Bavani Pasala
Are you doing alright? Why wouldn’t I be, I’m at home
Are you doing alright? Why wouldn’t I be, I’m at home
Bavani Pasala
Photo by Noor Shaman Siddiqui
Photo by Noor Shaman Siddiqui
Photo by Noor Shaman Siddiqui
Bavani is a psychology student in Mumbai who sees mental health everywhere, in interaction with the “mundane” and with larger structures of power. She writes with the hope that she is not alone and believes that expression can be an act of resistance.
Bavani is a psychology student in Mumbai who sees mental health everywhere, in interaction with the “mundane” and with larger structures of power. She writes with the hope that she is not alone and believes that expression can be an act of resistance.
Bavani is a psychology student in Mumbai who sees mental health everywhere, in interaction with the “mundane” and with larger structures of power. She writes with the hope that she is not alone and believes that expression can be an act of resistance.
There’s a story in the bible where Jesus’s parents are frantically searching for him after realizing he got lost. They finally find him sitting in a church.
“Why were you searching for me?”, “Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?”
The first time I went to Chaityabhumi it was with some college friends of mine. I had been wanting to go for a while and to my comfort, it became a group plan. There was a documentary done recently on Chaityabhumi so it was on top of all of our minds. Or so I thought. Not to liken myself to Jesus Christ but I found myself needing to prove my belonging. To people who meant well but could never fully understand my story. Even though it was all of our first time there, I was at home while they were guests. Respectful and careful to not offend.
From the moment we entered, they would point and ask what everything meant. What is that pillar? What is that light? I, the singular Dalit, did not have all the answers. Why should I? They would look at me and ask, “How are you doing?”. I saw sympathy in their eyes but I was not in mourning. Just as Jesus rose from the dead, Babasaheb lives on for me. Chaityabhumi is not a graveyard I go to pay my respects but it is an anchoring space for his legacy. It’s an opportunity to occupy public space.
I think back to a friend I had from college who grew up in “Bombay”; she would talk about Shivaji park being her favourite but never once did she mention Chaityabhumi. She talked about the ocean, the benches, the dancers but the monument and the legend that laid 5 steps were not a part of her world.
The fourteenth holds the power of community for me. As I went to Chaityabhumi for the second time on this day it was with a different group of people. None of us “pure” or neatly fitting into the hierarchy of that caste pyramid, some of us not in the pyramid at all but all of us in white. We did not coordinate, there was no “theme”. We just knew.
It was the first public celebration where I did not feel unsafe. There were crowds, noise, and men but there was beaming pride all around. Power, not only in numbers but in spirit, in blue and white. No one was asking me questions, we didn’t know all the answers. Maybe some of us knew some answers. But how refreshing it was to not be expected to be an expert. To not be painfully aware of being perceived.
The spiritual experience didn’t come from Chaityabhumi as much as it came from the group of people it brought together. I haven’t hung out with them again but the day opened radical possibilities of comfort. I went to one of their houses later that day. I did not worry about telling them I just had chicken for lunch. We were exchanging laughs, ideas and frustrations. We cooked, we ate and we held each other. I did not feel like a guest, I was at home.
At this Jayanti party, it was the first time in Mumbai I did not feel tokenized for my identity. I did not feel hyper-aware of my identity, my thoughts or my humour. I was not consciously trying to not make people feel uncomfortable. I took space. I entered the kitchen. I was home. I am always balancing between degrees of hiding or performing, here I could just breathe. Breathe with the confidence that everyone already knew. And they were not uncomfortable. It was not an active process of inclusion but second-nature. Is the sugar enough? It's just us anyway.
We were all from the same class and there was a senior of ours there too, we asked her about what the courses looked like next semester. She told us that she felt guilty for being angry. No one else shared her frustration with what professors were saying or weren’t saying about caste, tribes, gender or anything that deviated from the norm. She spoke of the importance of us all being there together, what resistance can look like. We spoke about our classes, our professors, our hopes for what our field of work can be. My favourite memory from the night were childhood pictures of someone dressed up as Ambedkar when they were little, with huge glasses holding the constitution as big as their body. This tiny moment made me think about her household, what it must’ve been like to grow up revering Ambedkar. Of course, it was her plan to go to Chaityabhumi at 6 in the morning and then meet for a “kheer party” at her place. It was in this Dalit Buddhist home, I was taught the radical act of building traditions. Even if it was just one night, the fourteenth was sacred. I don’t feel like Babasaheb’s spirit was in the room, I’m not that Christian. Yet he was in all of our consciousness. We were all in our father’s home, we were not lost. We were together.
This day of shared meals, joy and pain: the fourteenth, showed me that I was not alone in my rage. It may be silent but it is shared. I am held, there is space for me. Jai Bhim!
There’s a story in the bible where Jesus’s parents are frantically searching for him after realizing he got lost. They finally find him sitting in a church.
“Why were you searching for me?”, “Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?”
The first time I went to Chaityabhumi it was with some college friends of mine. I had been wanting to go for a while and to my comfort, it became a group plan. There was a documentary done recently on Chaityabhumi so it was on top of all of our minds. Or so I thought. Not to liken myself to Jesus Christ but I found myself needing to prove my belonging. To people who meant well but could never fully understand my story. Even though it was all of our first time there, I was at home while they were guests. Respectful and careful to not offend.
From the moment we entered, they would point and ask what everything meant. What is that pillar? What is that light? I, the singular Dalit, did not have all the answers. Why should I? They would look at me and ask, “How are you doing?”. I saw sympathy in their eyes but I was not in mourning. Just as Jesus rose from the dead, Babasaheb lives on for me. Chaityabhumi is not a graveyard I go to pay my respects but it is an anchoring space for his legacy. It’s an opportunity to occupy public space.
I think back to a friend I had from college who grew up in “Bombay”; she would talk about Shivaji park being her favourite but never once did she mention Chaityabhumi. She talked about the ocean, the benches, the dancers but the monument and the legend that laid 5 steps were not a part of her world.
The fourteenth holds the power of community for me. As I went to Chaityabhumi for the second time on this day it was with a different group of people. None of us “pure” or neatly fitting into the hierarchy of that caste pyramid, some of us not in the pyramid at all but all of us in white. We did not coordinate, there was no “theme”. We just knew.
It was the first public celebration where I did not feel unsafe. There were crowds, noise, and men but there was beaming pride all around. Power, not only in numbers but in spirit, in blue and white. No one was asking me questions, we didn’t know all the answers. Maybe some of us knew some answers. But how refreshing it was to not be expected to be an expert. To not be painfully aware of being perceived.
The spiritual experience didn’t come from Chaityabhumi as much as it came from the group of people it brought together. I haven’t hung out with them again but the day opened radical possibilities of comfort. I went to one of their houses later that day. I did not worry about telling them I just had chicken for lunch. We were exchanging laughs, ideas and frustrations. We cooked, we ate and we held each other. I did not feel like a guest, I was at home.
At this Jayanti party, it was the first time in Mumbai I did not feel tokenized for my identity. I did not feel hyper-aware of my identity, my thoughts or my humour. I was not consciously trying to not make people feel uncomfortable. I took space. I entered the kitchen. I was home. I am always balancing between degrees of hiding or performing, here I could just breathe. Breathe with the confidence that everyone already knew. And they were not uncomfortable. It was not an active process of inclusion but second-nature. Is the sugar enough? It's just us anyway.
We were all from the same class and there was a senior of ours there too, we asked her about what the courses looked like next semester. She told us that she felt guilty for being angry. No one else shared her frustration with what professors were saying or weren’t saying about caste, tribes, gender or anything that deviated from the norm. She spoke of the importance of us all being there together, what resistance can look like. We spoke about our classes, our professors, our hopes for what our field of work can be. My favourite memory from the night were childhood pictures of someone dressed up as Ambedkar when they were little, with huge glasses holding the constitution as big as their body. This tiny moment made me think about her household, what it must’ve been like to grow up revering Ambedkar. Of course, it was her plan to go to Chaityabhumi at 6 in the morning and then meet for a “kheer party” at her place. It was in this Dalit Buddhist home, I was taught the radical act of building traditions. Even if it was just one night, the fourteenth was sacred. I don’t feel like Babasaheb’s spirit was in the room, I’m not that Christian. Yet he was in all of our consciousness. We were all in our father’s home, we were not lost. We were together.
This day of shared meals, joy and pain: the fourteenth, showed me that I was not alone in my rage. It may be silent but it is shared. I am held, there is space for me. Jai Bhim!
There’s a story in the bible where Jesus’s parents are frantically searching for him after realizing he got lost. They finally find him sitting in a church.
“Why were you searching for me?”, “Didn’t you know I had to be in my Father’s house?”
The first time I went to Chaityabhumi it was with some college friends of mine. I had been wanting to go for a while and to my comfort, it became a group plan. There was a documentary done recently on Chaityabhumi so it was on top of all of our minds. Or so I thought. Not to liken myself to Jesus Christ but I found myself needing to prove my belonging. To people who meant well but could never fully understand my story. Even though it was all of our first time there, I was at home while they were guests. Respectful and careful to not offend.
From the moment we entered, they would point and ask what everything meant. What is that pillar? What is that light? I, the singular Dalit, did not have all the answers. Why should I? They would look at me and ask, “How are you doing?”. I saw sympathy in their eyes but I was not in mourning. Just as Jesus rose from the dead, Babasaheb lives on for me. Chaityabhumi is not a graveyard I go to pay my respects but it is an anchoring space for his legacy. It’s an opportunity to occupy public space.
I think back to a friend I had from college who grew up in “Bombay”; she would talk about Shivaji park being her favourite but never once did she mention Chaityabhumi. She talked about the ocean, the benches, the dancers but the monument and the legend that laid 5 steps were not a part of her world.
The fourteenth holds the power of community for me. As I went to Chaityabhumi for the second time on this day it was with a different group of people. None of us “pure” or neatly fitting into the hierarchy of that caste pyramid, some of us not in the pyramid at all but all of us in white. We did not coordinate, there was no “theme”. We just knew.
It was the first public celebration where I did not feel unsafe. There were crowds, noise, and men but there was beaming pride all around. Power, not only in numbers but in spirit, in blue and white. No one was asking me questions, we didn’t know all the answers. Maybe some of us knew some answers. But how refreshing it was to not be expected to be an expert. To not be painfully aware of being perceived.
The spiritual experience didn’t come from Chaityabhumi as much as it came from the group of people it brought together. I haven’t hung out with them again but the day opened radical possibilities of comfort. I went to one of their houses later that day. I did not worry about telling them I just had chicken for lunch. We were exchanging laughs, ideas and frustrations. We cooked, we ate and we held each other. I did not feel like a guest, I was at home.
At this Jayanti party, it was the first time in Mumbai I did not feel tokenized for my identity. I did not feel hyper-aware of my identity, my thoughts or my humour. I was not consciously trying to not make people feel uncomfortable. I took space. I entered the kitchen. I was home. I am always balancing between degrees of hiding or performing, here I could just breathe. Breathe with the confidence that everyone already knew. And they were not uncomfortable. It was not an active process of inclusion but second-nature. Is the sugar enough? It's just us anyway.
We were all from the same class and there was a senior of ours there too, we asked her about what the courses looked like next semester. She told us that she felt guilty for being angry. No one else shared her frustration with what professors were saying or weren’t saying about caste, tribes, gender or anything that deviated from the norm. She spoke of the importance of us all being there together, what resistance can look like. We spoke about our classes, our professors, our hopes for what our field of work can be. My favourite memory from the night were childhood pictures of someone dressed up as Ambedkar when they were little, with huge glasses holding the constitution as big as their body. This tiny moment made me think about her household, what it must’ve been like to grow up revering Ambedkar. Of course, it was her plan to go to Chaityabhumi at 6 in the morning and then meet for a “kheer party” at her place. It was in this Dalit Buddhist home, I was taught the radical act of building traditions. Even if it was just one night, the fourteenth was sacred. I don’t feel like Babasaheb’s spirit was in the room, I’m not that Christian. Yet he was in all of our consciousness. We were all in our father’s home, we were not lost. We were together.
This day of shared meals, joy and pain: the fourteenth, showed me that I was not alone in my rage. It may be silent but it is shared. I am held, there is space for me. Jai Bhim!
