"Although the world is full of suffering, it is also full of the overcoming of it."- Helen Keller
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I have listened to the lives of three women who brave every breath of oxygen they inhale. Exhaling a moment of pain and un-uttered grief. A simple smile shines through. You know it is an effort to search for acknowledgment - they too have a soul that burns silently, just like the one staring into their face.The eyes of a ‘watch’ scans through and through, wanting to pin down an argument of knowing what lies beneath the skin. There lies nothing beneath the skin, really. It is the same blood. The same red fluid pumped by the heart, runs through the veins of every individual of every colour, race, ethnicity, man, woman, child, un-man, un-woman, un-child. It is the same oxygen that runs through the blood vessels. Yet every puff of oxygen inhaled is different. Unknowable. Unseen. Unfelt.
I lived the lives of three women – only partially. I can merely fathom the surface of the life that has been lived. I wonder what life of a past is lived through the present for Radha, Swetha and Kaumudhi (Names changed here).
Radha and Swetha are placed in a man’s body, but have a soul of a woman. Kaumudhi is a woman living with HIV. She has to care for her husband and child who live with HIV too. Three lives. Three worlds. Three languages. Yet one now. Yet many then.
I know their pain in snatches. I know it because I too search for a world that can be a garden of different hues. That is a world I wish to live in. I am different yet one.
Radha and Swetha are women who live a life of dignity despite rape. A rape that goes beyond the physical. A rape of an identity thrust upon them. A rape of forced name-calling: queer, different, strange, weird, freaks, hijra, eunuch. A rape of isolation. A rape of pushing their body to the periphery of life. They fight the rape. They fight the language of conquest, of captured assault. Their body snatched, conquered, besieged, injured, rived, torn, ripped, scared, penetrated, forced. That is how their body was treated. That is their body. The outer layer. The house where resides the soul. The flesh that will decay, perish and die. The soul sees a flight of freedom and liberation one day.
Their spirit cannot be touched, tampered or raped. The spirit that carries a dignity of defiance, equanimity and courage to hold on to claim a world of love, kindness, acceptance of them and of all the souls that feel trapped in bodies that don’t belong.
I know their pain in snatches. I know it because I am the same. A soul that is housed in a mere body that will one day decay.
Radha and Swetha were born boys, who felt trapped in their body. They try to break free from a patriarchal, masculine language, thus creating a language of their own.
There is Kaumudhi, who listens to Radha and Swetha, as she runs her past through her present one more time. She is them, and yet not. She shares the same language of discrimination. She lives with HIV. Her little child lives with the same. Her husband lives the same. Three lives to lead in one life span.
I know her pain, in snatches. I know the pain of all of them put together. I know it because each one of them, just like me, long to be held, listened to and respected.
I have felt pain in my heart. Sharing two days with Kaumudhi, reliving her journey and her struggle of what millions around the world go through, fighting discrimination against HIV leaves me numb. It was time to say goodbye. I hugged her with the only thing I knew I could come to express- compassion, loving-kindness. That was all I had to offer of myself to her, her child and her family and thus it was in a way an offering of my pained self to the world where free spirits suffer everywhere.
These exemplary women epitomize for me one of my favorite quotes of Helen Keller again, “Security is mostly a superstition. It does not exist in nature. Life is either a daring adventure or nothing.”
Living a snatch of the daring is promise. Breaking superstition of the forces of the cosmos is liberating. Understanding a language through stammering is freeing. Listening to the churning stories is living a life through three lives and yet a zillion lives in a single stroke, as one inhales a puff of air that is everyone’s.
I realize there is more to life than seeing sunsets and sunrise fade across the horizon.
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