Fugitive Histories

Memorable heart rending lines Samar has a secret she Sara pipes up in her clear high voice She ignores his glare she has finally got the attention of both parents Prakash and the others wou

Memorable, heart-rending lines:'Samar has a secret,' she [Sara] pipes up in her clear, high voice. She ignores his glare; she has finally got the attention of both parents. 'Prakash and the others wouldn't sit next to Samar at break today. Samar had to eat alone.''I thought Prakash was your best friend?' Mala asks Samar. 'Did you fight with him?''No,' says Samar, 'she's just making it up.' He gives Sara a wait-till-we-are-alone look; Sara pauses, but the temptation is too much. She can always sleep in Asad's bed tonight, for protection. 'Prakash told the others Samar is non-veg,' she says quickly before Samar can stop her. 'He said Samar's tiffin box smells.' -p. 20The pregnant girl from upstairs, Zakia, suddenly speaks up in a wheezy voice that lets her speak only a few words at a time. 'I saw it with my own eyes. The little boy next door. They poured petrol in his mouth. They up a lit matchstick into his mouth as if it was a lollipop. He just burst.'It's strange being hated. Yasmin wants to cover her ears, her eyes, but she doesn't. It's so strange, seeing a little boy being hated.- p. 159Sara wishes she didn't have to hear this. She wishes she could get up and leave the room. But Zulekha is already saying, 'Those girls were screaming, they were begging us to remove the stumps of wood that had been pushed into them. Each one was crying, "Me first, remove mine first." I'll never forget their screams. Even now, when I tell you this, my blood boils.' - p. 160'What about the police? Did they do nothing?''Police?' Reshma spits the word out at Nina as if it's too bitter to keep in her mouth for another second. There's a chorus of disgusted approval. 'How many of us phoned them before the lines were cut? All of us asked them to help us. All of us begged them to save us.''You know what the police said to me?' Nasreen demands. 'Snakes that are not poisonous should keep the enemy away by hissing once in a while.''The better policemen simply said we can't help you,' says Feroza. 'They said we have no orders to help you, you better learn to protect yourselves if you want to live in Hindustan. They were the better ones, the good ones who simply stood by watching while our homes burnt. The rest of them bust tear-gas shells at us or shot us if we tried to defend ourselves.''How can we trust them?' Sabiya asks. 'They shot at us. They bullets must be on the wall still. Before my eyes, they shot my sister in the courtyard.' - p. 161There's nothing hate can do to stop the pain. There's nothing hate can do to stop the relieve of the tear trickling down this cheek, then that, then the next. Being hated, hating; neither has the power to stop the flowing of tears. - p. 161Cut and burnt, cut and burnt. It's a shorthand chant, a chant that echoes in Sara's ears because it's trapped there. But as often as she hears it, Sara knows the chant is leaving something out. There's an empty space before and after, between the cutting and the burning. Maybe no one wants to fill up that awful space. Maybe that minute of space is too long, longer than any other minute, because that's when a living person felt the breaking blow. Or the piercing stab. Or the lick of a tongue of fire. - p. 163'Is there no government?''Government? What government says every Hindu will vote for them because they got rid of Muslims?''The same people who killed us and looted us and took away our homes. The same people who are now supposed to protect us.''That's why we all know what NGO means now. We're at the mercy of NGOs since the government has no mercy.''We're orphans. We have no one, no police, no government, no country.' - p 164But just when it's more than anyone can bear, Sara hears a loud voice say, 'People don't want revenge, they want to live again.'There's silence; the need to live again should give them fresh hope, and it does. Even Zulekha's challenging anger is spent, she can only raise her hands and exclaim, 'Ya Allah! Ya Rahman! Ya Rahim! Who knows what men are capable of except the Almight? All we can do is live' - p. 165And all it takes for her to feel Asad's fear on her skin like a rash of gooseflesh is a sketch, the men in it made of charcoal.There are five of them on the right side of the page in a tight, almost complete circle. Each of them holds a thing high above his head; an empty bottle, a screwdriver, an iron rod, a butcher's knife, an oily rag-covered stick that's just been set aflame. The men are about to bring these down on a sixth man, a man with empty hands. He crouches on the ground, on his knees, head hanging as if he would protect it if he could. The moment is terrible.It's not just that the defenceless man may be hit any second. It's not just what's turned the five men into killing machines. It's also the extra man Asad has put into the picture, a witness to what's about to happen. This man stands straight and tall to one side but his look- what is it about his look that makes it so difficult to describe? He looks as if he knows he can only stand there and look. He can't raise a hand in protest, he can't open his mouth to say 'Stop!' The circle of men, the man surrounded and hemmed in- Mala has no difficulty imagining who they are and where they are. But that witness. Who's he, what happened to him that he can stand apart like that? He could be a sadistic devil letting others do his dirty work. He could be an impotent god, a god who has to watch what his creatures do to each other even though he's powerless to teach them any better. Or he could be a helpless artist. He knows how to use his hands and eyes and head only when he's safe on the sidewalk, where he has a good view of the blood and gore on the street. - p. 214The unfinished painting has a layered surface but it's nearly monochromatic. The only relief is the tonal variation created by the rubbed and blotted pigment. The burnt sienna and madder spread like a stain.The strong central figure Asad is partial to is missing. In fact, there's no one in the painting, and not a single identifiable object. It's only texture, a scratchy surface. It only feels, it says nothing. Yet it's able to make Mala feel; it makes her feel, just for an instant, something like the warm rushing blood of life. If she rubs the paint here and there in small patches, careful not to peel off too many layers, she may find people hidden underneath. She may reveal the eternal street of people Asad revelled in, or atleast a single person, some evidence of life. But without her help, left to itself, the painting is reluctant to yield its secrets, the people hidden inside who cannot break through its surface. And the skin of the paining also wraps itself round a bigger mystery, perhaps the biggest mystery of all. But till she learns how to peel off the skin, all it can do is lie like a riddle, or a thing that's forgotten how to live. This dead thing, this paining or body that used to be Asad's stares at Mala in uncompromising silence. - p. 220"2002 was the culmination. It began much before that, the gettoes, the slow and steady polarization.""What do you call what happened here in 2002? Just communal violence, the bland, zipped-up phrase the government prefers? Or danga, riots? But it's all too obvious these were not riots. Then there are those slightly desperate phrases journalists cooked up. Death of Dance. Season of hate. Inferno of hate and horror. But we have to call it what it was, we have to use hard words even if they're frightening. Pogrom. State-sponsored terror. Carnage. The Gujarat carnage." - p. 234The difference she can make in Yasmin's life is nothing compared to the difference Yasmin can make in Sara's life. The thought comes to her whole and indisputable; but Sara has to keep it waiting because suddenly she thinks she can see Asad on the rocks cllse to the sea. He's only a silhouette, a stick-like caricature of a man, yet he is taking on the sea. Maybe he can do it because he knows the anguish of just painting, not doing. Maybe he also knows that sometimes it's a worthwhile price to pay. - p. 235In those last months when Asad lay prostrate in bed, sometimes sharp and insistent, sometimes a mere blur of a man, he asked her once: 'All the days we never used the word "secular" to describe ourselves, all the days when the world was only divided into the progressive and the backward, were we right then? Or just innocent?' But when they too began using secular like a staple, the day's quota of onions and potatoes to be cooked, the word shrank them. It shrank people like Asad most of all. It locked them in a tiny jail with too many people looking in through the bars. The cell itself had room for only two pinpointed little words: secular Muslim. Maybe this is what made Asad say to Mala, 'It makes me feel I don't know myself any longer. It makes me wonder if I was only playing a game all this time- painting, playing at being a committed citizen of a larger, braver world.' - p. 237But that evening he asked her, "Did we somehow betray what we believed in? Or was the ideal wanting in the first place?"She didn't know the answer; she didn't even know if she was expected to provide one. But she said to him, "Thinking that may be the worst betrayal of all. Maybe ideals get dented, bent, even broken. Just like any ageing body. And if it can't be mended, it will be born again. It'll be born in someone else, maybe somewhere else." It wasn't exactly an original or profound answer, she was only an incompetent Scheherazade talking the courage back into him. But it seemed to comfort him for the moment. - p. 237 The knife sinks like a broken dream. The brush tilts sideways, the wooden handle under the water, the hairy tail above. It bobs up and down, unsure of itself; then it floats.Mala squints in the gathering darkness, watching its brief journey. The brush soon comes to rest at the foot of the amaltas, where its roots must be under the water under the earth. - p. 241Mala takes the palette knife and paintbrush out of the paper bag and drops them in the pond. She would have like to get rid of the unfinished painting instead, the painting that refused to let Asad finish it. If only the painting had let him find its hidden people, bring them to the foreground where they should have been!But these hidden figures still remain people behind a wall, however eloquent its texture. The painting reminds her of Asad's last night, the night he got lost behind the wall for always. He didn't call out, he didn't wake her up. When she woke up, he was gone. He had been gone so many hours his skin had become cold and hard, it had become a wall. It's foolish, she knows, but Mala would like to throw away that stubborn painting. But she simply can't conduct a funeral rite on such a grand scale, she doesn't know how. The knife and paintbrush will have to do. - p. 240Asad would have wanted these stars shining on her, on what remains of him in her, every long and dark night. He would have liked that. And his sad paintbrush, the one that failed him, has come to rest at the foot of the amaltas tree. It may take root one of these days, it may grow and flower in heavy yellow clusters. He will like that too. - p. 241The best Fugitive Histories Author Githa Hariharan is Ebook None. Hariharan was born in Coimbatore and grew up in Bombay and Manila She obtained a BA in English from Bombay University and a MA in Communications from Fairfield University U.S.AHariharan first worked in the Public Broadcasting System in New York and then with a publishing firm as an editor in India She currently works as a freelance editor In her personal life, she, along with her husband, won the right to have the children named after her instead of carrying the father s name in this famous case argued by Indira Jaising, the Supreme Court agreed that the mother was also a natural guardian of the child.Template AIR 1999, 2 SCC 228. Bestseller Books Fugitive Histories Memorable, heart-rending lines:'Samar has a secret,' she [Sara] pipes up in her clear, high voice. She ignores his glare; she has finally got the attention of both parents. 'Prakash and the others wouldn't sit next to Samar at break today. Samar had to eat alone.''I thought Prakash was your best friend?' Mala asks Samar. 'Did you fight with him?''No,' says Samar, 'she's just making it up.' He gives Sara a wait-till-we-are-alone look; Sara pauses, but the temptation is too much. She can always sleep in Asad's bed tonight, for protection. 'Prakash told the others Samar is non-veg,' she says quickly before Samar can stop her. 'He said Samar's tiffin box smells.' -p. 20The pregnant girl from upstairs, Zakia, suddenly speaks up in a wheezy voice that lets her speak only a few words at a time. 'I saw it with my own eyes. The little boy next door. They poured petrol in his mouth. They up a lit matchstick into his mouth as if it was a lollipop. He just burst.'It's strange being hated. Yasmin wants to cover her ears, her eyes, but she doesn't. It's so strange, seeing a little boy being hated.- p. 159Sara wishes she didn't have to hear this. She wishes she could get up and leave the room. But Zulekha is already saying, 'Those girls were screaming, they were begging us to remove the stumps of wood that had been pushed into them. Each one was crying, "Me first, remove mine first." I'll never forget their screams. Even now, when I tell you this, my blood boils.' - p. 160'What about the police? Did they do nothing?''Police?' Reshma spits the word out at Nina as if it's too bitter to keep in her mouth for another second. There's a chorus of disgusted approval. 'How many of us phoned them before the lines were cut? All of us asked them to help us. All of us begged them to save us.''You know what the police said to me?' Nasreen demands. 'Snakes that are not poisonous should keep the enemy away by hissing once in a while.''The better policemen simply said we can't help you,' says Feroza. 'They said we have no orders to help you, you better learn to protect yourselves if you want to live in Hindustan. They were the better ones, the good ones who simply stood by watching while our homes burnt. The rest of them bust tear-gas shells at us or shot us if we tried to defend ourselves.''How can we trust them?' Sabiya asks. 'They shot at us. They bullets must be on the wall still. Before my eyes, they shot my sister in the courtyard.' - p. 161There's nothing hate can do to stop the pain. There's nothing hate can do to stop the relieve of the tear trickling down this cheek, then that, then the next. Being hated, hating; neither has the power to stop the flowing of tears. - p. 161Cut and burnt, cut and burnt. It's a shorthand chant, a chant that echoes in Sara's ears because it's trapped there. But as often as she hears it, Sara knows the chant is leaving something out. There's an empty space before and after, between the cutting and the burning. Maybe no one wants to fill up that awful space. Maybe that minute of space is too long, longer than any other minute, because that's when a living person felt the breaking blow. Or the piercing stab. Or the lick of a tongue of fire. - p. 163'Is there no government?''Government? What government says every Hindu will vote for them because they got rid of Muslims?''The same people who killed us and looted us and took away our homes. The same people who are now supposed to protect us.''That's why we all know what NGO means now. We're at the mercy of NGOs since the government has no mercy.''We're orphans. We have no one, no police, no government, no country.' - p 164But just when it's more than anyone can bear, Sara hears a loud voice say, 'People don't want revenge, they want to live again.'There's silence; the need to live again should give them fresh hope, and it does. Even Zulekha's challenging anger is spent, she can only raise her hands and exclaim, 'Ya Allah! Ya Rahman! Ya Rahim! Who knows what men are capable of except the Almight? All we can do is live' - p. 165And all it takes for her to feel Asad's fear on her skin like a rash of gooseflesh is a sketch, the men in it made of charcoal.There are five of them on the right side of the page in a tight, almost complete circle. Each of them holds a thing high above his head; an empty bottle, a screwdriver, an iron rod, a butcher's knife, an oily rag-covered stick that's just been set aflame. The men are about to bring these down on a sixth man, a man with empty hands. He crouches on the ground, on his knees, head hanging as if he would protect it if he could. The moment is terrible.It's not just that the defenceless man may be hit any second. It's not just what's turned the five men into killing machines. It's also the extra man Asad has put into the picture, a witness to what's about to happen. This man stands straight and tall to one side but his look- what is it about his look that makes it so difficult to describe? He looks as if he knows he can only stand there and look. He can't raise a hand in protest, he can't open his mouth to say 'Stop!' The circle of men, the man surrounded and hemmed in- Mala has no difficulty imagining who they are and where they are. But that witness. Who's he, what happened to him that he can stand apart like that? He could be a sadistic devil letting others do his dirty work. He could be an impotent god, a god who has to watch what his creatures do to each other even though he's powerless to teach them any better. Or he could be a helpless artist. He knows how to use his hands and eyes and head only when he's safe on the sidewalk, where he has a good view of the blood and gore on the street. - p. 214The unfinished painting has a layered surface but it's nearly monochromatic. The only relief is the tonal variation created by the rubbed and blotted pigment. The burnt sienna and madder spread like a stain.The strong central figure Asad is partial to is missing. In fact, there's no one in the painting, and not a single identifiable object. It's only texture, a scratchy surface. It only feels, it says nothing. Yet it's able to make Mala feel; it makes her feel, just for an instant, something like the warm rushing blood of life. If she rubs the paint here and there in small patches, careful not to peel off too many layers, she may find people hidden underneath. She may reveal the eternal street of people Asad revelled in, or atleast a single person, some evidence of life. But without her help, left to itself, the painting is reluctant to yield its secrets, the people hidden inside who cannot break through its surface. And the skin of the paining also wraps itself round a bigger mystery, perhaps the biggest mystery of all. But till she learns how to peel off the skin, all it can do is lie like a riddle, or a thing that's forgotten how to live. This dead thing, this paining or body that used to be Asad's stares at Mala in uncompromising silence. - p. 220"2002 was the culmination. It began much before that, the gettoes, the slow and steady polarization.""What do you call what happened here in 2002? Just communal violence, the bland, zipped-up phrase the government prefers? Or danga, riots? But it's all too obvious these were not riots. Then there are those slightly desperate phrases journalists cooked up. Death of Dance. Season of hate. Inferno of hate and horror. But we have to call it what it was, we have to use hard words even if they're frightening. Pogrom. State-sponsored terror. Carnage. The Gujarat carnage." - p. 234The difference she can make in Yasmin's life is nothing compared to the difference Yasmin can make in Sara's life. The thought comes to her whole and indisputable; but Sara has to keep it waiting because suddenly she thinks she can see Asad on the rocks cllse to the sea. He's only a silhouette, a stick-like caricature of a man, yet he is taking on the sea. Maybe he can do it because he knows the anguish of just painting, not doing. Maybe he also knows that sometimes it's a worthwhile price to pay. - p. 235In those last months when Asad lay prostrate in bed, sometimes sharp and insistent, sometimes a mere blur of a man, he asked her once: 'All the days we never used the word "secular" to describe ourselves, all the days when the world was only divided into the progressive and the backward, were we right then? Or just innocent?' But when they too began using secular like a staple, the day's quota of onions and potatoes to be cooked, the word shrank them. It shrank people like Asad most of all. It locked them in a tiny jail with too many people looking in through the bars. The cell itself had room for only two pinpointed little words: secular Muslim. Maybe this is what made Asad say to Mala, 'It makes me feel I don't know myself any longer. It makes me wonder if I was only playing a game all this time- painting, playing at being a committed citizen of a larger, braver world.' - p. 237But that evening he asked her, "Did we somehow betray what we believed in? Or was the ideal wanting in the first place?"She didn't know the answer; she didn't even know if she was expected to provide one. But she said to him, "Thinking that may be the worst betrayal of all. Maybe ideals get dented, bent, even broken. Just like any ageing body. And if it can't be mended, it will be born again. It'll be born in someone else, maybe somewhere else." It wasn't exactly an original or profound answer, she was only an incompetent Scheherazade talking the courage back into him. But it seemed to comfort him for the moment. - p. 237 The knife sinks like a broken dream. The brush tilts sideways, the wooden handle under the water, the hairy tail above. It bobs up and down, unsure of itself; then it floats.Mala squints in the gathering darkness, watching its brief journey. The brush soon comes to rest at the foot of the amaltas, where its roots must be under the water under the earth. - p. 241Mala takes the palette knife and paintbrush out of the paper bag and drops them in the pond. She would have like to get rid of the unfinished painting instead, the painting that refused to let Asad finish it. If only the painting had let him find its hidden people, bring them to the foreground where they should have been!But these hidden figures still remain people behind a wall, however eloquent its texture. The painting reminds her of Asad's last night, the night he got lost behind the wall for always. He didn't call out, he didn't wake her up. When she woke up, he was gone. He had been gone so many hours his skin had become cold and hard, it had become a wall. It's foolish, she knows, but Mala would like to throw away that stubborn painting. But she simply can't conduct a funeral rite on such a grand scale, she doesn't know how. The knife and paintbrush will have to do. - p. 240Asad would have wanted these stars shining on her, on what remains of him in her, every long and dark night. He would have liked that. And his sad paintbrush, the one that failed him, has come to rest at the foot of the amaltas tree. It may take root one of these days, it may grow and flower in heavy yellow clusters. He will like that too. - p. 241
Fugitive Histories by Githa Hariharan Fugitive Histories book Read reviews from the world s largest community for readers. Fugitive Histories Sentinelassam Oct , Fugitive Histories Fugitive Histories is penned down by Githa Hariharan The story has a deep meaning and feel It goes as Mala stays in Delhi Her house there is empty, save for a lifetime of sketches that are left behind by her late husband and the memories they conjure Her husband is Fugitive Histories Githa Hariharan Marked by an astonishing clarity of observation and deep compassion, Fugitive Histories exposes the legacy of prejudice that, sometimes insidiously, sometimes perceptibly, continues to affect disparate lives in present day India In prose that is at once elegant, playful and startlingly inventive, Githa Hariharan portrays with remarkable precision the web of human connections that binds as much Fugitive Histories by Githa Hariharan Anu Reviews Apr , Fugitive Histories is the first book by Githa Hariharan that I read After reading the book the first thing that strikes is the author s excellent narration of the thoughts of the characters She captures them as they happen in real life to thoughts As they waver from topic to topic, from people to people and from places to places. Fugitive Histories Penguin India Together, Sara and Yasmin search for the future, for hope, amid lives caught in a mesh of memory and anguish Marked by an astonishing clarity of observation and deep compassion, Fugitive Histories exposes the legacy of prejudice that continues to erupt into hatred and violence in present day India. Fugitive Slave Acts HISTORY Feb , Fugitive Slave Act of Despite the inclusion of the Fugitive Slave Clause in the U.S Constitution, anti slavery sentiment remained high in the North Fugitive slave United States history Britannica Fugitive slave, any individual who escaped from slavery in the period before and including the American Civil War In general they fled to Canada or to free states in the North, though Florida for a time under Spanish control was also a place of refuge See Black Seminoles Osler, John fugitive slaves Fugitive Slaves Flee from Maryland to Delaware by Way of the Underground Railroad, The Fugitive TV Series Created by Roy Huggins With David Janssen, William Conrad, Barry Morse, Paul Birch A doctor, wrongly convicted for a murder he didn t commit, escapes custody and must stay ahead of the police to find the real killer. Fugitive Definition of Fugitive at Dictionary Word Origin for fugitive C from Latin fugit vus fleeing away, from fugere to take flight, run away Collins English Dictionary Complete Unabridged Digital Edition William Collins Sons Co Ltd , HarperCollins Publishers ,

  1. Hariharan was born in Coimbatore and grew up in Bombay and Manila She obtained a BA in English from Bombay University and a MA in Communications from Fairfield University U.S.AHariharan first worked in the Public Broadcasting System in New York and then with a publishing firm as an editor in India She currently works as a freelance editor In her personal life, she, along with her husband, won the right to have the children named after her instead of carrying the father s name in this famous case argued by Indira Jaising, the Supreme Court agreed that the mother was also a natural guardian of the child.Template AIR 1999, 2 SCC 228

471 Reply to “Fugitive Histories”

  1. Memorable, heart rending lines Samar has a secret, she Sara pipes up in her clear, high voice She ignores his glare she has finally got the attention of both parents Prakash and the others wouldn t sit next to Samar at break today Samar had to eat alone I thought Prakash was your best friend Mala asks Samar Did you fight with him No, says Samar, she s just making it up He gives Sara a wait till we are alone look Sara pauses, but the temptation is too much She can always sleep in Asad s bed tonig [...]


  2. goes to and fro between a lot of stories, several characters, different concerns of each Not too cohesive Though each line is worth re reading but the story is not there the mechanics of riots is described in detail, difficult to read through.



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