“Okay, tell me... The Radcliffe line was a boundary between which two countries?” I asked.

“India and Pakistan!” the little Aarav replied correctly.

“Oh! You are right. Okay, which union territory of India is the most populated one?”

“It is Delhi.” He said confidently.

“Correct! Can you tell me which Indian city is made of seven islands?”

“Seven islands?” There was a sudden change in expression on his face.

“Yes... Here is a hint- it is a capital city.”

“Um... I don’t know, didi!”

“It is our own city, Mumbai... buddhdu! Do you want to fail in the upcoming GK test?”

“But... Mumbai is made of islands? We are living on an island??” he got charged up.

“Hahaha...No, brother...Those days are gone. It earlier comprised of seven major islands. Back then, the British started a reclamation process... to link the lands and occupy the area of the sea....Look.” I Google searched an old map of Mumbai on my phone and showed it to him.

“Woaaahhh! There was water between Mahim and Worli... and Parel...Our Colaba was a separate island too!” he couldn’t take his eyes off the map.

“Yes, there could have been a beach at the back of our house.. haha!” I joked.

“Oh riiiight... So many beaches all over Mumbai...” his face gleamed.

“Yes...Okay now... Let’s get back. Ready for the next question?” I wanted to finish this soon.

“Dida, how was it even possible??... To occupy such a large area of the sea; and build roads, houses and... big buildings on it? Where did the water go?”

“Arey baba... They had to do it... the population was growing. Being a busy port city, there was an urgent need of industries, drainage schemes and water channels.... the Britishers foresaw a healthy livelihood of Mumbai... I mean, Bombay.”

“Wow, hats off to the planners... It looks kind of impossible to me. I wonder if Kishan and Rajiv know this.” Aarav was jumping in joy of discovering an interesting fact about Mumbai’s history.

This discussion disrupted the preparation session for Aarav’s GK test that was scheduled in a couple of days. Luckily, the test got cancelled. However, the reason was not lucky for Mumbai.

The floods had struck. Rain had taken a toll on countless lives of the city. The infrastructure, transportation... briefly, the whole skyline got affected.  The people of the city were expecting high economic losses and breakout of diseases. 

We, too, were stuck in our home with no light and water.

“Dida, where did all this water come from?” Aarav asked, staring outside the window.

“Didn’t you ask me, where did the water go when the Britishers encroached the water that persisted between Parel and Worli... and Colaba...? It is that water.” I was sad, depressed.

“What? Is it?” He was curious.

“Yes Aarav, technically! That time, several small rivers that ran through the length of Mumbai were filled. This affected the areas of dissipation for the water. Haphazard developments blocked natural streams and even destroyed the ecosystems.. forests... that were protecting us. No! We cannot blame the British alone for destroying the natural environment of Mumbai. Recent projects like the Bandra-Worli sea link, concretisation, further reduction of catchment areas.. all these only added to the inconsistency.”

“Beta.. What the nature does... is not in our hands.” Papa joined in the conversation. I did not know he was listening to me!

“That is the problem, Papa. We always blame the nature. But we fail to foresee the consequences of tampering with this nature. It is nothing but a reaction to our actions. Don’t you think nature have given us enough warnings? The outbreak of plague in 1890s and 1990s? The 2005 flood? Do you think nature alone is the culprit?”

Papa was about to say something... but started to think.

“I have read everything this morning. We are the players and only we are the culprits. Many have died and many more are on the verge. I am not able to draw a happy picture of the future of this city and it... it kills me.” I slowed down. “We have created the imbalance. We killed the wetlands, tree covers, mangroves, marshlands... only to write our own dark future. Can we not grow...and develop ....but only sustain-ably?”

There was a long pause.

 “You mean, selflessly?” said Papa.

His question was my answer.

Yes, we will have to live selflessly. Else, for our kids... we will only be leaving behind congestion, complications, diseases... and disasters. We wouldn’t be here to take the criticism, but this wouldn’t change the fact ....would it?

I looked around the room to find my place; on the left side of the door was a supplanted centre table full of baggage, next to it was a maroon polished almirah that touched the other wall, attached to which was the floral carved wooden double bed full with sleepers and next to that was my sister sitting on the floor stitching her blouse. There was an old computer table on my right that now served as another baggage counter. I found myself in middle of nowhere. Middle! That clicked me and I settled on the floor near the almirah.

Somewhere I felt middle-class to be a social name for poverty, I realised this when I glanced the room for the last time before I took a deep breath to start. And the moment I took out the nail clipper to cut my nails a sharp but curious voice held me in between, “you can’t cut nails at night.” And I faced up to see my cousin on the bed. How did I overlook her while observing the room? I thought... and then I overlooked her one more time. “You DON’T cut nails at night.” she was restless this time. “Yes you don’t”, a voice with more authority came this time; it was my sister’s. 

I continued cutting my long dirty nails and asked them the reason for not doing so at that hour of the night. And for no surprise they were ready with the answers.

Cousin: one loses money if they cut nails at night.

Me: whose money?

Cousin: areyy! Your money, you fool.

Me: who told you this?

Cousin: I know.

Me: how?

Sister: you would have known it too if you listen to our elders... you are a girl...

There is a time you know you need to take the blame and call off the conversation because; if you stretch it anymore it can get deadly. It was that time. I nodded and ignored them at the same time.

I had a sleep. NOT GOOD. NOT SWEET-DREAMY. JUST- SLEEP. It was so because I got to sleep amid various snoring as our tiny middle-class home had no soundproof rooms or in better terms... the doors didn’t close due to seepage.

Tujhko uda kar ke!

Tujhko uda kar ke!

Tujhko uda kar ke le jaaenge badri ki dulhaniya...

I woke up confused to whether I was dreaming of an item song. But! It was television. Drawing room and my bedroom, which was not exclusively mine, were happened to be planned diagonally opposite, separated by a small dining. And slowly as I gained conscience the song was accompanied by other background scores...

 Nani: roti banao jaldi jaldi tiffin bharna hai.

Ma- aai thamb! Ban rahi roti, tu bas.

Mami- kab jate hai chinu aor saha kam par...

And it went on. It was not every day that we had this many people in our house but Chinu’s birthday was some occasion for them to reunite. It was pleasing to meet all, it always was. But to SLEEP, to HEAR, to RESIDE, it was always clumsy. 

I waited for ten long minutes to use the tommilet. And yes! It takes a lot of effort to wait... for toilet ... in the morning. Then I brushed my teeth with cousin Dinky, Parrot Chikki and one other at the backyard.

I stepped into the 7x4 feet kitchen to find three women working in team; one rolling the flour dough balls, other was making parathas and the last one, was cooking sabzi. The moment, yes the moment I took a spoon of boiled egg in my mouth, my nani turned to me, “pehle nahana chaiye tujhe!”

I kept the plate back in the platform sighed and raised my voice against it. I said, “why?” and next, maa gave me an angry look that was enough for me to leave the kitchen that very moment.

I ate my breakfast hearing advices, hopes, stories and what not. But mainly advices... DON’T BE LATE, YOU GIRLS SHOULD COME HOME BEFORE DARK, EAT LITTLE MORE YOU LOOK THIN, WHY DON’T YOU CARE FOR YOU FACE YOU LOOK HORRIBLE, STOP WASTING SO MUCH TIME ON FITNESS YOU ARE NOT FAT BUT WORRY FOR YOUR FACE YOU HAVE TO GET MARRIED.

Maa’s continuous hold on you through her 'KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT' look let go the moment and you successfully clear that level according to her when you put a smile at your face and node a yes... all the time. And it was an escape.

And when you think that everything in your life from now on would be better, you just miss the fact that you have a boss for whom you work.

With a hell hectic day of two urgent assignments that day, I was blessed to have a senior female employee who was always ready to give me a detailed speech on the fact that I was a girl and I should be safe.

HER LECTURE:

You should take care of yourself, that worker was staring at you.... I think you work well only when boss pays attention on you.... you should not get emotionally attached to boss; he has a flirty nature... take care of what you wear... I am concerned for you, otherwise I wouldn’t have told you all this... you are like my daughter... I am just advising you... you are grown up, but it’s my duty...

I heard everyone. Instead of disagreeing, I ignored every single word that was told to me. I am done hearing you. Now HEAR ME, HEAR ME. YES I AM A GIRL AND I KNOW IT. I KNOW HOW TO BREATHE, HOW TO DRIVE, HOW TO EAT, HOW TO SIT, WHAT TO WEAR, WHERE TO GO AND WITH WHOM, HOW TO BEHAVE AT THE WORK PLACE, HOW TO WORK, HOW TO TAKE CARE OF MYSELF AND HOW TO BE SURE ABOUT MY SAFETY.. AND EVEN IF I DON’T KNOW THESE THINGS, IT IS MY PROBLEM NOT YOURS, ALL I KNOW IS I AM A GIRL AND NOT A MACHINE WHO WILL ACT YOUR WAY JUST BECAUSE YOU WANT ME THAT WAY.

But this time the reason that kept me shut was just being tired of hearing those things and because it was not bothering my work.

Eight at night, in a busy main road, I was driving my scooty when I heard some boys yelling and abusing badly, they were behind me on their bike... Like advised I didn’t turn and kept going. When I heard a female voice loud, I sank in fear, but I gained my courage to turn for another girl and I saw a scooty fallen on the road. The yelling boys were nowhere to be found. There were two girls on the road. One of them told me that those boys were following them from sometime, they were drunk and were asking them to stop and when they didn’t, one of the boys kicked the girl on the back seat and drove off. The girl was not injured physically but mentally, she was not saying anything and was only breathing heavily.

The girls had worn scarf covering their whole face, neck, chest and even stomach, just their eyes were visible. They were fully dressed with jeans and top on. I helped them clean the dust and asked them to complain, to which they said, “Nai baba! Bach gaye na, bas. Marna thode hai complain kar ke”

For the first time in the whole day I regretted something, regretted not turning at the correct time. I could have caught them or at least I could have seen the number plate on their bike. And it also made me think that- you say what you want to say to a person and go off but don’t realise what impact it makes on that person. The way those girls responded, I realised, they were not fainthearted but they too were a victim of hearing things that girls SHOULD NOT DO and were the obedient Indian females- who didn’t complain.

My father is a religious person. He believes that mukti yatra cuts down the impurities and cleanses the soul.  He always wanted to do this yatra through which he gets to visit lots of mosques and dargahs. His 60^th birthday was approaching. December is a cold month. So, I decided to take him on this yatra myself. It was supposed to be memorable, and ultimately it was.

I planned a 12-day trip over 3 states of the North, covering 16 of the important religious sites. Abbu’s birthday was right in the middle of the trip- on the 6^th day. We left home with a bag full of anticipation and good hope. The first 5 days went exactly as I planned, but not Abbu’s birthday.

On his birthday, we were to explore the city which had a great importance in the Hindu mythology. We thought of taking the essence of a sister religion and some extra blessings from the Hindu Gods too. There was a 16^th-century mosque that Abbu wished to visit. We reached the place early in the morning. Abbu said he would sleep sometime before going to the mosque in the afternoon. I tried sleeping too but a weird feeling kept me up. I went down for some tea. There was a small stall which served tea, coffee and snacks. There were three people other having tea there. I asked for a cup and sat on the bench.

“Munna ka tabiyat bigad gaya, nahi to hum jarur jaate.” said the slim guy wearing a kurta.

“Abhi bhi time hai, aap ja sakte hain. Program 3-4 baje se pehle khatam nahi hoga.” Said the chai-wala.

“12 baj gaye hain, ab jaane ka mann nahi.” The slim guy replied.

I was keenly listening to what they were saying. I started getting interested upon hearing the word ‘program’.

“Muaf kijiyega, kis program ki baat ho rahi hai?” I asked.

“Aap kahan gum hain, bhai- sahab? Itni badi rally nikli hai aur aapko nahi maalum? Kal ki ghoshna nahi suni aapne?” the other guy in a kurta asked back.

 “Ji, mai aaj hi aya hun. Yatra par hu Abbu ke sath. Masjid jaane ka iraada hai kuch der me.” I clarified.

There was a sudden silence amongst us. The two guys in kurta looked at each other and then looked away. They had finished their tea.

“Chal chotu, hum chalte hain.” the other one said and they both walked away whispering.

“Aaj masjid jana aapke liye theek nahi.” said the chai-wala.

“Kyu, bhai?” I was getting anxious.

“Yeh masjid vivaad me phasa hua hai.”

“Itna to hume pata hai, bhai. Par log to aaj bhi jaate hain na wahan?” I wanted answers.

“Haan, Magar aaj ki rally wahin ho rahi hai, aur aadhikarik raay iss masjid ke khilaaf jate hain. Aakhir hai to yeh sheher ek Hindu dharm sthal.” The chai-wala’s words were making no sense to me.

“Kya isse ye maalum hota hai ye yahan masjid ka hona galat hai?” i asked.

“Hamare kehne ya sochne se kya hota hai? Hai to raaj satta ka.”

“Satta? Kya yahan ki satta sabke liye baraabar nahi?” I was confused.

He jolted his head and looked away. His silence was making me uncomfortable. I wanted to see the rally. I wanted to see the mosque.

“Masjid ka raasta kis taraf hai?”

.......................................................                                                    

Crowd, a disturbed crowd was all I could see in front of my eyes. I kept on walking. I could hear them chanting. Those chants were piercing through my body like little needles. I could sense instability. I could sense insanity. I went closer. I could now hear the bhaashan that the politician was giving.

“Iss bhoomi ko hame samtal banana hoga, baithne layak banana hoga. Taki yahan samoohik kirtan ho sake, bhajan ho sake. Yagya ka aayojan hoga....”

‘What is this man trying to say?’ I thought in my head. The mob kept cheering and chanting.

“Jai Shri Ram! Jai Shri Ram!”

When I went further and got the first sight of the mosque from a distance, I stood there perplexed. It was right in front of my eyes- the wrecking. The domes were being hit, the walls were attacked. It was hard for me to digest what I saw. The main dome fell... then another... Just then I saw something flying towards me and hit me.... I realized I was sitting on the ground, full of dust, when I came back to senses. The mosque was not standing anymore. My neck hurt, but it did not matter to me.  

People had started returning to their homes. I returned too. On the way back to the hotel, I could not stop thinking about what had happened. They said it was essential, as it was an important Hindu site. The political leaders were smiling. The people were dancing in victory, chanting slogans and celebrating their win. Did they actually win? Who won? How can anyone justify the existence of a Hindu site? How does demolition of a religious building define their sanity? The security forces ran away. Further, there was no effort put to stop them. Why? My head was full of questions.

Abbu was awake and really worried when he did not find me in the room. He had already gathered the information about the demolition but my absence was a bigger concern for him then. When I reached, Abbu was watching the news on the TV with widened eyes. He ran to me and held me by my shoulders.

“Khairiyat hai?” he was shaking.

“Han Abbu, mai khairiyat hu, magar ye desh bahut beemar hai.” I replied.

He had tears in his eyes. I was broken. There was nothing that we could do.

“Chal, laut chalen.”  he said, still shaking.

.......................................................

It is February. About two months passed... and riots, commotion and deaths are all that we saw. Every other day we woke up with the death toll rising, new cities being engrossed and more hatred in the air. The fire had struck. Temples, mosques and other random buildings were targeted. We too were invited for a meeting to remove people of the other religion out of our locality. Ordinary people had turned into activists. People were dying. But, what could we do?  

Whenever there is a state of disagreement, why is agitation and anger the first and the last option? Why do people think that destroying a monument of killing the people would solve or pacify an issue? Why does a positive ground, the religion, become the reason for the unending negativity? Why ‘co-existence’ is no more a word with a meaning? But, what could we do?  

I suddenly felt like a culprit. I never thought anything beyond my family’s happiness. Who thinks about the country’s happiness? Who thinks about its integrity? Lots of our countrymen died, about 2000 of them. Are our countrymen, our extended family? If no, then why do we share the same land? If yes, then why are we still silent? 

I decided, I would not sit silent anymore. I will do my part. I will propagate my questions, and I will derive the solutions. I will. 

Dear Son, 

I stood gazing the bullet when entered the campus. Every time that I heard the bullet roar, a smile had conquered my face and that day even the bullet looked me back. My incentive heart popped out as the rider walked by my side & took her seat in the class. My eyes couldn’t stop staring her and that day even she didn’t take her eyes off me.

Love is to live, hate is to war

Love is to live, hate is to war

She pierced his eyes

And left him wounded like a cigar

Even the most pakau shayaris by my friend couldn’t lower our romance. I now knew she wasn’t an ordinary girl. How other stories in our village took place: Boy looked at girl and she blushed, boy stared girl and she complaint her friend, Boy followed girl to her home and she shied. But here! In our story: I looked at her and she asked me why, I sent letters to her and she started playing with me, her brother beat me and she warned him to not touch me. And that day, she stared me all the time in the class, not thinking about what others think, not caring about the professor and breaking all stereotypes that how a girl should be.

As it was not enough to stare me that she came all the way to my home driving her tractor. My stomach giggled as she asked me to meet near the fields, yeah! Indirectly but she did it. And my life changed, yes my 18 year old life changed as she proudly walked into it. 

Love is to live, hate is to war

Love is to live, hate is to war

She has now entered your den

She will set us far   

           

His worst shayaris continued as we came along. And I never realized what was the time that I had actually fall for her.


Parshya

                                                      ___

Dear Son, 

He was such a shy boy, and dumb too. It had been months that I knew he liked me. Thousands of time I hinted him that I too liked him. But! Blame his decency or innocence that I was ready for the leap and he was just walking behind me. Actually it wasn’t his fault, no one else could be as gutsy as me, and even my cousin brother couldn’t stand before me.

The time he gaped at me while I played kho-kho in the ground, the way he looked at me when we crossed ways in the campus. He feared me like others did but then there was a sense of owning when his eyes fell on me. May be I fall for that look. 

Initially it was all a fun game for me; I liked to tease him when he sent letters to me, I liked to bully him in my way. I wanted to meet him more, talk to him and spend my time like that.  

And that happened soon. I was not that person who could hold things for long or wait for the right time to appear. I chose my time and drove to his home.

That was the first day we directly met, talked and looked into each other. Those were the moments when I actually felt myself to be ordinary as I was not able to freeze time. 

If he was the field I wanted to wrap it on me, if he was the pond, I so wanted to jump into it and if he himself was the time I wished to travel the time.

Our days became a routine as we me every day. The fields in our village witnessed our love and our friends became our armor as they cleared the way for us to meet.       

Love is to live, hate is to war

Love is to live, hate is to war

You two are now together

Let us go to the bar

His friend started his weird rhyming. I wished I could teach him English.

 

Never in life did I imagine something like that could happen to us. I blinked my eyes and everything that I had was gone. There was a grand party going on Archi’s home. We were all dancing and having fun when I saw a people fighting and soon we too were dragged in. 

They beat us really bad. parshya, I and Pradeep were badly beaten by Archi's family. They had discovered Parshya nad Archi together. Our little heaven changed into hell.

“Okay! Comment on the YOUNG INDIA take by the minister”

“What is there to talk about? After all that we hear every day, how can this generation be trusted.”

 “Yes, you are right. We surely have most of young people in our country, but not the whole generation is

sane.”

“And that creates a huge difference.”

That day I heard a group of people discussing young generation as I walked back home. The last night had exhausted me really bad. But my mind was alert to everything which was happening around me. I had inherited this from my experiences. My past had positively prepared my mind and body to work in every condition.

The time I unlocked my flat I instantly walked into the kitchen, gulped the whole bottle of water in a go and I lay on bed. As I was trying to sleep, the words I had just heard struck me. How can this generation be trusted? How can anyone be trusted? Trust? What is trust?

I woke up to a call. “Asha, I am going to meet the Commissioner. I will call you after that; we have to discuss that village issue.” I hung up and walked lazily to the washroom. It wasn’t my daily routine. Actually I didn’t really have a routine, I never had one. Every day for me was a new day, every morning was a new place and every night was a pain. I kept my mind busy because even a pinch of my past was enough to weaken me to the cores.

I walked downstairs to buy milk packet. had a super market opposite our colony. I use to visit the store so often. The owner was in his late twenties. He was not there all the time. Whenever we had met in the past was a refreshing time as we used to exchange our work experience. And it was rare for me to meet people outside my work.

That day when I visited the store I didn’t find him. But I met a new girl.

“Hi, do you guys have olives?”

“Hain?”, her response told me she didn’t know English.

“Beta, yaha olives hai? Jaitoon?”

“Ma’am she is new here. She doesn’t know anything”, a regular worker told me.

“Oh, no problem. Do you have olives? I am not able to spot.” I asked again.

“Yes ma’am, this way, I will bring it to you.” he was polite as usual.

I was in the billing counter when saw the girl again in the corner. She was gazing the road continuously with a blank but expecting face. 

“Who is she?” I asked the girl in the counter.

“She is Abhay sir’s cousin, Meera. She lives in village; is here for on vacation.

“That’s great. You look nervous, is it your first time away from home?”

She did not reply.

I saw Ramesh at the other end. I paid to the auto driver and crossed road. We greeted and without delay, we headed to cafe for exchanging our research.

“I got this final list of girls.” He said.

“Only girls?”

“Yeah just girls, we have a list of twenty one girls; sixteen of them have been trafficked as domestic helps in different cities. They are yet to be located. There are five girls that police claims have been sold as a sex worker”, he explained.

I was stunned. I couldn’t say a word. It wasn’t that we had confronted such issue for the first time. All these years that had passed working for children who accidentally or forcefully fall into trafficking, these stories were so common for us. People called us activist but what if this trafficking had not existed. Then we could live a normal life, and then maybe I too had slept peacefully at night.

Ramesh nudged me away from my thoughts. When I gained my senses again, we were set to apart to different destinations. Just then, I got a call from the police. Next ten minutes I saw Ramesh’s anxiety growing as my reactions worsened. I couldn’t keep it for long, “six of the girls have been recognized, and they have been trafficked to our city Ramesh. Police have successfully traced the dealers and they are on their way to raid.” I continued in single breathe, “They have called us to take the data, and then we can start chasing the places that have been traced.”

“Yeah, yeah! Sure! Let’s go.” 

Everyone in the station was in rush. Few of them were calling other work stations to circulate the details, fax machines were getting used for the same; few teams had already been sent to raid and then there was head inspector who was waiting for us.

We were given the details of the six girls. We were studying the details when the inspector got a call. As soon as he hung we were informed to trace a new target. The information had details of a human trafficker.

“These people have been accused and inquired in past about human trafficking. We did not get enough evidence to file a case then but their actions and work is questionable.” And he started going into the details for each one of them.

He listed one by one and we recorded the key points as we had to visit each of them to search. Every time there was a case of human trafficking in the city, we used to help police by all the ways possible. It was our job and it basically wasn’t a help but we felt it to be our responsibility.

“Abhay Pratap Singh. He is a twenty eight years old businessman who belongs to a nearby village. He owns total of 8 shops in the city including 2 rice go-downs and 6 general stores. He had been accused for supplying girls from her village to the dealers and had also been arrested twice for keeping drugs in his go-downs...” he was yet to complete when I interrupted.

“I know this man” I yelled.

“what?” was the reaction from all the men out there.

“Yes. He runs a supermarket opposite my building, I have met him several times but I never felt anything wrong about his profile.”

“He might be innocent. We have no strong evidence.”

“no! no no no!” I panicked this time.

All were asking me what, why, how and so many other questions as I started checking profiles of the six girls again, and again.

“No it is not her” I relaxed. “Is it possible that we have more of the trafficked girls in the city?” I queried again.

“Yes. We have no clue about nine girls yet.” said the police.

Police searched Abhay for next few days. All his properties were seized. We kept on working and got nine girls instead six. Three were sent as domestic helps to high-society villas. Two of them, we saved from getting married. And the other four were to be sent abroad, were saved and sent to their respective homes.

But I got relief only when Meera was found. I didn’t even know her real name; neither did I get the chance to see her again. Abhay was imprisoned. Meera disclosed more names which helped us reach 8 more girls who were sent to different cities. I would have regretted all my life for not recognizing the culprit and the victim even after confronting them... if we couldn’t have found her.

The thing that pinched me the most was that Meera had been sold by her parents. We were alike. This whole issue pushed me back to the memories of my own childhood. Fifteen years had been passed. But there was no change in the lives. I was once sold by my mother in the exchange of money. I worked as a household servant for years, and then I was pushed to be a sex worker. I thank God who helped me escape all that, and gifted me a new purpose of life. But after all these years, even today,  I hear the same stories time and again.

That night I couldn’t sleep as the questions kept tumbling my mind. How many years would it take to end this trafficking? What else should we do to get through it? Who were the origins of this crime? We had done everything to save humans till date, but we could never stop them to be trafficked. I had no answers but every question was generating a new question.

I woke up next morning lazily. I checked my cell phone, had no meeting lined up. I opened my news app. ANOTHER HUMAN TRAFFICKING RACKET HAS BEEN UNVEILED WITH THE HELP OF YOUNG ACTIVISTS, it read. My neighbors would be happy with this generation, I thought... just then I read another headline, THOUSANDS OF GIRLS MOLESTED BY THE MOB DURING A CONCERT IN A METROPOLITAN CITY.