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Archive for August 2017

The young trinket sellers of Cox’s Bazar have learnt to better negotiate life’s troughs and crests; it’s surf-boarding, they tell Sonia Sarkar

  • Pics: Allison Joyce

  • TERRA FIRMA: Rashed Alam (top) teaches these girls to become professional surfers and lifeguards

The waves are choppy as they usually are during the rains, but Rifa Akhtar knows how to ride them. She walks into the water wearing a swimsuit, her surfing board in hand, paddles out into the water for a bit and then slowly clambers onto the board. Within a few seconds, she is surfing atop the waters with élan.

“I love the rhythm of the waves,” says the 13-year-old, a surfer at Cox’s Bazar, a coastal town in Bangladesh. The fishing port is famed for its sandy stretch of over 100 kilometres, said to be the longest natural beach in world.

Until a few years ago, Rifa and her sister, Aisha, used to sell artificial jewellery and crisps on the beach. They made around 800 BDT (Rs 650) a day, while their father worked as a cook at a local shack. Life took a dramatic turn in 2013 when Rashed Alam – a surfer and lifeguard at Bangladesh Surf Girls and Boys, the sole surfing club for girls at Cox’s Bazar – offered to teach them the sport.

“Rifa would look at us in awe,” says Alam. “So one day, I asked her if she would like to learn to surf. Initially, she was shy, also intimidated by the waves. And she refused.”

But Alam persisted, fanning the fire in her and helping build her confidence. In due time, their journey took off.

“A lot of time was spent paddling around and falling into the water. We were also asked to watch other surfers. There were days when I simply wanted to give up and leave,” says Rifa, who won two surfing competitions at Cox’s Bazar, in 2015 and 2016.

Rifa was among eight girls who joined Alam’s club in 2013; now the number has risen to 14. Most of them hail from families of daily wage earners and hawkers in nearby villages, and were contributors to the family income.

Naturally, their path hasn’t been an easy one. When they began surfing, Alam stopped them from working. Moreover, they did not tell their parents about their new activity, and when they came to know about it, all hell broke loose.

“The day Rifa’s mother discovered her daughter had taken to surfing instead of selling trinkets, she beat her up with an umbrella in front of us all and dragged her away,” Alam recalls. “Later, I went to her parents and explained that surfing is a popular sport and that there’s no harm doing it.”

Their question was – who will pay for the household expenses if she doesn’t work?

Alam had no answer. For over a year, he paid a small amount of money to Rifa and the other girls for tea and snacks out of his own pocket. A year later, he started crowd-funding for them on the club’s website. In this he was helped by his American wife, Venessa Rude, and a photojournalist friend, Allison Joyce. From the money that comes in, the club spends 5,000 BDT (Rs 3,950) on each girl.

“We provide the monthly grocery to each one’s family. We’ve also enrolled them in school, while we help them with their English and communication skills privately. The girls are trained in rescue operations and first aid too. We hope this will help them become professional surfers and lifeguards,” Alam says.

There were problems of another kind also. Many of Alam’s close friends turned against him as they felt that by teaching the girls to surf, he was going against Islam. Also, when the male surfers in Cox’s Bazar saw that the girls were doing very well, they began to threaten them and make their day difficult. Rifa and her friends were called “indecent” for moving around in swimsuits and taking up a sport which was hitherto an all-male domain.

“Initially, we took to the water in a salwar-kameez and orna (scarf). Later, Rashed bhai brought us swimsuits. The local people, however, objected to it,” says Mayesha, 13, the daughter of a fish seller. Neighbours also taunted her parents for allowing her to surf along with the men. This forced them to start looking for a groom for her. “But I told them that I don’t want to get married,” says the determined girl.

Surfing has, in fact, helped Mayesha deal with difficult life situations. “Waves come in clusters or sets. Sometimes, the sea is still for a while and then suddenly a series of waves appears, rolling out one after the other. This has taught me to negotiate uncertainties,” she smiles.

Mayesha’s friend, Nargis Akhtar, too, refuses to be tied down with marriage right now. For this 14-year-old, the sea is her escape from all woes. “All my worries seem to get absorbed by this vast expanse. It also made me strong enough to take the tide in my stride; I can now fight against all odds,” Nargis says happily.

Rifa, Mayesha, Nargis and the others have been taming the waves for about four years. Now they want to participate in an international surfing competition. A few months ago, they were ready to take on the Indian Open of Surfing at Sasihithlu Beach in Mangalore, but couldn’t as their passports hadn’t come in.

The chorus is clear – the girls want to see the world and surf the oceans. “I want to go to ‘Caliponia’ [California],” says Rifa, who now trains kid surfers at Cox’s Bazar.

And Mayesha, who once dreamt that she was surfing in Indonesia, says, “I want to win global surfing competitions and make my country famous. And then everyone who created hurdles for us would shout out in cheer.”

 

https://www.telegraphindia.com/1170820/jsp/7days/story_168126.jsp


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Firebrand Indian politicians who once hogged the limelight have fallen silent now. I feature five of them here. One passed away earlier this month after suffering from Alzheimer’s for some years while the other four have been suffering from long-term medical ailments. Perhaps, this is also a lesson for the current politicians who think they are God and would always remain so as long as they live. They don’t know that life always has other plans.

Anyway, for those who want to know what happened to those politicians of yesteryear, here is an update:

 

  • THE WAY THEY WERE: (From top) Santosh Mohan Dev at a party meeting in 1988, (inset) with his wife, Bithika, on Holi last year; George Fernandes taking oath as minister in 1977, (inset) in 2011 when the Dalai Lama visited him; Priya Ranjan Das Munshi filing his nomination for the Howrah Sadar Lok Sabha constituency in 1991, (inset) in Apollo Hospitals, New Delhi, in 2016; Jaswant Singh in Darjeeling in 2009, (inset) at a press conference in New Delhi in 2014, shortly before his accident; Atal Bihari Vajpayee addressing a rally at Shahid Minar, Calcutta, in 1971, (inset) receiving the Bharat Ratna in 2015

India turns 70 in a little more than a week’s time. The five men featured here are all older – one of them passed away just this week. All of these men, in their time, were people of significance; they either dominated the political discourse of the day or made significant interventions. But for a while now, they have lain claimed by the slipstream of sub-consciousness, barely cognizant of the radical political and social changes around them. For the first time since Independence, all of the nation’s top jobs are held by RSS apparatchiks – the president, prime minister and vice-president. The country itself has been taken by bursts of violent social discord, fed by a surging sectarian, ultra-nationalist sentiment. India’s iconography is under active alteration at the bidding of the powers – Nehru’s legacy is being dismantled, Deendayal Upadhyay’s is being installed; history is being re-written, often with shocking brazenness. India is undergoing fundamental transformations, all of which these men would have had things to say and do about. The Telegraph brings you snapshots of the little-known current personal lives of these erstwhile public personas.

Santosh Mohan Dev

Late Congress leader. Was the party’s Northeast pointsman, Minister of Steel in the 1990s and Minister of Heavy Industries and Public Enterprises in UPA-I

When Sonia Gandhi went to meet Santosh Mohan Dev at his south Delhi residence in 2015, he was already quite ill. Dev, a third generation Congressman, had been a seven-time MP – he represented Silchar in Assam five times and Tripura twice. But a diabetic for 35 years, his health had started deteriorating beginning 2011, after a prolonged urinary infection. Around the same time, he showed signs of Alzheimer’s. His daughter, Sushmita, who is a Congress MP, says, “If we had to go for a meeting at 10am, he would get ready at 5am. If we asked him something, he would give us a vague reply. We couldn’t understand why he was behaving like that till we were told by the doctor that he had Alzheimer’s.”

During the last few years of his life, he didn’t speak much but he did recognise people. That day when Sonia Gandhi asked him, “Do you know who am I?” He replied, “Boss.” She laughed and said, “Now, Sushmita’s boss is Rajiv ji‘s (Rajiv Gandhi) son. Dev asked, “The man with the beard?”

Says Sushmita, “He obviously understood everything he saw on television.”

In 2016, Dev moved to his hometown, Silchar. He was confined to his home, where he spent time watching Bengali classics. Sushmita’s biggest regret is that her father could never see her in Parliament. “Every time we protest in Parliament, I think of him; he would have taken the bull by the horns. Sometimes, I wish he was with me in the Central Hall.”

Even before he fell ill this time, rumours about his death would float up from time to time. Sushmita tells us that her mother – Bithika – would often joke and say these rumours were only adding more years to his life.

The 83-year-old passed away last Wednesday. Sushmita adds, “We admitted him to hospital. The doctor said he would not be able to survive the day. But my father was a fighter. He waited till each and every member of the family – my sisters and nieces – had arrived from different parts of the world. Only then he breathed his last.”

Atal Bihari Vajpayee

The first non-Congress person to serve as Prime Minister for a full term. The BJP leader, who idolised Nehru, was PM in 1996, 1998 and from 1999-2004. Pokhran-II, Lahore Summit, Kargil, Gujarat riots – it all happened during his tenure

The last public appearance of the unyielding Atal ji dates back to March 27, 2015. The only available photographs show President Pranab Mukherjee about to garland the former PM with the peepal leaf-shaped Bharat Ratna medallion. The tasselled tray in the hands of the President’s aide, on which rests the sanad, or certificate, covers most of the face of the man who was known as BJP’s ” vikas purush“. A cream shawl draped over his left shoulder covers his left arm.

At his residence on Krishna Menon Marg in Lutyens’ Delhi, Vajpayee spends a quiet life. He is often visited by old colleagues like L.K. Advani, and occasionally, Prime Minister Narendra Modi. But nothing ever emerges of what transpires in those meetings; perhaps they are no more than social calls. He reads newspapers and watches news and sports on television. The master orator whose speeches in Parliament sparkled with wit, erudition and political savvy, lost his speech after a stroke in 2009. “He is aware of what’s happening around. But he doesn’t speak,” says Vajpayee’s old friend and senior advocate, N.M. Ghatate, who visits him every week.

At 92, his mobility is restricted but he can walk with assistance. The three-time Prime Minister can recognise people too. “I feel he doesn’t want to meet many people, especially new visitors. He is comfortable meeting his old associates,” says Ghatate. “He is resigned to his fate and he looks peaceful.”

George Fernandes

One-time socialist rebel, feisty labour leader, Samata Party founder. Was minister in the post-Emergency Janata and, later, NDA governments

Dressed in a mustard shirt and white pyjamas, George Fernandes is lying in bed. His emaciated face has turned him beyond recognition – gaunt in the extreme. He is 87. His mouth is half-open and his eyes are fixed on the ceiling. His wife, Leila, leans in and says, “The country is in crisis. People are remembering you.” Fernandes coughs.

“This is the way he responds when I speak to him,” says Leila, who came back to him in 2009 after a two-decade-long separation.

Fernandes has Alzheimer’s, last stage. The firebrand socialist leader, who emerged during the dark days of Emergency, has been immobile the past seven years. His speech is impaired too. The greater part of his day is spent in bed but every morning he is wheeled out into the lawns of his Panchsheel Park residence, where he spends some time.

Barring some visitors such as long-term associate Jaya Jaitly, Leila doesn’t encourage many people to see him these days as he is prone to infections. PM Modi visited him in 2015. The Dalai Lama also visited Fernandes, once this February and previously in 2011.

There is a photograph from the earlier visit but not from the recent one. Leila, however, doesn’t like her husband to be photographed in his present condition. She is now planning a peaceful life for Fernandes at Ranikhet in Uttarakhand. “I told him, ‘George, we are going to the mountains.’ He flickered his eyes. I know, he also wants to go,” she says. “We want to watch the sunset together in the mountains.”

Jaswant Singh

Former BJP leader. Served as Finance Minister in Vajpayee’s short-lived government in 1996. He was Minister for External Affairs from 1998 to 2002

Like his former mates in government, Vajpayee and Fernandes, Jaswant Singh’s public life ended rather abruptly. He suffered a head injury after he had a fall in his house in 2014 and, thereafter, slipped into coma. After four months of hospitalisation, he was brought home in a minimally conscious state but he had to be hospitalised again. There was a slight improvement but for the past one year, the 79-year-old, who had represented Darjeeling in the Lok Sabha, has been static, says his son, Manvendra, an MLA from Sheo in Rajasthan. Singh, who controversially conducted the Kandahar terror swap during the Vajpayee premiership, is the author of a widely-acclaimed political memoir; alas, he cannot express himself anymore. “He is not responsive; he is under home care. We hope he recovers,” says Manvendra.

Priya Ranjan Das Munshi

Congress leader, football enthusiast. Was Minister of Parliamentary Affairs and Information and Broadcasting during the first term of the Manmohan Singh government

In 2008, Priya Ranjan Das Munshi suffered a stroke and slipped into coma. “Part of his brain is not responding,” says his wife and former MP, Deepa. “He cannot talk or recognise anyone.” He is 71.

He had all but faded from public memory when his name was included in the 90-member campaign committee of the Congress for the West Bengal Assembly polls in 2016. The move led to a huge uproar within the party.

Over the years, doctors have reportedly said he is not conscious of his surroundings but Deepa hasn’t given up. She says she keeps him informed about current politics. “He winks, he moves his head, he coughs. I feel he is responding but I am not sure if medically this can be considered a response.”

There have been reports that the hospital authorities want his family members to take him home but that hasn’t happened yet. “I believe that miracles do happen. They can happen at any time,” says Deepa.

 

 

(https://www.telegraphindia.com/1170806/jsp/7days/story_165729.jsp )

Since the chief actors of last July’s terror attack in a posh Dhaka precinct were discovered to be radicalised upper-class kids, university students have come under stern glare. Often, some fear, with counterproductive consequences. Sonia Sarkar reports

  • FACE OF TERROR: (From top) A woman displays a photo of her son who worked at the Holey Artisan Bakery, Dhaka; the site of the attack; a protest rally in a nearby village

Shoriful is barely out of his teens. He likes to wear Pathan suits and skullcaps, sports a well-trimmed goatee, prays five times a day and knows the Islamic sermons by heart. That and the fact that he is currently a student of a reputed private university in Dhaka make him a “person of interest” in the eyes of law enforcement agencies. This is Bangladesh, a year after the terror attack on Dhaka’s Holey Artisan Bakery.

“It’s difficult to convince people that not everyone studying in a private university joins the extremists, and my religious inclination doesn’t make me a radical either,” says Shoriful, who goes to one of the universities at Dhanmondi in Dhaka.

Private universities in Bangladesh are a 1990s phenomenon. The first one was North South University (NSU), which came up in 1992. Today, there are 96 of them, boasting a three lakh-plus student community.

Investigations following last July’s carnage – 22 people were shot dead in a café in an upscale neighbourhood of the Bangladeshi capital – revealed that three of the five terrorists were English-medium schooled, religious-minded, beard-toting rich kids. One of them was from NSU. Police said the university’s former pro vice-chancellor, Gias Uddin Ahsan, had sheltered the attackers in a flat owned by him. Soon after, police arrested many teachers and students of various such universities who had links with the radical group, Hizb ut-Tahrir.

Recruitment of young men by terrorist and Islamic radical organisations is not new. For decades, the Bangladesh Islami Chhatrashibir – the student wing of the country’s biggest Islamist party, Jamaat-e-Islami Bangladesh – has been wooing and winning over young impoverished madrasa students. Many students of the prestigious Bangladesh University of Engineering and Technology (BUET) also signed up for the Chhatrashibir. They had been offered scholarships, free coaching and books in exchange.

But what the Dhaka attack showed up was different. This was a class shift. The Hizb ut-Tahrir was tapping into a different demographic altogether. Naturally, the “phenomenon” attracted a lot of media attention.

The Tahrir’s changed tactics led to a reflexive change in attitudes. An administrative crackdown followed. Profiling of students of private universities, previously unheard of, became a routine affair. And life was never the same for the likes of Shoriful.

“One of my students shunned the Pathan suit and started wearing trousers. Earlier, he used to keep a beard but now he is clean-shaven. He did so because he realised that people regard him with suspicion,” says Janina Islam Abir, a lecturer in the Media and Communication department at Independent University. “Also, some of our students have been distancing themselves from their overtly religious friends.”

The general opinion among private university students is that life in Dhaka has suddenly become claustrophobic – it’s the state’s surveillance being streamed upon them.

Police have instructed landlords, particularly those in Dhaka’s posh Uttara, Mirpur and Banani areas, to avoid renting out rooms to bachelors, especially students of private universities. Should they do that, tenant details must be shared with the local police station. That’s not all, random questioning by police has become the new normal.

“Whenever we pass the diplomatic zone in Dhaka, we are stopped by the police. The first thing we are asked is, ‘Where do you study?’,” says Ridoan AGM, a third-year student of Independent University. He adds, “Earlier, we carried our ID cards when we went to university, now we carry it whenever we step out of our homes to ensure we are not harassed by the police.”

The state’s probe has penetrated the campuses too. Once again, one must fall back on the 2016 revelations. According to police investigations, universities were used by a section of radical teachers to indoctrinate students. They would apparently use the prayer rooms to talk to students on conflict and religion, share books on liberating the land of the Muslims, global jihad and Islamic rulings on democracy. One recruiter had told The Telegraph shortly after last year’s attacks that rich college students usually lacked a purpose in life and, therefore, were more prone to buying into the “martyr” dream.

Experts – social as well as behavioural – had also remarked how these youngsters did not have very strong family ties and lacked knowledge about the secular and cultural ethos of the country. Also, in the absence of students’ unions and active clubs and committees in these universities, they spent the larger part of their student life online with no “real” outlet for their youthful fervour. In fact, there has been enough evidence to support the view that the young men involved in the café attack were radicalised online.

After the attack, many universities installed closed-circuit television cameras in prayer rooms. Students were asked not to mingle with pupils they “are not sure of”. In NSU, which had earned a reputation for being “a den of extremists”, vigilance was more aggressive. It has since formed an anti-terror committee and asked students to remain alert. Insiders say, it recently suspended a group of students for allegedly forcing women classmates to wear the hijab.

As it happens, many innocent students have been caught in the crosshairs. Take the case of the student who approached a counsellor for a bothersome obsessive compulsive disorder (OCD). The university administration suspected him of being a radical because he wore kurta-pyjama and sported a beard. “They asked me to question him rigorously about his background and try and find out if he had any connection with radical groups. I refused because I am not trained to deal with issues related to radicalisation. But another colleague grilled him so hard that he did not return for counselling,” says a counsellor of NSU, on condition of anonymity. She still believes the student really had suffered an OCD affliction, no more. Police too, apparently, “randomly” pick up young men and label them radicals. Going by news reports, in the past one year, a dozen “masterminds” have been hunted down.

If we have not heard the liberal thinkers speak up against this and for the rights of the student community at these universities, it is because they haven’t spoken up at all.

In fact, writer and historian Muntasir Mamun told The Telegraph over phone from Dhaka: “There is no such profiling.” So, was he denying all this is going on? Mamun admitted that students might feel “societal pressure” because names of one or two private universities had come up again and again for their involvement in terrorist activities, but added that it was a “temporary phase”. He said, “This will end soon, as the government is making a concerted effort to root out terrorism.”

Rooting out extremism from Bangladesh will, if anything, be a long haul. Radical forces seem to be only expanding their base in the country. But stereotyping is possibly not the best of solutions. “Some of them [students] feel intimidated by this constant vigil and are hiding their real selves in public. They are becoming introverts,” says Shami Suhrid, psycho-social counsellor and lecturer at BRAC University.

Counsellor Tamanna Chowdhury of the University of Liberal Arts Bangladesh (ULAB) seconds that. She also throws in a warning. “Youth between 18 and 23 are vulnerable. Eventually, this alienation may push them to join radical forces.” But who’s listening?

In the meantime, in the absence of any kind of support, private university students have decided to take things into their own hands. They have started doing their bit to change the societal notion that they are “rich kids with extremist views”.

In the past one year, they have organised conferences, Sufi concerts and photo shoots to spread the message of peace and tolerance. On March 26, which is the Bangladesh Independence Day, students of the Eastern University painted their palms red and green – the colours of the Bangladeshi national flag – took selfies and posted them on Facebook.

In February, a Belgian mother, whose son went to Syria to join ranks with the terrorists, was invited to address students and parents at ULAB. She spoke on how to read the early signs of radicalisation among young men. Recently, students of five private universities organised a film festival under a project titled, “Film-making and television journalism for peace and tolerance in Bangladesh”. It showcased 12 films shot by students on radicalisation in Bangladesh and ways of containing it. Some universities are trying to engage ” muktijoddhas” or freedom fighters of the 1971 Liberation War to interact with students and talk to them about the history of Bangladesh.

Is it helping? Not all of these efforts can bear fruit overnight, but some are. Students claim that the interactive sessions give them a sense of context, help them engage in debates on politics and Islam. “Earlier, we used to listen to radical views in college canteens or clubs but never reacted because we didn’t know what to say. Now, we can confront them with valid arguments,” says Ridoan. Shoriful adds, “The onus is on us to change the perception about our tribe.”

Listen closely. Or recall Wilfred Owen. Bangladesh is ringing with the Anthem for doomed youth.


Employer-employee relations in Indian homes have seldom not been troubled and troublesome. Sometimes, they’ve turned volatile. In the second week of July, Zohra Bibi, a domestic help, went missing. The 26-year-old was employed in one of the posh housing societies in the National Capital Region’s Noida area. The next day, a mob – from the neighbouring slum where Zohra lived – stormed the residential complex. The agitators’ allegation: Zohra was being held captive by her employers. Eventually, police confirmed that Zohra had been found in the basement of one of the buildings. Her employers had accused her of theft, and taken it upon themselves to punish her. Zohra’s version: they beat her and locked her up in their apartment when she demanded her dues. In time, 13 men were arrested on charges of rioting and vandalising property. The BJP MP from Noida and Union minister of culture, Mahesh Sharma, voiced his support for Zohra’s employers and promised that the offenders would not get bail for “years to come”. The incident itself developed communal overtones – “Bangladeshi” domestics versus Hindu house owners.Zohra is not from Bangladesh. She belongs to Bengal’s Cooch Behar, as do most of her neighbours in the slum she inhabits. Among them, Ruksana Bibi and her husband, Afsar Ali. The couple arrived in Noida two years ago hoping to earn enough to pay off their debts. Zohra has gone underground since the incident but Ruksana agreed to show around The Telegraph what it is like to be a Muslim domestic help in Noida, Uttar Pradesh, these days.

  • It is barely dawn but Ruksana has been up for a while now. Some rice is on the boil in a pressure cooker. That would be her daughter, eight-year-old Bijli’s breakfast — rice with a slice of lime and salt. Ruksana and Afsar’s 50 sqft tin shack is in a slum less than a kilometre from the housing society where Zohra worked. The couple paid Rs 8,000 for it. Slumdwellers have contributed Rs 500 each to set up a hand pump. Sixty or so families use two makeshift community bathrooms; one of them has not functioned for some time now.

  • Ruksana catches up with Zohra’s mother-in-law, Mohsina, and her grandchildren. Zohra and her husband, Abdul Sattar’s house is locked. Mohsina alleges that Zohra’s teenage son, Rahul (not in picture), was picked up by police. He has been released since, but not the others. Mohsina, who worked as a domestic help in another housing complex, has also lost her job. Ruksana and others in the slum have been helping them with food and other necessities.

  • It is 6.10am. Ruksana enters a gated housing complex in Noida. She and other women from her slum work here. Each has an identity card issued by the management of the housing society after routine police verification. Other than this, Ruksana has a voter identity card and an Aadhaar card. After working in the brick kilns for 15 years, first in Cooch Behar and then in Ghaziabad, Ruksana and Afsar moved to Noida. Afsar was hired by the promoters of this very housing society to clean the windows and doors of apartments before they were handed over to the owners.

  • 9pm. After a long day, Ruksana returns home, as do the other women. They check on each other. Mother and daughter hungrily tuck into some rice, lentils and mashed potatoes. By 11pm, they are in bed. “I have not been able to sleep. I keep thinking, what if the police come back to harass me again? What if there are no jobs for us? What if we get thrown out of our homes? I don’t know how long this uncertainty will continue.” The thoughts jostle in her head and keep her awake. But her Bijli — Ruksana pats her gently. The little one must get her sound sleep.

  • Ruksana makes Rs 9,000 a month — she works in seven apartments, where she sweeps and swabs. Afsar’s monthly income is Rs 7,000. After the Zohra episode, there have been WhatsApp campaigns urging flat owners of the neighbourhood to blacklist “Bangladeshi” workers. “One flat owner called me a Bangladeshi and dismissed me,” says Ruksana. She adds,“I remember, it was my husband who cleaned their house and made it ready for them to move in. But now they consider us untouchables.”

  • Ruksana has taken a loan of Rs 15,000 from her employers to pay for the tuition and living expenses of the other two children. But after the allegations levelled at Zohra, she is scared. What if one of her employers slaps a false charge on her? She has stopped accepting gifts or food items from them. “All this while people knew we are Bengalis. Now, they look at us as Muslims and that has changed the whole equation. We are suddenly not trustworthy,” she says. This campaign against Muslims of the area is not new. In March, when there was a crackdown on meat-sellers in Uttar Pradesh, three Muslim boys selling poultry products at a makeshift market nearby were picked up by the police. They are still in jail. “That was the first we realised that things were slowly changing for us,” says Ruksana.

    (https://www.telegraphindia.com/1170730/jsp/7days/story_164519.jsp )


 

 

 

 

 

 



  • mamun ibne hussain: dont take it negatively but we are indian and our daughters should not follow the filthiest dirtiest horrible european and american womens the w
  • Susmita Saha: Memories truly have a special place in the treasure trove called life. And your memories shine like jewels in this piece.
  • saimi: That is a lovely one Sonia.. and I can relate to so many things that you mention ...