they rejected me. What is annoying is that they said they would reply with their decision but they didn’t.

Apart from making my dreams come true, I need to pay my bills and rent as well! It is becoming increasingly difficult for me, and all I ask for is a little help.

I salute late Sir Javed Abidi, an Indian activist who served as the director of the National Centre for Promotion of Employment for Disabled People in India, and the founder of the Disability Rights Group in Delhi. I promised him I would one day work for the Centre. He hugged me when I left India for Ukraine and blessed me.

The truth is, whatever I try to do, to bring a change, I have realised one thing: we have to change our mentality, our habits, and our actions. A little empathy can change the whole scenario for deaf people in India. Dear readers, don’t we all deserve a change? Isn’t it high time?

“Would you like me to give you a formula for success? It’s quite simple, really: Double your rate of failure. You are thinking of failure as the enemy of success. But it isn’t at all. You can be discouraged by failure or you can learn from it, so go ahead and make mistakes. Make all you can. Because remember, that’s where you will find success.” – Thomas J. Watson Jr.

Featured Image source: Rupmani Chhetri/Facebook.

The post I Was Laughed At For My Disability, Until I Became An International UN Volunteer appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

There are 260 million Dalits around the world, 166,635,700 of whom live in India. In Asian countries where caste system operates, Dalits are born at the very bottom of a hierarchical system. Caste is determined by birth and whilst national law outlaws discrimination against people of low castes, in reality, there is still widespread oppression and violence against Dalit people. Dalit means ‘broken’ or ‘ground down’. Many people still use the word ‘untouchable’ which indicates the extreme discrimination which affects the Dalits. Even today, mostly, members of the ‘higher caste’ community would not get married into a Dalit family, invite them into their house or share food with them.

I am one of those children who was born in a Dalit Family. Being the second girl child in the family, I was not really welcomed wholeheartedly as everyone in the family wished for a boy. My mother had no voice, she only suffered in silence. Extreme poverty in my mother’s family led to her marriage at the age of 12. She never went to school, she didn’t even know how to write her name.

I had no clue what it meant to be born in a Dalit family. We are at the bottom of the caste system that exists in India. We used to be called ‘untouchables’. I had a lot of doubts and questions in my mind about why we were called ‘untouchables’, in what sense were we untouchables. No one could clarify my doubts. I found we were just following customs without any reasoning.

I am from a small village called Chakalta Sahar, located in Bankura district of West Bengal. My father was a farmer and the entire family would depend on the rains for farming. Due to an extreme drought, my father left the village and went to the nearest semi-urban area called Panagarthe in the year 1973. He started working as a daily labourer and we lived hand to mouth on his meagre earnings. After a year he started working in a shop, and gradually after 3 years, he opened his own shop, selling motor parts.

Child sexual abuse is a serious and widespread problem in India and many parts of the world today. The trauma associated with sexual abuse can contribute to arrested development, as well as a host of psychological and emotional disorders, that some children and adolescents may never overcome. When sexual abuse goes unreported and children are not given the protective and therapeutic assistance they need, they are left to suffer in silence. In India, a child is sexually abused every 15 minutes, according to the latest government figures.

I am a survivor of child sexual abuse. My home was not safe and my mother had no voice. Two of my family members abused me over a period of one year and I had to live with it. I had no one to talk to, nor did I have the courage to tell my mother – as I thought no one would believe me. So I kept quiet and tolerated everything in silence. I would feel angry and lived with a lot of stress and fear. My childhood was completely messed up with low self-esteem, and constant rejection from my father made me a stubborn child. I felt caged by people around me. Extreme domestic violence in my home due to alcoholism made me more vulnerable and I went into a shell where I just wanted to kill myself.

My father put me in a boarding school at a very early age. I felt all alone there and could not focus on my studies. It seemed like I was just transported from one cage to another. I still remember I scored 7 out of 100 in Physical Science during my half-yearly exams in 8^th grade. Such poor academic performance caught the headmistress’ attention, Mrs Shubra Ghosal. She was my first angel who saw the spark in me and held my hand throughout. Little love from her worked like magic in my life. I scored 87 out of 100 in my final exam. And, from that day I never looked back. It was like a turning point in my life. I realised, if I wanted to see myself in a better position, education was the only weapon. It could bring changes in my life as well as in the others’.

One incident of when I was in the 8th grade, is still fresh in my memory. I was in the rural part of Bankura district in West Bengal. There was a common tube well in our hostel compound for everyone to draw drinking water. It was mid-summer. There was a huge water crisis in that locality. So the school authority allowed local community members to access drinking water from our tube well. One evening, I saw a few community women drawing water from the well. It so happened that I too went there to collect water from the tap. By mistake, I touched their filled water pot. The lady looked at me with anger and threw out all the water in front of me. After that, she cleaned the pot thoroughly and asked me to stand a little far away from them. I was very angry because I just couldn’t figure out what had actually happened. My senior whispered to me, ‘Don’t you know, we are Dalits and they are Brahmins. We are not allowed to touch them’. This was the first time I was made aware of my ‘untouchability’.

My parents didn’t want me to continue my education after 10^th grade. But I was meant for much bigger things in life. My headmistress took full responsibility for me. Ever since then, I stood 1^st in class, topped in graduation as well as at the post-graduation level. In spite of facing constant discrimination during my school-days and in college-days, I didn’t give up. I stood still like a rock and faced all the hurdles that came my way. The burning desires and the fire in my belly kept me going one step after another.

I found my life partner, (or so I thought) who belongs to the higher caste (Brahmin). Somehow the relationship didn’t work out and we both gave up 20 years of our relationship. As I say, we don’t make our destiny, it’s already been decided. We just simply walk the path and right things appear in front of us, at the right time.

Due to my lost childhood, I always felt a deep connection with other children. Since childhood, I was always connected to children, be it a child on the streets or at home. I always felt like I wanted to protect their childhood. I didn’t want to see another Rupali suffering in silence. Whenever I found a child in discomfort, I rushed to the child to give her/him comfort. My extreme vulnerable childhood made me strong for other children. For almost 13 years now, I have been working with children. Whenever I am with them, I find my real self. I enjoy the most of my life being with children. My passion for children has helped me to heal my own childhood scars. I see myself in every child. Now that I have a daughter who is just 7, I see her face in those children’s face. My present job is to infuse love, passion and compassion in those innocent souls so that they become messengers of love and peace in the world.

The supreme power gave me the tremendous capacity to turn any negative situation into extreme positivity. The more pain I got, the more powerful I became. Being there with children, I acquire a lot more divine energy and that helps me tread beyond my work responsibilities.

My message to the world is that we have one life and it’s a gift to all of us. Let’s make it more beautiful, adventurous, colourful and peaceful. Trust your journey completely. Each one of us is unique and we all have a unique purpose in life. Don’t give up, wherever you are, keep moving. You will surely reach your destination. Enjoy your journey and feel the bliss. Life has so much to offer. Be crazy… be notorious… get out of your comfort zone… and win over your fears.

The post How The Abused Untouchable Child In Me Found A Voice, Finally appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

That feeling has become her friend. She likes it when it settles in her eyes making them heavy. Her brain starts shutting down and she can sense deep sleep caressing her senses. It’s a struggle for some time. She has to stare at the ceiling and pass her time looking at the outline of the fan and the creek of the window that reflects a different kind of lighting every night. When the curtains are pulled, she can see different shapes that the blowing wind gives to the silk curtain. If she listens carefully, she can hear the noises in the distant neighbourhood quite clearly. There is a constant noise of a child waking up from sleep and going back into it again. She has heard it so many times that now it has become familiar. She can hear out the occasional coughing of the men working adjacent to her room who stay back at night and light up a bidi after toiling all day at the construction site. Whenever she turned in bed, she could sense the creaking of the wood beneath her. These voices became very predictable at night. She missed them if they didn’t entertain her ears when she tried to sleep. Her mind finally found a way to not immerse in the thoughts that she easily avoided in the day by drowning her mind in work. She felt nights were still easier. She doesn’t have to speak, explain and utter words. It was difficult for her to frame sentences. It was tough for her to emote. Ironically, in her earlier days, she was a dancer, reader and debater. Words flew from her mouth and it was never a struggle to communicate. Lately, she has realized that it is easier to think but difficult to put her thoughts into words.

Her mind had clarity, but her actions and words did not. The toughest job for her was to prepare her mind and body to wake up the next day after her deep sleep. She was not lazy. It was her unwillingness to face the next morning, carry out the daily chores and drag her body to work that made her energy take a hit. The usual things made her drain out. It was tough for her to take the first glance of herself in the mirror. She would then closely look at herself and discover a new laugh line. She had a brown pea sized patch near her eyes on the nose, a sign of wearing spectacles continuously. Those pair of glasses protected her from making an effort to make her eyes look wide open. Her eyelids were always heavy. She kind of liked it. She would swoop in a little vaseline on them and the lids would shine, making her eyes look pretty. Her face had changed over time. She liked how the corner of her eyes had faint linings and the corner of her lips always remained pink. She liked her hair but she preferred keeping them in a bun, neatly tied up so that she could see her full face. She hadn’t waxed her arms in a while. She disliked the pain and avoided every possible situation to wax them. She had lost the will to dress up. Putting on clothes was the maximum she could do to step out. Her body went through some changes that she was fully aware of.

Her cheeks remained warm while her hands would freeze. Sometimes she could feel the nerves bursting in her brain and it would put her in immense pain. It would feel like a deep prick in different parts of her head each time. It would send a strange pain down her neck and her body would become too heavy to function. Each night when she would lie down while staring at the ceiling, she could feel her throat choke, but that would settle once the familiar noises started. She longed for something familiar each night even if that familiar was something she had never seen or felt. Amidst all this, herself-awareness was at its peak. She knew she was getting into the circle of feeling out of energy, heavy and unenthusiastic. Strangely, she was able to deceive people by simplifying the feeling into a headache, because the signs were similar. She feared her thoughts. More than that, she feared her words. They actually felt a lot different from what she was actually thinking.

It is strange how she managed to cope with the day and look normal. Of course, she looked normal. Any person who has had no chance to speak or emote has the ability to look normal. She would eat, sleep and function normally. Her brain was surely getting shut to the happenings around her but she was conscious of her own self. It was dangerous to know her feelings so precisely. She left no room for uncertainty for herself. The feeling of her lone self in the battle with depression seemed tough in the day but nights gave her the courage to accept her state of mind. Nights gave her a sense of acceptance and newer ideas to get engulfed in it deeply. Nights gave her peace and nights also put her at rest. Both physically and mentally.

The post The Facade Of Normalcy Is A Battle With Her Emotions, Daily appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.

It was in April 2016 that I fell sick. It started as a cough and then I found myself coughing for three weeks, straight. Fever would shoot up and drop and I had lost up to 4 kilograms, already. During these three weeks, I visited the doctor twice. He suspected a viral infection and gave me some pills but they didn’t work.

I was eventually referred to a chest specialist. I was nervous and somewhat unsure. This specialist told me that it was most probably Tuberculosis (TB), but he required my sputum sample to confirm the diagnosis. However, since I was not able to produce sputum, I underwent a bronchoscopy for sputum collection.

As I went through these tests, I could not help but wonder- “TB? How can I have TB? I have never smoked a cigarette in my life.” Our understanding and perception of TB is so conventional- we always assume-TB can’t happen to me.

I shared my concerns with my doctor. He explained to me that TB can happen to anyone. It is an air borne disease which primarily attacks the lungs but also other body parts. I realised then if I didn’t cover my mouth for a temporary period of time, I could infect many others. It did leave me wondering though-why do we know so little about TB?

My test results came back ‘Positive’. My doctor sent the sample for drug sensitivity test (DST), immediately. He wanted to determine what medicines would work on me for a complete cure. This test, is crucial to conduct to avoid delays in seeking the right treatment for TB. Until then, I had no idea that there was drug resistance in TB.

My DST revealed that I was resistant to two drugs. I had multi-drug resistant TB (MDR TB) – a form of drug resistant TB which is harder and expensive to treat. This meant that I had to take medicines for two years, comprising 20-25 tablets every day and an injection for six months, daily. Suddenly TB didn’t seem that easy to defeat.

The doctor prepared me for the long haul. But what he didn’t prepare me was for the severe side-effects that took a deep toll on me. But I had to complete my treatment, else my TB could have worsened. I was left with no choice.

My battle with MDR TB was far from easy. To be honest, taking 25 pills and an injection everyday was painful and tough. Every day was a struggle. I couldn’t even sit properly as the part of my body that was injected always hurt. I encountered nerve problems including Dystonia (a movement disorder in which your muscles contract involuntarily, causing repetitive or twisting movements), vomiting, irritation, among other issues. I didn’t know what to do-nothing prepares TB patients for the side effects that come with treatment.

As if these physical battles weren’t enough, TB began taking a toll on my mental health as well. I became extremely negative and depressed. Thoughts about ending my life came to my mind. “What will happen if I start harming myself or others around me? What will my parents do if I commit suicide? How will they take care of themselves?” Such thoughts kept coming to me.

I am one of the lucky few who were surrounded by a loving and caring family and friends. Those who supported me entirely during my ordeal were people from my office and my folks at home.

I was advised to go to work by my doctor to help keep the negative thoughts at bay. This was difficult because I could not sit because of the injections. My concentration levels were affected too, and I couldn’t complete critical tasks. Luckily my employer and co-workers were extremely helpful and together we managed to keep the office afloat. They even went out of the way to make me feel at home.

Now that I have survived TB, I realise that it taught me a lot. I sought inspiration from people who have defeated even more severe forms of TB. When people who have gone through the same illness speak up, every word is like medicine. I learnt that nothing can stop you from achieving your goals. As long as you are alive you still have a chance to fulfil your dreams. I realized how important it is to do what you love because death is inevitable and it can come anytime without any prior notice- what we can do is focus on today and live our best, now at this very moment.

I can’t express the happiness I felt after completion of the treatment. It’s like I came back from the dead and god gave me a second chance to live my life again and fulfil my dreams. Today, I have started working on my career goals, again. I have a vision and want to create something meaningful with my life. I feel more focused and ambitious. And I am determined to help those who like me are affected by TB. We cannot let TB win- let’s end this age old scourge!

The post “TB? How Can I Have TB? I Have Never Smoked A Cigarette In My Life.” appeared first and originally on Youth Ki Awaaz and is a copyright of the same. Please do not republish.