Some people refuse to be crushed. Even in the face of daunting challenges, they keep their spirits up and push on with dogged determination. Take, for instance, Ajay Kothiyal, a colonel and mountaineer who lumbered through neck-deep snow for 13 hours to retrieve the body of his dead colleagues. Or Bant Singh, an illiterate Dalit singer who lost his limbs in his fight against caste discrimination.
These seemingly ordinary folks have extraordinary stories to tell. They have not let ordeals wear them down. The way they have persevered, regardless of the obstacles, makes them beacons.
Here, THE WEEK brings you 11 survivors, whose resolve helped them emerge victorious. They survived rape, natural disaster, imprisonment, caste barriers, physical disability.... And some of them have become pillars of strength for their fellow beings. In a world of despair, their experiences give hope.
What sets a survivor apart from a victim?
Psychologists say a survivor has a sense of responsibility for his own life. “Someone in a ‘victim' identity will passively blame the perpetrators of his crisis. These perpetrators could be an individual or a group, the social system or even God. A survivor is unlikely to do that,” says Pulkit Sharma, clinical psychologist at Imago-Centre for Self, Delhi.
The crisis could be a trauma, a psychological injury caused by a deeply distressing event. How a person deals with it could well make the difference. “A survivor sees oneself as wounded with a desire to heal, is able to talk and name what happened, is hopeful, acknowledges the emotional pain, and, very importantly, seeks help,” says Natasha Ryanthiang, consultant clinical psychologist at Vimhans, Delhi.
Survivors successfully cope with hopelessness, anger and depression to get on with their lives. “I believe that every person can survive by their own resources or can be helped to survive by somehow integrating or making meaningful their trauma,” says Dr Pratap Sharan, professor of psychiatry at All India Institute of Medical Sciences, Delhi. Remembering working with survivors of the Latur earthquake in Maharashtra in 1993, he says the responsibility of caring for their dependants makes survivors bounce back. “We met an 80-year-old man whose children had died but two grandchildren, of 3 and 5 years of age, had survived.
He had not even contemplated death for himself. As a nation, we probably find our meaning in relationships. Even in the jostling for food and other relief materials, one could see the will to live,” says Sharan.
For survivors, the comeback becomes the pivotal point in their life. “While a victim is scared to face that traumatic experience once again, a survivor builds the strength to face various flashbacks or negative feelings generating from the event,” says Sharma. A survivor does not let a particular crisis define his life. Instead, he finds strong ‘anchor points' in life. “These anchor points could be a person, hobby or even some kind of aim in life,” says Sharma.
Survivorship has also been attributed to biological factors. High serotonin levels, no post-traumatic changes in hypothalamus-pituitary-adrenal axis or less reduction in hippocampal volume in brain can also influence the survivor's comeback spirit.
The ‘resurrection' is also partly dependent on the personality the survivor had before the crisis.
The stories of survivors teach us the power of the individual. How one person can beat the odds with resilience. And how it can bring about change and provide strength and hope to others.
Songs of rebellion
Oh, comrades! Even if our roots die, oh comrades, we will sacrifice our lives in the fire; those who suck the blood of the working class will have their false egos smashed and destroyed, oh comrades; the masses have set out with resolve,” sings Bant Singh sitting on his charpoy in Burj Jhabbar village in Punjab's Mansa district. His rustic voice awakens the sleepy village as people gather to listen to him.
With his songs about revolution, class disparity and social evils, Singh is an inspiration to hundreds of labourers in his village. As a member of the Mazdoor Mukti Morcha, affiliated to the Communist Party of India (Marxist-Leninist), the 45-year-old is a vociferous critic of class discrimination.
Singh's campaigns have cost him dear. In 2000, the local landlord's goons raped his minor daughter. Not one to be cowed into submission, he battled for justice and sent three of the four goons to jail.
Belonging to the impoverished Dalit Sikh community, Singh consolidated poor, landless labourers and urged them to demand minimum wages. He even demanded that his pigs be allowed to drink water from the same pond as the buffaloes of his upper caste bosses. For the prosperous Jat Sikhs in the village, he became the symbol of defiance.
He pushed too far when he complained against a corrupt ration shop and got its licence scrapped. One day in 2006, while returning home, Singh was brutally beaten with handles of hand pumps. The assailants smashed his limbs, leaving him barely alive. “When people finally found me, one of them fainted. Even in that state, I asked them to take care of that fellow first,” says Singh, his eyes sparkling in his auburn face, his red turban a reminder of his rebellious spirit.
He survived the attack, but his limbs did not. Both his hands and a leg were amputated. The other leg, though intact, is lifeless. “When doctors said that they wanted to chop off my limbs, I said, ‘Go ahead, cut off my limbs but not my head.' I wanted to continue singing,” says Singh.
Life is harsh for this father of eight. The Rs.10 lakh he received as compensation from the state government was used to build a two-room brick house. His family survives on meagre earnings from the few buffaloes that chew the cud lazily on one side of the house.
Interest accrued from bank deposits is hardly enough to make ends meet. Singh's spirit, however, is indomitable. “I'm inspired by the sacrifices of our Sikh gurus,” he says.
In 2010, his story of courage led three musicians¯Samrat Bharadwaj, Taru Dalmia and Chris McGuiness¯to travel to Jhabbar to create the ‘Bant Singh Project'. Four bilingual songs and a 12-minute film, Word, Sound & Power,documented his trials.
As a child, Singh attended party meetings in the evenings after working in the fields. His indoctrination into the revolutionary ideology happened when he heard Dalit poet Sant Ram Udasi's poems of egalitarianism, insurrection and non-discrimination.
With his crippled body and rich voice, he now carries the torch of mutiny. A living legend in his village, he still travels and attends party rallies, his voice both regaling and motivating workers. “Hum qurbaan ho jayengey, lekin zulm ke khilaaf awaaz uthana hain [I'm ready to sacrifice my life, but will always protest injustice],” he says, with a glint in his eyes.
Like a phoenix
Nigel Akkara is over six feet tall, with piercing eyes and shoulder-length hair tied into a bun. With his earrings gleaming in the sun, the 35-year-old looks like the quintessential bad boy.
An up-and-coming actor, Nigel has starred in four Bengali films and one Malayalam film. With two more films set to hit theatres early this year, he is guardedly enthusiastic. He exudes impish charm when he says, “I've been a naughty boy.” An understatement, considering that he has had a checkered past. A former convict, Nigel was able to turn over a new leaf thanks to a twist of fate. “I went from a goal-less existence to understanding what aims and inner peace are all about,” he says.
Born into a Christian family in Kerala, Nigel came to Kolkata when he was three years old. His father had died and he found himself increasingly attracted to “bad elements” in school. From age 15, Nigel was part of gangs that were involved in extortion, kidnapping and even contract killing. “I felt powerful and even enjoyed it,” he confesses.
By the time he was 17, he was on West Bengal Police's “most-wanted list”. In 2002, when he was 22 years old, Nigel was arrested on charges of homicide. “I had 18 charges against me,” he says.
At the time of his arrest, he was pursuing a bachelor's degree in commerce at St Xavier's College, Kolkata. During his first five years in Kolkata's Presidency Jail, Nigel was bitter, unrepentant and angry. He languished in solitary confinement and was tortured for attempting a jailbreak. “Life seemed bleak,” he says. “But, in 2007, everything changed.”
That was when dancer Alokananda Roy started dance therapy sessions for inmates. “I didn't want to dance as it seemed quite pansy. So we were taught martial arts such as kalaripayat. But, gradually, dance seemed curative for me. It transformed me and one day during rehearsal, I broke down and cried,” says Nigel.
Roy's production of Rabindranath Tagore's Valmiki Pratibha, with himself playing the protagonist, earned accolades. By the time he was released in 2009, he had metamorphosed. “I had made up my mind to start afresh. My mother asked me to go to Mumbai; my brother was in the UK. But I knew that my new life had to start right here in Kolkata,” he says.
But life was not prepared to serve him happiness on a platter. “I struggled for a long time after getting released. I barely managed a meal a day. Even though I was a graduate and completed my master's in human rights while in prison, nobody wanted to employ me. My past would continuously come back to haunt me,” he says. “That's when I decided to take a loan of Rs.4 lakh from my brother and start a cleaning and security business called Kolkata Facilities Management in 2010.” The beginning was not smooth. But, gradually, he earned the trust of his customers.
Nigel employs former convicts to give them an opportunity to mend their ways. Of his staff of 120 people, 35 are ex-cons. “No one is born a criminal; circumstances make you one,” he says. “I want to help people like me who have gone astray but still harbour the desire to return to mainstream life. Everyone deserves a second chance.”
Bedrock of benevolence
Rajinder Johar could never have thought that coming home early to watch a popular quiz show in 1986 would change his life forever. Three men barged into his house in a sparsely populated section of Lucknow and shot him twice. His plans to acquire a property in the area had irked a few people. “I had my young daughter in my lap when they shot me in the chest and in the neck,” he says. The 37-year-old in a bloodied white pyjama and kurta was taken to hospital. He survived, but his injured spine left him a quadriplegic.
It has been 27 years since that fateful day. Now 65, he remains bedridden, without control over his bowel and bladder, and completely dependent on others to take care of him.
It took him five years to accept his plight. Even though his family was steadfast, Johar was often depressed and even suicidal. “Negative thoughts came to me,” he says. “As an occupational therapist, I had helped disabled people for 18 years before the incident. I knew that the prognosis of quadriplegia in India is not good. One day I asked my little daughter to bring me phenyl. My son stopped her in time.”
Existential questions were hard to dispel. “People asked me to rest, not to do anything, take it easy. But how long can you not do anything? I started feeling worthless. I questioned the purpose of my existence,” he says, lying on a bed on the ground floor of his home in west Delhi.
Johar found his purpose in March 1992, six years after the shooting. He started an NGO called Family of Disabled. “People laughed at me when I told them my plan. They would say that my own legs and hands don't work, so how would I help others? But I knew I had to do something,” he says.
Family for Disabled now runs eight programmes and introduces a new one every three years. Its self-employment scheme has so far financed 700 disabled entrepreneurs. Wheelchairs and aiding devices such as iPods, bicycles, diapers, air mattresses and hearing aids have been provided to 1,032 disabled people. The NGO has helped organise exhibitions of paintings and sculptures of 111 disabled artists since 2001. Its ‘Gyanpath' project funds the education of disabled students, primarily girls.
“We had no money to run the organisation. Neither did we approach the government for any aid. Even today we raise funds by ourselves,” says Johar, who has received 19 awards, including two national awards, for his work. In 2006, he started raising funds through the collection and disposal of waste from the neighbourhood. Donations and sponsorships take care of the rest of the needs.
Johar guides his staff of 13 from his bed. So how does he get through the regular hospital visits and nagging bedsores? Through humour and optimism. “If I hadn't been shot, I wouldn't have opened an NGO. I would have continued as an occupational therapist without being able to touch so many lives,” he says. “For this, the assailants deserve my gratitude.”
Johar believes in fate. His assailants got off scot-free, but he says they were punished by the highest court. “All the perpetrators have died. I couldn't send them to jail but God sent them to the gallows,” he says.
Johar is now working towards realising his dream of starting a multipurpose rehabilitation centre. Named Unnati, the centre is likely to open its doors by the middle of the year.
Valour unveiled
The first thing you notice when you enter Suzette Jordan's home at Behala in south Kolkata is the gallery of Virgin Mary. The mother of Jesus smiles at you from the walls and almirahs of the two-room house, from a calendar hanging near the bedroom door and even from a table near the window.
The 39-year-old mother of two is a devout Christian; also, the survivor of a violent gang-rape. On February 5, 2012, after leaving a popular nightclub on Park Street, she decided to take a lift home with a man whom she had befriended. When she got into the car, four other men followed. “One of them grabbed my breast. I turned around and slapped him. I tried to open the door but it was locked. That's when I knew,” she shudders. “Once the car took off, it all started¯the slapping, screaming and abusing. One of them said, ‘Maaro saali ko [hit the bitch].' Another put a gun in my mouth. It wouldn't have been the gun that would have killed me; it would have been the beating. I fainted because of it.” After being raped and beaten to pulp, she was thrown on the roadside.
When Jordan complained to the police, the powers that be humiliated her. Trinamool Congress MP Kakoli Ghosh Dastidar described the incident as “a deal gone wrong”. West Bengal Chief Minister Mamata Banerjee said Jordan's was a “concocted story” meant to discredit her government. But, even in the face of antipathy, Jordan decided to fight on. “I was raped, beaten up and almost killed. I wanted justice for that. You want to call me a prostitute, that's your problem. I wanted justice,” she says.
She finally felt vindicated when Damayanti Sen, then joint commissioner of police, said Jordan had indeed been raped. But it was only the beginning of a long, arduous legal battle that is continuing even now. Three of the accused are under trial; the main accused, Kader Khan, and another man have absconded. Jordan's woes had started long before the assault. A broken marriage, a failed call centre business and the challenges of bringing up her children had taken a toll on her. “I was going through a terrible time. I had met someone whom I loved dearly. But I lost him in an accident. The night when I was raped I was in the nightclub enjoying a few drinks,” she says.
The days after the rape were nightmares. The excruciating physical pain, the invasive medical tests, the lascivious comments of policemen and the media frenzy compelled her to relive her trauma. Even though the media guarded her identity, her neighbours knew she was “the Park Street rape victim”. “It is my hair and my voice that make me stand out. People knew it was me,” she says.
It forced her to relocate. “Now I live in a place where I can't be found easily. It's not for me; I'm not scared of anyone except God. But I have two daughters, who are 15 and 17 years of age. I have to protect them,” she says.
Jordan and activist Santasree Chaudhuri set up a Facebook page called ‘Survivors for Victims of Social Injustice' for rape survivors. The rape and murder of a girl in Kamduni in Barasat district in June last year proved to be another turning point for Jordan. At a march in Kolkata protesting the Kamduni rape, Jordan forgot to wear a scarf. “As soon as I joined the protest, everybody knew who I was. A 74-year-old woman activist walked beside me for three hours. That's when I decided that I would go public,” she says.
Jordan has now become the face of the rape survivor in India and her fearlessness is inspiring other victims. “I was born on ashtami during Durga Puja and both my parents dreamed of the goddess on that day. I guess I was meant to show valour in life,” she says with a smile.
Jordan's fair skin is adorned by 17 tattoos, each commemorating a personal story. She is thinking of getting another to mark the infernal experiences she has had in the past few years.
But, for now, she is off to church. Before being raped, Jordan barely attended the Sunday mass. Now she never misses a day. Faith has kept her alive, and faith will get her through this. “This, too, shall pass,” Jordan says. Her pet cat lying at her feet purrs as if in agreement.
Standing his ground
Being a politician is tough business. One has to weather all kinds of storms, manage a hectic schedule, devise strategies, and attend rallies and election campaigns. The job is physically and mentally taxing¯only the fittest survives. So, what happens to a successful politician who loses a limb? How does he learn to live with that loss? Ajit Jogi would know. On April 20, 2004, the former Chhattisgarh chief minister was grievously injured in a car accident at Gariabandh, 130km from Raipur. He was campaigning in Mahasamund Lok Sabha constituency when his car hit a tree in the wee hours. A profusely bleeding Jogi was taken to the Modern Medical Institute in Raipur and later to a hospital in Mumbai. He had suffered fractures and injuries to the head, and the damage to his legs was irreparable.
Trying to walk once again, Jogi did all he could. “I went to Mumbai, Delhi and London for treatment. I went almost every month for seven months for stem cell treatment [in south India] and spent a month at an ayurveda centre [in Kerala],” he says. Optimism was often followed by disappointment. “The stem cell treatment wasn't completely successful, but it helped me. It gives you confidence and also hope that one day you would be walking on your own feet,” he says.
There is no place for depression in Jogi's life. Immediately after the accident, he says, he started thinking of ways to get better. “Initially, it is a shock,” he says. “It takes time to sink in. Once it sinks in, you think how to get out of it. Whenever I was conscious, I talked. I told my wife, son and well-wishers that I would be absolutely normal. I think others may have been feeling worse than me, but I never felt that I wouldn't be able to get out of it.”
In 2013, Jogi became the first Asian to walk on robotic legs. Imported from New Zealand, the battery-powered machine with 20 computers cost him Rs.1 crore. Every three months, the machine has to be sent back for servicing. It can be used for seven hours at a stretch, the only disadvantage being that it works only on plain, solid surfaces. “I always used to feel that I have to look up to people while talking. But now, it's eyeball to eyeball,” he jokes. But he generally uses a wheelchair to move around.
Never once during his ordeal did he think of exiting politics. “I knew I had to fight, get back to normal and resume my work,” says Jogi, as he deftly manoeuvres his wheelchair from room to room in his North Avenue flat in Delhi. “There are a large number of people in Chhattisgarh and in India who look up to me for all the years that I have been in politics.” He considers himself a champion of the scheduled tribes.
Though Jogi failed to uproot the BJP from power in the recent Assembly elections in Chhattisgarh, he remains the tallest Congress leader in the state. He has often courted controversy, but his influence over the Satnamis, Christians and tribals in the state makes him valuable to the party leadership.
Jogi's days now begin with two sessions of rigorous physiotherapy. “I know that if I can't walk on my legs, there is a wheelchair that can help me. Everything else remains the same,” he says. “I fight and I'll fight it out.” True grit
On a bleak day in September 2010, Col Ajay Kothiyal took a well-deserved break from selecting the Indian Army team that would scale Mt Manaslu, the world's eighth highest peak. An avid mountaineer, he and his team had pitched camp on Mt Kamet in Chamoli district in Uttarakhand, at an altitude of 17,000ft. “We had selected the more challenging west face of Mt Kamet, India's second highest peak, for the selections. Even though there was heavy snowfall, we were convinced that our camp was safe,” he says.
Around 12:30 p.m., he heard a whistling sound and then a loud thud. Kothiyal and five others who were inside a tent were buried under 10ft of snow. “I wasn't wearing shoes, as I was inside a sleeping bag. In the incidence of an avalanche, there is no time to think. First and foremost, you have to hit out to make space for air,” he says.
Disoriented and gasping, Kothiyal managed to wrestle his way out of the snow in 15 minutes. “One of my colleagues from the adjoining tent gave me the inner lining of his shoe while he wore the outer. That gave me some protection against the cold,” he says.
He then helped to rescue the remaining members trapped under the snow. “More avalanches were coming and I had to quickly alert the camp below. The last man was brought out of the snow an hour and a half after the incident. Unfortunately, I lost two of my colleagues,” says Kothiyal.
The nightmare did not end there. Kothiyal and his team had to walk through neck-deep snow for almost 13 hours before they could reach the next camp. “We finally reached the camp at 4 a.m. While I sent the others away to get medical attention, I stayed behind to help retrieve the bodies of my dead colleagues. How could I leave? I was the only one who could identify their location,” he says. Though he was badly frostbitten, Kothiyal considers himself blessed to have cheated death and escaped amputation.
Kothiyal's team eventually scaled Mt Manaslu in 2011, becoming the first Indian team to achieve the feat. A year later, Kothiyal led the second expedition of women Army officers to the summit of Mt Everest. “In 2005, only three women officers had been successful in climbing Everest. All seven women officers from my team made it,” says Kothiyal, 44.
As principal of the Nehru Institute of Mountaineering in Uttarkashi, Kothiyal and his 100-member team of NIM-trained natives helped rescue 6,500 tourists who were stranded in the Uttarakhand floods last year. He also led the mission to create an alternate route to the ravaged and virtually inaccessible Kedarnath shrine. His 10-member team was the first to reach the temple by road and they helped recover 75 bodies.
A recipient of the Kirti Chakra, Shaurya Chakra and Vishisht Seva Medal, Kothiyal is now training 78 boys from Uttarakhand who want to join the Army. He spends around Rs.50,000 a month on their food and other expenses and the NIM takes care of the rest. “The youth are a bundle of energy that must be channelised,” he says. Kothiyal is also training 40 boys and girls for recruitment to the police.
“The fear of the unknown is there in everyone. There are no Rambos in real life, only in movies. A Rambo is actually a team and not one individual,” he tells his students. They listen with rapt attention; for them, he is the real hero.
