Mahavir
Enclave is a bustling working-class colony at the hard extremities of
New Delhi. Houses snake up here in haphazard bursts whenever their
inhabitants can afford to elbow a little more space for themselves in
the world. For an outsider, these seem less homes, more just slivers of
precarious brick slapped together. But for those who live there, it’s
psychological solidity: a toehold, finally, on life.
Here in
Mahavir Enclave, in a tiny mole hole of a room a few feet below ground,
in a warren of other similar rooms, two brothers, 20 and 16, struggle to
hold on to a dream. The elder is studying to be an engineer; the
younger wanted to be an astronaut. But their frontrunner, the lively,
quick-brained sister who birthed these ambitions—who made them seem so
tantalizingly possible in this nether layer—is no longer there. She has
morphed into a symbol: globally known now as Nirbhaya, which means “the
fearless one.”
On March 8, Michelle Obama and Secretary of State
John Kerry posthumously honored Nirbhaya with an International Woman of
Courage Award. A week earlier, in his annual budget speech, Indian
Finance Minister P. Chidambaram announced a 10 billion–rupee (about $200
million) Nirbhaya Fund to empower and promote safety for women. Briefly
the Indian Parliament considered dedicating a new criminal-law bill to
her name.
Over the last three months, the story of Nirbhaya—a
23-year-old paramedic who was gang raped with unspeakable brutality on a
bus on December 16, 2012, and died 13 days later of her injuries—has
triggered shock and outrage across the world and galvanized spontaneous
and unprecedented protests in India. She has become an icon of
resistance, a watershed moment. (Indian law forbids revealing the names
of rape victims, so when an Indian media house came up with Nirbhaya as a
substitute, it stuck: it encapsulated the spirit with which she
fought.)
India can be a cruel place for women. Each day, the
papers teem with stories of anonymous women raped, killed, and dumped in
different parts of the country. Sometimes they are minors, girls no
older than 3. The spectrum of chronic gender violence stretches even
further: acid attacks, marital rapes, honor killings, female feticide,
acute malnutrition, discriminative access to schools and jobs, the
cultural misogyny rolls on. Of course none of this has abated since
December 16, but something has shifted in India. The response to sexual
assault in this country will never be the same again. The silence has
been broken. Women everywhere are speaking up more; men feel freed (or
enjoined) to be more supportive. Some of the stigma has been yanked off.
Laws are being revised; judicial and administrative machinery is being
revamped. Clumsy and inadequate as it may be, the government is being
forced to respond.
At one level, therefore, the story of Nirbhaya
could be read as a tragic yet celebratory one: a simple but soaring
binary about courage in the face of immeasurable bestiality. But at
another level, it is a window into a much more complex, perhaps even
darker and sadder, narrative about contemporary India and the terrible
collision of aspiration and frustration that has been unleashed within
it.
Until
December 16, Nirbhaya was just one among millions of faceless young
people in India trying to break through the stifling fixity of their
lives. Her father, Badrinath Singh, had left rural Uttar Pradesh decades
earlier in search of a larger life, but failed to find it. Having run
through a series of petty jobs in small industrial towns, he had come to
Delhi in 1983, his wife pregnant with their first child. Singh carried a
schism in his heart. His own impoverished father had had money to
educate only two of his four sons. One son now had a job in the
paramilitary; the other had risen to be a judge. In stark contrast, the
younger two were fated to remain casual farm laborers or scrabble a life
out of some urban fringe.
Understandably, education was the
driving hunger in the Singh household. Working grueling double shifts,
first as a watchman, then as a cargo loader with an airline, earning a
mere 200 rupees ($4) a day, Singh put all three of his children—by
turns—into a private school that used English as the language of
instruction. (English, in India, is the most coveted vehicle of social
advancement and mobility.) “My father was determined to give all three
of us a strong foundation,” says Gaurav, Nirbhaya’s brother.
“My
daughter was different from the beginning,” says Singh. “She was hungry
for school even as a toddler. And she was so lucky; she always got what
she wanted. We only managed to buy this piece of land when she was
born.” From that tenuous perch—the mole-hole home in the ground—the
family had begun to build a life.
Nirbhaya—obsessive, industrious,
optimistic, face always set inexorably to the sky—was the centerpiece
of that life. She had an innate taste for fine things; she was
determined to carve a slice of it for her family and herself. After
fifth grade, she had to switch to a cheaper government school, because
her father couldn’t afford private school for all three. By the time she
was in 10th grade, she had started tutoring 25 to 30 neighborhood kids,
in 2 shifts every day, to pay for her own fees and help her parents put
her brothers through school.
“She hardly had any friends. She
never had any time,” recalls her mother. “She was always busy, always
rushing. She’d wake at 6 a.m. for yoga, rush to school at 7 a.m., return
at 1 p.m., give tuitions till 6 p.m., then study herself.” Despite her
ascetic schedule, Nirbhaya loved gadgets, streaking her hair, and trendy
clothes—netted tops and high heels were her favorite—and she always
strove to speak in English, often even to her mother. She hated going
back to the village her parents were from. There was nothing there for
her. “She was always dressed like you,” her mother says, pointing to my
jeans. “She didn’t like traditional clothes.”
“Both she and I
worked double shifts. Sometimes we could only afford to eat rotis and
salt,” says her father, “but there was a wonderful atmosphere at home.
We were working to improve our lives. We could feel the good times were
going to come.”
In 12th grade, Nirbhaya decided she wanted to
study medicine. Her father told her he couldn’t afford even the
application forms. “She literally fainted with anxiety,” he says. “When
we revived her, she told me, give me whatever money you’d have spent on
my wedding for my course; I’ll pay for the rest.”
In 2008 Nirbhaya
left for Dehradun—a town five hours from Delhi—to pursue a bachelor’s
degree in physical therapy. (Neurosurgery fascinated her, but she failed
to clear the national entrance test; she kept her interest in it going,
however, with additional reading.) In Dehradun, the hard routines of
her childhood took over again. To pay her way, she joined a Canadian
call center and worked nights, sleeping only two hours every day before
rushing to class.
In the end, she came home barely a few weeks
before she died, after four years of being away. She had landed an
internship with a prestigious hospital, bought watches for her family
and a laptop for herself, and put highlights in her hair—fire red,
golden, and snow white. Her taste in music had moved from Bollywood to
Bryan Adams. In all her textbooks, she had proudly prefixed “doctor” to
her name in neat handwriting. “She was finally going to enjoy the fruit
of all these years of striving,” says her mother (
sangharsh is
the word she uses in Hindi, with its inflection of striving against
great odds, layered with intense sacrifice). “But that joy was taken
from her.”
I ask the mother her name. Asha Devi, she says. His
mother’s name “means hope,” Nirbhaya’s brother Gaurav emphasizes with
conscious irony. He’s stopped going for his engineering coaching
classes; his sister’s death has set him back three months. Now he’s
preparing to take the entrance exams on his own instead. “I still dial
her number every time I have a question about my application forms or
some decision I have to make,” he says.
His father lies back
dispiritedly on the bed. He’s developed a bad infection in the knee. His
youngest son, Saurabh, no longer wants to be an astronaut. His ambition
now is to be a doctor and live out an unfulfilled dream.
The
harsh ironies pile up. The family sitting disconsolately on two beds
crammed against each other will soon be gone from here. The government
has promised them a middle-income house of their own; they’ve also been
paid a compensation of 3.5 million rupees ($70,000), partly by the Delhi
government, partly by Uttar Pradesh. Nirbhaya’s kept her promises even
in death. She’s pulled her family out of the nether region. She’s made
good.
“Except it all tastes like sawdust,” says her father.
December
16, 2012. Awindra Pandey, 28, a broad-chested, soft-spoken engineering
professional, picked up Nirbhaya from her home in the afternoon to take
her to a movie in a tony South Delhi mall. It should have been an
ordinary, happy day. There was a Christmas cheer in the air. The pair
watched
Life of Pi, loitered in the mall a while, window-shopped,
then headed home. It was early in the evening, but none of Delhi’s
infamously testy auto rickshaws was willing to go the distance. The
couple coaxed one to take them halfway to a bus stop. No public bus came
around. A white chartered bus was parked close by. A young boy beckoned
them to enter. Anxious to get home, they did.
According to media
reports and the police, in a slum cluster not far away from the bus
stop, six young men had gathered earlier that day to drink. They played
marbles and cursed. One can imagine how the booze must have smudged
their heads, erased the squalor of their lives, made them feel zesty,
reckless, bold. It uncorked a deadly cocktail boiling inside them. They
were sick of being matchstick men, sick of the shining alien city always
bustling outside their reach. They wanted a piece of the action. They
wanted to feel like kings of the road. One of them was a bus driver. He
drove schoolchildren by day; the vehicle lay with him by night.
According to the police, he urged his raucous friends out for a joyride:
“Let’s have some fun,” he said.
First the gang found a carpenter
returning from a day’s work. They lured him onto the bus, stole his
cellphone and the 8,000 rupees ($160) in his pocket, then dumped him on
the road. They’d tasted blood. A feral exhilaration must have gripped
them. They wanted more.
Awindra and Nirbhaya knew something was
wrong within minutes of boarding the bus. Their skin prickled. There
were only six men inside; the windows were tinted black. The door was
slammed shut. As the bus set off, one of the men began to taunt the girl
for being out late. Awindra tried to shut him up. The others
immediately surrounded him like wolves. Nirbhaya rushed to defend her
friend. Her defiance enraged the men. The altercation spun out of
control. They began to beat Awindra mercilessly with an iron rod. As he
lay pinned at the front of the bus, floating through bouts of
unconsciousness, Nirbhaya was dragged, fighting and kicking, to the back
and raped and bitten and sodomized in turn by the six men. When she
resisted, biting three of them herself, they pushed the rusted iron rod
inside her all the way to her diaphragm and ripped her intestines out.
“An intestine is 23 feet long, ma’am,” her brother Gaurav had said
stoically in his room. “Barely 5 percent of it was left intact.” The
doctors who treated her said they’d never seen a rape victim so
brutalized.
The men drove the bus in circles for almost an hour as
they raped her. When they were done, they stripped the couple of their
belongings, tossed them naked on the highway, then tried to run the bus
over the girl. Failing in that, the rapists calmly took the bus back,
washed it clean, divvied up the spoils, and returned to their homes.
Nirbhaya
and Awindra lay mangled and naked in the December cold for two hours
before the police finally turned up. Cars kept whizzing by. No one
stopped.
In a sense, Nirbhaya embodied a new India no one has a
full measure of yet. India’s cities and small towns are full of young
men and women like her: restless and on the move; hungry for an
education, for jobs, for English, for social mobility, for belonging.
They’re an Internet generation; they know there’s a wider world out
there. They’re reinventing themselves with energy, dissolving—or at
least challenging—centuries-old boundaries of caste and station and
wealth. They love their families with a grave sense of duty, but they
long to leave the old ways behind. If it’s to be a toss of coin, they’d
rather look good than eat, rather have a TV set than a bed. They’ve
sloughed off old skins, but not quite acquired the new. Just one
chromosome binds them all: aspiration. They are the neo–middle class.
Nirbhaya’s
friendship with Awindra was made possible by this new India. He is the
son of a lawyer, a high-caste Brahmin; she was a Kurmi, much lower in
that unforgiving ladder. His family lives in a three-story house in
Uttar Pradesh; hers was cramped in the space it takes to park a car.
Yet, introduced by a common friend, they felt instant affinities. They
went on trips together to religious places, shared rooms, hugged, held
hands, but stayed away from other intimacies, aware that beyond the
cocoon of their friendship, a real and more questioning world awaited.
They bought each other clothes, talked about their ambitions, discussed
the Bhagavad-Gita, advised each other on their careers and investments.
He introduced her to books like Paulo Coelho’s
The Alchemist. He
was a friend to her brothers, too, helping them choose their subjects,
make decisions, write résumés. He spoke to her mother sometimes on the
phone, but, aware of Nirbhaya’s discomfort, never visited their home. He
always picked her up from the road outside. She called him “a perfect
man.”
“We never thought of each other as unequal. Sometimes I felt
my family and I were not of the same wavelength. But I could speak to
her about anything,” he says on an early March evening, reluctant to
dredge through these memories again. “Nothing else mattered. In
friendships, you don’t have to be the same; you just have to complement
each other. But she’s gone now, and I have only one goal. I have to get
justice for what happened.”
Awindra paces about uncomfortably on a
cane in a small hotel room, perching awkwardly every now and then at
the edge of the bed. He’s still recovering from his injuries. He finds
it hard to sit or stand too long. Three months have passed; so has the
juggernaut of attention. No politicians are willing to meet him now; no
one’s asking after him. Away from global attention, a harrowing trial is
under way. He is the sole eyewitness.
“I don’t like being alone,”
he says. “I am afraid to live with my thoughts.” He had gone to meet
the dying Nirbhaya in intensive care on December 20, four days after. He
wore a jacket she’d bought him. Dates mattered to her: December 20 was
the day they had first texted each other. But she was sleeping, and he
had to go again the next day. He says she was touched he’d remembered.
She tried to hug him through the maze of tubes attached to her petite
frame. In the end, she could only make a gesture of a hug.
It was
the last time they would see each other. She died eight days later in
Singapore, her genitals destroyed; her stomach hollowed out; wracked by
septicemia, brain injuries, and multiple infections.
He had wanted
to linger longer at the mall that fatal day. She told him she wished
she’d listened. Perhaps they’d have missed the rogue bus. Perhaps they’d
have earned the time to dare disturb the universe.
Perhaps, he
says, he would have been with her all his life. In an interview with
other media, his father said, “Perhaps if my son had made a very
passionate case, we may have listened.”
The
story of the gang rape hit the papers the next morning and began to
spool out relentlessly over the next few weeks, horrific detail upon
horrific detail. There are many reasons why this story caught fire in
the public imagination more than any other rape in recent Indian
history. There was, most of all, the unfathomably brutal violence
involved. But many other things coalesced: the location of the crime, in
upper-class South Delhi; the impunity of the attack; the fact that it
was early evening; that she was accompanied by a male friend; that there
were no complex caste or feudal hierarchies at play; that this was just
random urban crime. That she was an average “wholesome” girl making her
way in the world. Women across the country felt, “but for the grace of
God, that could have been me.” She was Everywoman.
But there was
other tinder for the fire: the chronic inefficiencies of the system, the
habitual callousness of the police, the dull apathy of the political
class, the new hyperconnectivity of the young. And something deeper and
more inchoate, too: a seething restlessness that underlies Indian
society today. A desire for better governance shot through with a fear
of dead ends. As the comatose establishment failed to swing into action,
young men and women across strata poured into the streets. Could
something so colossal happen, and the Indian state would still lumber on
as usual?
Nirbhaya’s own composure also alchemized the air. In
the 13 days that she lived after the assault, she testified twice before
a magistrate, giving a detailed and clear-eyed account of the attack.
Startlingly, her doctors said she showed no psychological distress, no
self-pity. She broke the mold: she wanted her name to be known; she
wanted her rapists to be brought to account; she wanted them “burnt
alive.”
Under intense pressure, the Delhi police made arrests in
record time. Within a week, six men were in custody. Ram Singh, 33, the
bus driver; Mukesh, 23, his brother; Vinay Sharma, 25, a gym assistant;
Pawan Gupta, 24, a fruit seller; Anurag Thakur, 24, a cleaner of the
bus; and a 17-and-a-half-year-old juvenile—known as Raju—who worked odd
jobs at roadside eateries.
With the arrests, the protests reached a
crescendo. These protests encapsulate profound sociological changes
under way in India. On the upside, they demonstrate that the vocabulary
of feminism has percolated down to the street. For weeks young people
who’ve never been part of any formal political movement braved water
cannons and baton charges, demanding not only better policing and a
swifter judiciary, but also complete autonomy for women over their
bodies and lives. India has a galling history of blaming women for the
violence that happens to them. But now, when an older generation tried
to mouth venal idiocies about how women should be chaste and cautious,
the young turned on them with fierce scorn.
The protests also made
visible a disturbing phenomenon: India’s increasingly illiberal gene.
Nirbhaya’s desire to see her rapists burnt alive is understandable. But
on the streets, too, the demand for justice morphed too quickly into a
roar for revenge. For the most part, the media and political
establishment followed suit: castration, capital punishment, and a
reduction in the age of those deemed juvenile became the dominant
discourse.
Nirbhaya’s rapists were demonic: there can be no
argument about that. But if they’d merely been six deviant, psychopathic
men, this story may have found easier closure. Perhaps then, hanging
them would have weeded out an isolated virus. But even a cursory look at
the back histories of the accused is proof that there are no such neat
answers.
Rather, in a bitter twist, both the exhilarations and the
devastation of Nir—bhaya’s life are part of the same continuum. There
is a terrifying sociology of rage and violence building up in the
country. On March 15, a Swiss woman, on a cycling trip with her husband,
was gang raped and robbed by six men in central India. The husband was
brutally beaten as well. The archetype is hard to ignore.
As the
new economy is forcing millions of Indians from their land and
traditional livelihoods into hostile megalopolises, a storm of colliding
worlds is being created. The glittering city with its bold new ways and
siren images now sits in intimate proximity with rural backgrounds. The
membrane that separated them is gone, but the divide remains.
Frustration can be a very dark underside of aspiration.
In
a dramatic development, on March 11, 2013, three months after the gang
rape, Ram Singh, the key accused in Nirbhaya’s rape, hung himself in his
high-security cell in Delhi’s Tihar Jail. He and the juvenile had
reportedly been the most savage of the assaulters. It is hard to know
what drove him to take his life. Sudden remorse? Or just bottomless
despair?
I was with Ram Singh’s parents in Ravi Dass Colony the
evening before he committed suicide. Over the last few months, the media
have described the colony in the easy stereotype of the squalid Indian
slum—open drains, great poverty, families crammed like sardines into
boxes. On the surface, Ravi Dass Colony is all of that, but there’s
something more complex about it, too. Like Mahavir Enclave, where
Nirbhaya lived, a kind of restless and optimistic energy runs in its
arteries. Resigned acceptance, that old Indian status quo, is gone.
Parents here may have started out as petty laborers, but their children
have moved one rung up. They dress smart, talk smart. Yet for the most
part they have to reconcile their new dreams with the harsh reality of
their lives. This makes them sleeping volcanoes. Four of the accused
rapists came from this colony.
By all accounts, Ram Singh—the
said-to-be leader of the pack—was a scrappy, volatile man. He drank
heavily. His neighbors spoke of him as “mental.” He had disappeared with
a married woman for a few years, then returned even scrappier, saying
she’d died of an illness. The night of the savagery, Ram Singh
apparently came home and calmly cooked a chicken, ate it, and went to
sleep. He had a mutilated arm from an accident on the job a few years
earlier for which his employer had refused to compensate him.
“I
wish he had died in that accident,” his mother had said, weeping wildly,
the night before he committed suicide. “Perhaps my younger son would’ve
been spared then. Now we’ve been shamed so much, we can’t even go back
to our village. I wish they’d hang us with our sons.”
Her husband,
a construction worker, squatted on the floor, head buried in his knees
in absolute despair. A mouse ran about on their bed. Both had not an
ounce of flesh on them. They were the archetype of the urban Indian
dispossessed: skin, bone, and the grind of years.
As they spoke,
the parents swung in dizzy arcs from guilt, shame, and angry accusation
against the girl for being out late to bizarre conspiracy theories. The
father seemed a bit unstable, flaring up in sudden bursts at his wife.
“I’m sure Sonia Gandhi has a hand in this,” he said darkly once. The
mother, though, was in a place of suffering beyond description.
“We’ve
starved ourselves to bring up our boys,” she said. “What demon took
hold of them? I always believed God lives within each of us. There were
six souls on the bus that night. Did the voice of God not speak within
even one of them?”
That question strikes at the inexplicable heart
of this story. Barring Ram Singh, none of the other accused appear to
have any history of violence before that apocalyptic night. Mukesh,
Ram’s brother, was a mild young man (“a follower,” his mother calls him)
with a passion for clothes and music. His clothes were always clean,
his mother says. No matter how late he’d come home, he’d skip a meal,
but definitely wash his clothes. Apparently that’s what he was doing
when his brother called him out to drink that fateful night. His parents
had just found him a girl to marry.
Vinay, one of five siblings, a
gym cleaner and commerce graduate, was also known to be a polite young
man. He had started working early to help his father, a construction
worker and balloon seller, pay the bills. Their home was no larger than a
train berth; the family of seven had to share it, living their dreams
and desire out of that inhumanly cramped space. Standing outside that
room, the debris of all the wasted years of effort hanging over him like
a shadow, the father, a heartbreakingly dignified and stoic man, said,
“I met my son in jail once. I’ve told him if he’s done this, he has to
pay for it. He should be hanged.”
The fruit seller and the bus
cleaner, Pawan and Anurag, have similar stories. Raju, the juvenile,
though, was the most dispossessed of them all. He’d left home as a boy
many years earlier. His father had become a vegetable after a brick fell
on his head and injured his brain. His mother could barely scrape
together a living for her children. Raju used to send 600 rupees ($12)
twice a year to her. For a few years, he hadn’t done even that. When the
police reached her hut in the village—not even tenuous brick, just
plastic sheets yoked together—she said, “I didn’t know my son was alive.
I thought he was dead.” She hasn’t come to see him even once in jail.
She cannot afford the ride to the city.
After he left home, Raju worked odd jobs for years at
dhabas,
India’s ubiquitous roadside eateries, mostly washing dirty plates. One
of his employers, who was fond of him and found him to be a very
efficient worker, has a telling story about him. Raju apparently came to
him abruptly one day and asked to be made a manager of the eatery; he
could not bear to wash another dirty dish ever again in his life, he
said. Unable to make him a manager, but wanting to keep him, the manager
raised his salary by 1,000 rupees ($20) a month to do the same job. The
next morning the boy had packed his bag and gone. He did not even take
his last salary. For a couple of years there was no news of him. And
then came the headlines about a demonic night.
To ask about the
backstories of the accused is not to mitigate or humanize the brutality
of Nirbhaya’s attack. It is to understand where it might stem from. By
no means is rape the exclusive domain of the working classes. But as the
stories of inhuman violence continue to flow inexorably in the Indian
media, unless one examines the harsh landscape they arise from—a deadly
landscape of squalor and hope and thwarted ambition—and the untapped
rage that must inevitably underlie it, the wailing mothers of both
assaulters and victim will never have their answer. There were six souls
on the bus that night. Why didn’t the voice of God speak in even one of
them?
Contrast millions Malala is getting with notoriety Nirbhaya is bringing. Isn't this a cruel irony?! It is India that is much poorer and Indian women have no safety or security leave alone education that Malala is demanding putting the rest of the world under duress - indirect begging if not on he knees bu through staged maneuver, manipulaiton and machinations.
Contrast Malala with millions of war widows that three wars was forced upon India. Those other widows like Mrs Shetty whose husband was most savagely murdered by islamists. Again with those daughters, wives and mothers who lost their loved ones in countless serial blasts in temples, markets, trains, etc. Is Tina or Shoma even aware of such "UNSPEAKABLE BRUTALITY" that occurs week after week, century after century over and over again on the Holy Land of the Hindus who have been denied their identity and separate homeland even after so-0called independence in 1947?!
http://www.reuters.com/article/2012/06/08/us-myanmar-violence-idUSBRE85714E20120608
Islamists provoke savage attack in many places..
Pop culture of movies glorifying violence and scenes trivilizing women, govt officials and bollywood types having good time, etc are not helping jobless youths puppeteered by colonial elements of the type that is hurting many parts of France, UK, Holland.
The slumdogs now accused cant do what the bollywood millionaires do. Namely, seduction by words and alcohol - basically rape of thousands of girls.
EXHIBIT-A:- 11 injured in acid attack in Mandi
Tribune News Service Mandi, May 27 2005
..the attacker has been identified as Muhmud Magrub from Muzaffarnagar in UP.
EXHIBIT-B:- Human trafficking scam kingpin surrenders
Hyderabad, May 4: The story of Rasheed, alleged kingpin in
EXHIBIT-C:- Three men Shahid Sayed, Tariq Sayed and Abu Bakr were arrested for the alleged gang rape of a teenager in Surat..
EXHIBIT-D:-
Patna, Jun 28 Depite Government's efforts to rein in human
trafficking,Bihar has registered an alarming rise..(One Saleem has been
implicated..Siddharth Kara researched sex slaves in several nations but was attacked only in India)
EXHIBIT:-E Jewellers want to bar burqa December 27: The Pune Saraf (jewellers’) Association has decided not to conduct business
To prove more upper caste muslims practice violent discrimination, this example may be cited:
EXHIBIT-F:-
...dalit Mukhtar Mai was gang raped in Pakistan by the upper caste. Meaning, there is casteism over there too; we heard of Muktar Mai who was raped by upper caste masters for a mistake her brother did. She was then manipulated to visit USA to beg for schools for girls. Double manipulation!! Nice tricks we need to learn from muslims of S Asia!!!
EXHIBITT-G:- "SC upholds conviction of rapist on child victim's testimony New Delhi, Jun 15 2008 A minor rape victim's testimony is reliable ... A sessions court in Bihar had earlier convicted and sentenced Mohammad Kalam to ten years RI and a fine of Rs 500 for raping the minor under section 376 ipc (conviction for rape). Kalam's appeal before the Patna High Court was dismissed .. also claimed that the sentence imposed on him was too harsh."
Look at afghans where girls get acid while going to schools despite bil spent on them as 'infidel tax'. It is a very common crime in India and Pakistan where infidel girls are abducted, raped and converted to islam - all from subversion/conversion type entrenched tricks. You read Kalam raped a child and was fined Rs 500!! That is how bad the legal system is!!!
Nor can they procure girls like this islamist politician who has too much power-
Anisur Rahman, the Left Front’s muslim leader, allegedly made this remark: “I told her if you want to bring some girls, bring some good girls. There is no better girl than you. We can give her Rs 20,000. We ask, Didimoni, what is your fee? How much will you take for getting raped?"
That is, India is the most permissive/decadent nation on earth - anyone can do/say such thing against women since there is no risk.
Patriarchy exists all acroos the globe- Italy's Levi-Montalcini nobel winner overcame her father's objections that women should not study "
It is to be conceded foreigners get better deal in India than Indians elsewhere. "New York: The 46-year old man who was pushed to his death in front of a subway train here by a ‘mumbling’ woman has been identified as Sunando Sen, an Indian who lived in the city's Queens neighborhood" Many Indians have been killed by racists in A'lia and UK. Many say-
"Probably this was all staged by alien hands like 9/11, Malala, fall of Nepal monarchy, in order to bring Wilson dollars to one region not others."
"Father Piero Corsi said scantily dressed women bring out the worst instincts in men and cause violence or sexual abuse. He claimed women end up exacerbating tensions by 'leaving children to themselves, having filthy houses, serving cold meals, buying fast food and providing dirty clothes.'"
Probably this was all staged by alien hands like 9/11, Malala, fall of Nepal monarchy, in order to bring Wilson dollars to one region not others.
Famous politicians of USA- Bill Clinton, John Edwards, Sanford, Tiger Woods (several dozen times), USA staff in Columbia, NYC official, Gen Petraeus, DSK of France, Roman Polanski of 13 yr old notoriety, all fell to temptations of rape or seduction.
http://www.daijiworld.com/news/news_disp.asp?n_id=169749
Local Hindus, Buddhists, Sikhs, and others are weak and vulnerable - the weakest being women and girls. Yes, these cultures alien to 9500 old Asian Indic civilization that originated in India where the number system, chess, jewelry, spices, yoga, hospitality to strangers, family values, village democracy, cultivation of rice/cotton, garbanzo beans, and all the best things were given birth to. Now muslims and christians are the richest in India, Lanka, Burma, etc. from colonial plundering and neo-colonial looting. They have made media, bollywood, hospital and education as profiteering or propaganda machines in order to collect infidel tax or pagan tax. That was interpretation of history by my pals.
"Mangalore, Mar 31: Rahamat alias Kalandar, who has been lodged in the local district jail after being arrested in the case pertaining to the murder of BJP leader Sukhanand Shetty, has succeeded in securing bail.
Kalandar was arrested on charges of being involved with the murder of Sukhanand Shetty on December 1, 2006 at Kulai near Suratkal. His advocate Latif Badagannur said, the state High Court has granted him bail on the basis of a personal bond for one lac rupees and with the condition that he should present himself at Suratkal police station once a week and sign the attendance register.
It may be recalled that Sukhanand Shetty was hacked to death by a gang of miscreants in front of his shop in Kulai."
CULLED FROM www.newsweek.com