The very first images that I harboured in my brain about Delhi were images of revolution. I saw huge crowds protesting, demanding rights which should be a given in our political capital – particularly following the repeated instances of rape and state inaction in Delhi. Seeing people gather before seemingly impermeable Houses of Parliament made me feel powerful, in a way in which I had not felt before. Moving here from a tiny town in Thane thus, felt like it would be my political awakening.
I wanted to march down
streets with huge banners and posters, and make my discontent heard. After all,
a protest seemed like a mode which gave the collective their space of
expression – and that was what I loved the most about these. The fact that a
state could not avoid or ignore you if you were in their face or in their way,
as protestors did. I wanted to immediately be one of them – make my discontent
heard. And as a queer disabled woman, I sure had a lot of discontent.
The very first thing I
wanted to do when I reached Delhi, was therefore, to go and see the Parliament.
With all my glory, I decided to embark on this adventure, only to learn that in
fact, accessing the main road of the Parliament was impossible for me. With
frequent ups and downs, and a non-wheelchair friendly tiling on its footpaths,
I stood confused. How was I supposed to approach this institution which claimed
to represent me? Could I do it by myself? Thankfully, I did have help from my
family to make my journey to the Parliament simpler, but are disabled persons
who wish to be political then only ever recognised as plus-ones, and not as
worthy of accommodation themselves?
My family asked me to not
make a lot of this experience – citing examples of how all old government
buildings are inaccessible – and how my symbolic comparison with how this
demonstrated the able-bodied assumption that underlies all our laws was swiftly
deemed to be an overthought. Maybe it was. But it did seem like politics
wanted nothing to do with me at all.
There was still a lot to
be excited about outside the Parliament. I began looking forward then to the
queer pride parade I had excessively obsessed over yearly. Preparing myself for
this meant preparing the perfect outfit – I mean with the rainbows and the
glitter and the bright lipstick and feathers – I was ready. This was political
to me, being out there, and occupying the roads of our capital as a queer
woman. It was all the more special as this was the first time I was doing it as
not a criminal under the law. I was happy that I would feel free.
However, my happiness was
not permanent. A Pride Parade also involved walking, in the June Heat, which
was not a good mix with my nearly constant dehydration, and my wobbly legs.
Here as well, I needed a hand to hold, someone to walk with me, because the
route was in fact wheelchair inaccessible. And as I held the hand of someone I
barely knew on this walk, while feeling lightheaded – I came to a realisation.
Was I even meant to be here?
I mean, do not get me
wrong. I really really wanted to be there reclaiming my sexuality, walking a
walk meant to be about equal love and rights for all (even though I later
realised how exclusionary it actually was). But, was I meant to be here? Did
the organisers, just like the architects of the Parliament imagine a situation
where my disabled body would be there in all its glory? Or, was I meant to sit
at home, hidden? It seemed like a dilemma – using my voice to make political
change was what I always wanted to do, but somehow, my body which carried this
voice was really not meant to occupy this space. And that is what I saw when I
looked around and saw reclaimed love, I still saw no bodies like mine,
struggling to walk, almost fainting while celebrating themselves.
What then is our
revolution? Who is it for? I refuse to believe that it is mere coincidence that
I was unable to access both a government legislative house, and a public
movement on the streets – the only two modes of political expression that I
knew at that point. Instead I believe that the discomfort I felt at both these
places reflects how far away being political is from my body, reflects just how
left out bodies like mine are from political discussions – because, we never
occupy space at the political roundtable anyway. Not because we do not want to,
but because we cannot.
For three days after
Pride, I lay in bed with my legs unable to move, because the walking they
endured was not normal to them. And next year, and the year after that – while
my friends went to Pride Parades and Anti CAA-NRC Protests, I chose my body
instead and stayed at home. While they went to the streets to ask uncomfortable
questions, I chose to avoid my own physical discomfort by staying at home,
silencing my voice. And that is a choice nearly none of them had to think
about.
I do not know if this is
my careless optimism speaking, or some internal peaceful voice of wisdom – but
I believe that my decisions were just as silently revolutionary as theirs.
Choosing my body and its comfort, over spaces which were never meant to be
mine, was hard – and so was not going to these spaces and point out their
inaccessibility (merely because I would have really loved to do that).
Recognising sometimes that a movement is not just about you can be the toughest
thing of all.
However, I also do
realise that this narrative is about me, it is about my imperfect body, and its
desire to take on the streets. Can I do it with broken footpaths, horrific
ramps and walking only protests? Certainly not. But my desire to do it with my
imperfect body is still revolutionary – because it questions the crux of these
public movements. Yes, I am disabled, and Yes, I am political – and therefore,
political spaces must necessarily accommodate me. Because I want to be a part
of the noise that makes the change, and not just from the sidelines with
someone holding my hand, or from my home typing this out – but from the centre
of it all, sitting in a wheelchair in all glory.
Now, wouldn’t that be a
revolution by itself?
About the author-
Samidha is a law student studying at Gujarat National Law University, Gandhinagar who absolutely loves dogs. She lives with Ehlers Danlos Syndrome-III, Fibromyalgia, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and Rheumatic Heart Disease. She wants to change the world everyday, but settles for being able to get out of bed and feed her community dogs.
No comments:
Post a Comment