Mumbai Aadhi Raat Mein In Hindi 720p Download
Roser Blazado
The Gateway of India, at first instance, appears to be an odd place for us to enter into the type of conversations we have been having today. It was, after all, built to commemorate a state visit of a foreign invader.
But rather than tearing down the Gateway on our liberation, we absorbed it, re-attributed to it our own meanings of hospitable welcome and an openness to the world, as much as simultaneously, possessing the cultural confidence to leave it intact as a reminder that the Raj happened, so that then we know that it also passed. And it passed because of our collective might. We overcame this foreign invader by the solidarity of peaceful resistance.
The Gateway, therefore, in its contemporary complexity of meanings, is a locus for reflection, pondering and debate. There could not be a more fitting place to commemorate the cowardly attacks on this day nine years ago that occurred at various places across our city, including at the landmark just across the street. Nine years ago, on this day, these attacks were, to me, a wake-up call.
Terrorism is not an act of faith. Terrorism can never replace another ideology. And there is, before us, true evidence of that: The same children who held the same guns and ammunition in the trenches of Afghanistan to fight a foreign invasion of their land, the same children who were paid wages and salaries to kill and be killed in those battles, became professional mercenaries after they began to use the same training and weapons out of hatred, malice and vengeance.
Terror does no such thing, terror does not decide anything. Terror only hopes to establish the bluff that evil can be stronger than natural humanity, that hate is mightier than love. It is now for each one of us to decide if we want our children to accept this evil doctrine or show our children that terror does not have a place in our hearts.
An estimated 20 lakh people were killed during the Partition of our country in 1947, and several times more were displaced. When people are divided by distrust, when friends and neighbours stop trusting each other, when a nation turns into hostile islands of random fear, then our world is broken into fragments, broken by narrow domestic walls. This is precisely what terror aims to achieve.
Terror does not preserve anything, it is designed to destroy. Once unleashed, terror cannot be stopped by a debate. An act of terror, therefore, is not open to negotiations or to wisdom. It can only be repelled, repulsed and destroyed by a more powerful reaction. There are no two ways about that: A corrective action is necessary.
But it does not end there. When a farm is infested by weeds, a weed-killer does not stop them from growing again after the next rain. The farmer has to pull them out, one by one, every single weed, by its roots.
The perception that moderates are not relevant in the war on terror is rather myopic and short-sighted. Moderates are not part of this struggle because both the handlers of terror and the agents of resistance consider them to be passive and disempowered. Yet, the prime victims of terror are moderates. More than 70 per cent of our nation is moderate. And as moderates, we must recognise that to vilify a foe is no victory at all, to understand a foe is the first act of strength in resistance.
To understand a foe, one must first understand oneself. To understand ourselves, we must ask not what we are against, for that is defining ourselves by the ideas of our foe, by their power. Rather, to understand ourselves, we must ask what we are for. We can only understand ourselves together.
The colonial rulers laughed at our Mahatma Gandhi when he spoke of this vision. His passive resistance suffered unimaginable brutality during its campaign. But we know the result: This approach wiped out the foundations of imperial colonialism from the face of the Earth.
Yeh begunah khoon kinka hai?
Kya unka?
jo sadiyon se satae gaye,
jagah-jagah se bhagaye gaye,
dukh sahne ke itne aadi ho gaye,
ki vidroh ke saare bhaw hi kho gaye,
aur jab maut ke muh mein jaane ka hukm hua,
nirvirodh, chupchap chale gaye,
aur uski vishaili saanson mein ghutkar,
sada ke liye so gaye.
unke rakt ki chhap agar lagni thi toh,
kiske dwaar par.
(Whose innocent blood is this?
Is it of those
Who have through hundreds of years been troubled,
Chased away from place to place,
So accustomed to bearing pain
That today they have lost the intent of revolt?
And, when ordered to move into the mouths of death
Silently and without any opposition they went
And throttled by the poisonous gases
Went to sleep forever?
If their blood stains were to mark,
Then to whose door would they make?)
Yeh jawaan khoon kinka hai?
Kya unkaa?
Jo apne maati ka geet gaate,
apni Azaadi ka naara lagate,
haath uthaate, paanv badhate aaye the.
Par ab aisi chattaan se takrakar,
apna sir phod rahe hain,
Jo na talti hai, na hilti hai, na pighalti hai.
Unke rakt ki chhaap agar lagni thi toh,
kiske dwaar par.
(Whose young and youthful blood is this?
Is it of those
Who sang the songs of their mother earth
Shouted slogans of freedom
Raised their hands, and walked fearlessly forward
But have now struck against this immovable rock wall
Smashing their heads against it
A wall that does not turn, or move, or melt?
If their blood stains were to mark
Then to whose door would they make?)
Yeh masoom khoon kinka hai?
Kya unka?
Jo apne shram se dhoop mein, taap mein,
dhool mein, dhuein mein sankar, kaale hokar,
apne safed-swamiyon ke liye,
saaf ghar, saaf nagar, swacchh path,
uthate rahe, banate rahe,
par unpar paanv rakhne, unpe paithne ka,
moolya apne pranon se chukaate rahe.
Unke rakt ke chhap agar lagni thi toh,
kinke dwaar par.
(Whose innocent blood is this?
Is it of those
Who with their effort and work, in the heat, in the sun,
In the dust, in the smoke-filled atmosphere, blackened
Did for their white-blooded masters
Make and build clean homes, clean cities, clean paths
But to place their feet within, to sit within them,
They did pay the price by the sacrifice of their lives?
If their blood stains were to mark
Then to whose door would they make?)
Yeh bepanah khoon kinka hai?
Kya unka?
Jo tawarikh ki ek rekh se,
apne hi watan mein ek jalawatan hain.
Kya unka?
Jo bahumat ke aawesh par,
sanak par, pagalpan par,
apraadhi, dand or wadh karar diye jaate hain,
Nirwas, nirdhan, nirwasan
nirmam katl kiye jaate hain.
Unke rakt ki chhaap agar lagni thi toh,
kiske dwaar par.
(Whose endless flow of blood is this?
Is it of those
Who through a dated line
Became outsiders in their own land,
Who, on the dictat of majority
On their idiosyncrasies and madness
Were termed guilty and convicted and punished
Without any home, without any wealth, without a living
Mercilessly butchered?
If their blood were to mark
Then to whose door would they make?)
Yeh bemaloom khoon kinka hai?
Kya un sapno ka?
Jo ek ugte hue rashtra ki,
palkon par jhoole the, putliyon mein pale the,
par lobh ne, swarth ne, mahatwakanchha ne,
jinki aankhein phod di hain,
jinki gardanein madod di hain. Unke rakt ki chhaap agar lagni thi toh,
kiske dwaar par.
(Whose unknown blood is this?
Is it of those who dream
That, a free and growing nation
Swinging on the eyelids and the pupils of hope had been brought up and nurtured
But greed, selfishness and selfish motives
Had gouged their eyes
And twisted and strangled their throats
If their blood were to mark
Then to whose door would they make?)
Deviyon or sajjanon yahi prarthana hai apse ki jo shabd yagya hai, shabd agni hai, yeh sadaa jaagrit rahe or jeevit rahe or jagi rahein. (Ladies and gentleman, may the word spoken and expressed tonight remain imprinted on all our doors as a reminder of our Stories of Strength.)
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