Every so often I come to an awareness that I am a straddler. An in-between. I straddle different cultures, social groups, disciplines, religions. It is an advantage, being able to relate to a variety of people. It's also very lonely because there are so few of us who can relate to each other.
This week I found myself without an interview appointment, and peeled off my corporate job-seeking skin. I stepped out and began thirsting for meaningful conversation, something that would nourish the soul. I have had some good conversations, swam in poetry, prose and music. But my soul still feels very dry and shriveled, and I'm hoping, trusting that it will be full again soon.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
On Beauty
It was in the air, or so it seemed to Kiki, this hatred of women and their bodies--it seeped in with every draught in the house; people brought it home on their shoes, they breathed it in off their newspapers. There was no way to control it.
--Zadie Smith, On Beauty
Where does it come from, this endless criticism we have of ourselves? Who told us to make it a habit of scrutinising our contours, checking it off against an imaginary ideal and tallying the scores to determine if we "passed"? Pass what?
I like the way my body is, I've never been ashamed of it, and I don't want to start now.
Friday, September 03, 2010
Blind
It's like how I grew up with this curved spine and my slightly bowed knees. I'm learning to sit up tall and align my knees well. It's hard and it takes conscious effort but that's what's necessary for good posture.
So it is with my tendency to worry--it's what I lapse into, especially when life gets stressful and uncertain. But I need to recognise that the thought that God will let my life fall to pieces is a lie. This promise that God is faithful is exactly that--He is faithful, faithful beyond my imagination.
Today my friend Mo and I partnered up during dance class. He was supposed to guide me across the dance floor, left hand around my waist, right hand holding my right hand, with my eyes closed. I didn't expect him to go quickly, but eventually we were practically running across the floor. I loved the exhilaration of following him and sensing his direction. I didn't need to know where I was going; it was enough to know that he was with me.
I want to translate that experience to a spiritual, daily connection with God.
So it is with my tendency to worry--it's what I lapse into, especially when life gets stressful and uncertain. But I need to recognise that the thought that God will let my life fall to pieces is a lie. This promise that God is faithful is exactly that--He is faithful, faithful beyond my imagination.
Today my friend Mo and I partnered up during dance class. He was supposed to guide me across the dance floor, left hand around my waist, right hand holding my right hand, with my eyes closed. I didn't expect him to go quickly, but eventually we were practically running across the floor. I loved the exhilaration of following him and sensing his direction. I didn't need to know where I was going; it was enough to know that he was with me.
I want to translate that experience to a spiritual, daily connection with God.
Acumen Fund
4:58 “When you’ve lived on charity and dependent your whole life, it’s hard to say what you mean. Mostly because people never really ask you, and when they do you never really think they want to know the truth.”
Monday, August 23, 2010
The coolest researcher I have ever "met"
Notes:
Many of the MSS girls sleep on a rug on the floor and sit on the floor in their home. And yes, you can tell the increments in income from their toilets, houses and beds.
Economic growth, education and good governance are the best means of achieving development, but the goal of development is human rights and culture.
An aside:
There's a Singlish word to describe this man:
COCK (Contributed by MC)
Despite seemingly obscene connotations, the use of "cock is actually fairly benign. It has become the de facto Singlish way to describe something as being nonsensical or sub-standard; the local equivalent of "rubbish" or "junk". Sometimes used as the short form of "cockanaden".
1. "Don't listen to him, he's only talking cock."
2. "Wah lau, you go and buy this cock thing for what?"
3. "Why you so cock, go and invest in that dot-com?"
See also: Cockanaden Kotek
Despite seemingly obscene connotations, the use of "cock is actually fairly benign. It has become the de facto Singlish way to describe something as being nonsensical or sub-standard; the local equivalent of "rubbish" or "junk". Sometimes used as the short form of "cockanaden".
1. "Don't listen to him, he's only talking cock."
2. "Wah lau, you go and buy this cock thing for what?"
3. "Why you so cock, go and invest in that dot-com?"
See also: Cockanaden Kotek
Soooo cock!
Worlds Apart
What is it about Old City that I enjoyed? It was a world away from the world I was familiar with, and I miss it.
Old City is the area that Marwar, the original city of Jodhpur, originally occupied before the population grew and the city expanded outward. Five gates guard the city: Jalori, Sojati, Nagori, Sivanchi, and Mertia. My mission for the summer was to enter the city from all five gates. I only got to enter it through Jalori and Sojati gate, but I became very familiar with that area.
The outer parts of Old City bustle with activity; street food vendors, handicraft sellers, and market stalls owners all vie for one’s attention. I love looking at markets, particularly when there is food involved. I would speak with the shopkeepers about the food they laid out, find out what the different spices, rice and beans were for, and occasionally try a piece of whatever they offered me.
Inside, away from the busy market, the streets narrow. Cows amble along the alleys, pooping wherever they please, stopping whenever they want. Ancient designs adorn windows and doors, and inhabitants of these houses peep out from windows carved out of stone. Early in the morning, rickshaws full of tiny schoolchildren hurtle past hole-in-the-wall shops selling kacchoris, chai and milk, their horns blaring.
The streets were dirty, the architecture old, the people different. And this starkly different culture absorbed me. In this world, so different and yet familiar, I found myself re-examining beliefs and behaviour. I felt myself wandering and lost, yet enjoying myself. Maybe eventually I would have found a place in this world, a point midway between my heritage and my immediate surroundings. But when the nine weeks were up, I felt like I had plucked myself out of this place and flung myself back into a world of clean lines, efficiency and convenience.
I was glad I did that; it was a relief at that time to be back in the US, to gain some perspective and stability. Yet now my mind keeps wandering back to India and filling itself with nostalgia. As much as I’m thankful for the stability I feel here, there are many things about the US that I feel uncomfortable about because I think they can be reduced and simplified. Right now, given what I’m feeling, if I were given a choice I would consider living in a simpler place. Yet I know living in a less wealthy country would be much harder than my nostalgic mind currently paints it to be.
China is a tantalising prospect, but not in the near future. Back in the US, responsibilities reassert themselves and I can’t just live in the present as I did in India. Still, this idea that I could do anything and go anywhere in the future is liberating and exciting to me.
Old City is the area that Marwar, the original city of Jodhpur, originally occupied before the population grew and the city expanded outward. Five gates guard the city: Jalori, Sojati, Nagori, Sivanchi, and Mertia. My mission for the summer was to enter the city from all five gates. I only got to enter it through Jalori and Sojati gate, but I became very familiar with that area.
 |
Ghantaghar, near Sojati gate. |
The outer parts of Old City bustle with activity; street food vendors, handicraft sellers, and market stalls owners all vie for one’s attention. I love looking at markets, particularly when there is food involved. I would speak with the shopkeepers about the food they laid out, find out what the different spices, rice and beans were for, and occasionally try a piece of whatever they offered me.
 |
| Selling different types of rice. |
Inside, away from the busy market, the streets narrow. Cows amble along the alleys, pooping wherever they please, stopping whenever they want. Ancient designs adorn windows and doors, and inhabitants of these houses peep out from windows carved out of stone. Early in the morning, rickshaws full of tiny schoolchildren hurtle past hole-in-the-wall shops selling kacchoris, chai and milk, their horns blaring.
 |
| STD is an acronym that has something to do with a telephone, not the disease! |
The streets were dirty, the architecture old, the people different. And this starkly different culture absorbed me. In this world, so different and yet familiar, I found myself re-examining beliefs and behaviour. I felt myself wandering and lost, yet enjoying myself. Maybe eventually I would have found a place in this world, a point midway between my heritage and my immediate surroundings. But when the nine weeks were up, I felt like I had plucked myself out of this place and flung myself back into a world of clean lines, efficiency and convenience.
I was glad I did that; it was a relief at that time to be back in the US, to gain some perspective and stability. Yet now my mind keeps wandering back to India and filling itself with nostalgia. As much as I’m thankful for the stability I feel here, there are many things about the US that I feel uncomfortable about because I think they can be reduced and simplified. Right now, given what I’m feeling, if I were given a choice I would consider living in a simpler place. Yet I know living in a less wealthy country would be much harder than my nostalgic mind currently paints it to be.
China is a tantalising prospect, but not in the near future. Back in the US, responsibilities reassert themselves and I can’t just live in the present as I did in India. Still, this idea that I could do anything and go anywhere in the future is liberating and exciting to me.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
Eyes open, hands tied
“Sometimes I wonder if I’m doing much good at all here. There are many of us Westerners who want to help Afghan women, but our efforts don’t always help them in the ways that we hope they will. There are so many ties that bind these women and hold them back, and many of these ties aren’t even visible to the Western eye. It takes a long time to understand how the complexities of these women’s lives differ from the complexities of ours. Sometimes we can’t help, even when we understand these complexities. The culture is changing so much more slowly than their dreams are.”
- Debbie Rodriguez, Kabul Beauty School
We never know for certain whether we do any good in development. Yet we have to believe some of it is making a difference, because that’s how we go on. We have to hope that our altruistic motives count for something. This is when I have to believe in God’s grace.
Balancing different pieces of me, and vanity
The modest kurta (long shirt) and salwars (trousers) that Indian girls wear in Jodhpur are meant to keep men’s prying eyes away from their figures. I don’t know if that actually works, because men definitely stared and called out to me when I was walking down the street. The fact that I looked foreign definitely contributed to this sort of behaviour, so I don’t know if local girls encountered similar situations (since there were so few of them around). In any case, even if that baggy and billowy attire didn’t make men pay less attention to me, it definitely made me less conscious of my figure.
Still, I knew I had to return to the US, and so I was constantly balancing the demands of two cultures in India. As a Westernised Singaporean, I was concerned about the amount of oil and food I ate because I didn’t like feeling unfit. I don’t like feeling “creaky” when my muscles haven’t been used in a long time; I hated the oppressive heat that left me dripping in sweat and panting after a simple barre workout. I also feared that people back in the US would notice I had gained weight once I returned. That was the first thing my grandmother in Singapore noticed when I returned home after freshman year, though Americans are usually more tactful about things like that.
At the same time, I had to conform to the implicit and explicit Indian societal demands. Since Indian women do not wear revealing clothes, they pay great attention instead to the colour and style of their clothes and jewellery. It is important to be suitably “bling’d-out” for an occasion, something I did not learn until my host mother told me I was “not looking good” before we went to a party. No one had ever told me that to my face before, and that traumatised me enough to make me pay more attention to my clothes. From then on, each morning I checked whether the colours of my kurta and pants matched my dupatta (scarf), and when special occasions arose, I borrowed a sari. Although I hate calling attention to myself by wearing something as elaborate as a special-occasion sari, I learned that it was better to be overdressed in India than underdressed.
Back in the US, there is a tiny piece of India that remains with me, but most of it is subsumed by the “original” internalised Western standards I carry with me. It was strange to wear short shorts again, not be stared at (overtly) by men, and not have to wear a scarf all the time (although sometimes I still do). Ironically, while this half of the world is less concerned with my gender and body, I have become more conscious of it. I am painfully aware of whether my figure is proportionate, of the fact that my bottom half is a different dress size from my top half. Part of the reason is because the clothes we wear in the US are more revealing. Also, as I identify more with this culture, I feel greater pressure to conform to societal standards.
I catch myself looking at my reflection in the mirror, trying to determine if my body meets a standard (mine? Society’s?). And I remind myself that I don’t have to base my worth in these things. It’s so easy to find pride in these superficial things and let that distract me from what is really necessary (ie loving others). Also, I remember that these things didn’t matter so much to me a month ago, and two continents away no one cares.
Still, I knew I had to return to the US, and so I was constantly balancing the demands of two cultures in India. As a Westernised Singaporean, I was concerned about the amount of oil and food I ate because I didn’t like feeling unfit. I don’t like feeling “creaky” when my muscles haven’t been used in a long time; I hated the oppressive heat that left me dripping in sweat and panting after a simple barre workout. I also feared that people back in the US would notice I had gained weight once I returned. That was the first thing my grandmother in Singapore noticed when I returned home after freshman year, though Americans are usually more tactful about things like that.
At the same time, I had to conform to the implicit and explicit Indian societal demands. Since Indian women do not wear revealing clothes, they pay great attention instead to the colour and style of their clothes and jewellery. It is important to be suitably “bling’d-out” for an occasion, something I did not learn until my host mother told me I was “not looking good” before we went to a party. No one had ever told me that to my face before, and that traumatised me enough to make me pay more attention to my clothes. From then on, each morning I checked whether the colours of my kurta and pants matched my dupatta (scarf), and when special occasions arose, I borrowed a sari. Although I hate calling attention to myself by wearing something as elaborate as a special-occasion sari, I learned that it was better to be overdressed in India than underdressed.
Back in the US, there is a tiny piece of India that remains with me, but most of it is subsumed by the “original” internalised Western standards I carry with me. It was strange to wear short shorts again, not be stared at (overtly) by men, and not have to wear a scarf all the time (although sometimes I still do). Ironically, while this half of the world is less concerned with my gender and body, I have become more conscious of it. I am painfully aware of whether my figure is proportionate, of the fact that my bottom half is a different dress size from my top half. Part of the reason is because the clothes we wear in the US are more revealing. Also, as I identify more with this culture, I feel greater pressure to conform to societal standards.
I catch myself looking at my reflection in the mirror, trying to determine if my body meets a standard (mine? Society’s?). And I remind myself that I don’t have to base my worth in these things. It’s so easy to find pride in these superficial things and let that distract me from what is really necessary (ie loving others). Also, I remember that these things didn’t matter so much to me a month ago, and two continents away no one cares.
Giving and receiving
As part of my best practices research, I visited Audrey Ann and Christian’s host organisation, Sambal Sansthan, one afternoon. That afternoon, the students decided to hold a party that Friday and all three of us agreed to come. As I had been identified as "the dance teacher", I was asked to teach a dance class. I felt obligated to contribute in some way to this party, so I agreed.
First off, I don’t actually teach dance. As explained previously, I provide the music, try to create a comfortable atmosphere, and encourage the students to enjoy themselves improvising. So I was hesitant to be labelled as the dance teacher. Audrey Ann encouraged me, however, saying that the students would appreciate anything I did. The MSS students seemed to enjoy my “dance classes”, so I agreed to “teach” a “dance class” on at Sambal Sansthan on Friday.
That Friday, I lugged my laptop to the centre and, after a very filling lunch, hooked it up to speakers (on loan from MSS). The women and girls had arranged all the chairs so that there was a dance floor in the middle of the room. They were all sitting in the chairs. Two students (who were also my translators and soon became my friends), Aimand and Khadijah, selected a song.
It was fairly evident that they expected a demonstration from me. I had mixed feelings about this. I’m not a classically or traditionally trained Indian dancer, and I am assuming that is the only type of dance they were exposed to and were thus expecting. There was no option of me dancing in another style; that seemed completely inappropriate in this context. I did not feel adequate in this situation at all, and I hate disappointing people with substandard work.
I didn’t have much of a choice; I pretended I was at MSS and began fooling around to the music. I used some of the movements I picked up from the MSS girls, but these movements obviously looked different on me. Audrey Ann joined me—she has no qualms about making a fool of herself—and together we danced in our pseudo-Indian way to Hindi lyrics that we did not understand. Only a few girls joined in; most of the participants were content watching and laughing on the sidelines. We kept going for an hour, people moving on and off the dance floor, Aimand and Khadijah refusing to stop the music.
I would have definitely been more comfortable if everyone were dancing. Although I love dancing, for the longest time I was painfully self-conscious when I danced, and I only began shedding my self-consciousness last year when I began improvising in a non-judgemental environment at Emory. The girls and women seemed to be laughing and having fun; were they laughing at me? Did they think my actions were weird because they were different? I had to pause and step off the dance floor a couple of times to clear my head. But the music and the movement always drew me back in.
Who knows what these women and girls thought after that party? Did they think I was crazy? Did they appreciate my efforts? Did they scoff at my “unsuccessful” attempts to dance? Throughout my time in India, I wanted to know if people appreciated what I did for them, if I was as valuable to them as they were to me. I was never able to find out because of all the barriers that prevented me from “reading” them accurately—language, culture, shyness, suspicion. I kept on giving, hoping that somehow I would earn their love. Yet I will still never fully know what they think.
But love that is not reciprocated is still love.
First off, I don’t actually teach dance. As explained previously, I provide the music, try to create a comfortable atmosphere, and encourage the students to enjoy themselves improvising. So I was hesitant to be labelled as the dance teacher. Audrey Ann encouraged me, however, saying that the students would appreciate anything I did. The MSS students seemed to enjoy my “dance classes”, so I agreed to “teach” a “dance class” on at Sambal Sansthan on Friday.
That Friday, I lugged my laptop to the centre and, after a very filling lunch, hooked it up to speakers (on loan from MSS). The women and girls had arranged all the chairs so that there was a dance floor in the middle of the room. They were all sitting in the chairs. Two students (who were also my translators and soon became my friends), Aimand and Khadijah, selected a song.
It was fairly evident that they expected a demonstration from me. I had mixed feelings about this. I’m not a classically or traditionally trained Indian dancer, and I am assuming that is the only type of dance they were exposed to and were thus expecting. There was no option of me dancing in another style; that seemed completely inappropriate in this context. I did not feel adequate in this situation at all, and I hate disappointing people with substandard work.
I didn’t have much of a choice; I pretended I was at MSS and began fooling around to the music. I used some of the movements I picked up from the MSS girls, but these movements obviously looked different on me. Audrey Ann joined me—she has no qualms about making a fool of herself—and together we danced in our pseudo-Indian way to Hindi lyrics that we did not understand. Only a few girls joined in; most of the participants were content watching and laughing on the sidelines. We kept going for an hour, people moving on and off the dance floor, Aimand and Khadijah refusing to stop the music.
I would have definitely been more comfortable if everyone were dancing. Although I love dancing, for the longest time I was painfully self-conscious when I danced, and I only began shedding my self-consciousness last year when I began improvising in a non-judgemental environment at Emory. The girls and women seemed to be laughing and having fun; were they laughing at me? Did they think my actions were weird because they were different? I had to pause and step off the dance floor a couple of times to clear my head. But the music and the movement always drew me back in.
Who knows what these women and girls thought after that party? Did they think I was crazy? Did they appreciate my efforts? Did they scoff at my “unsuccessful” attempts to dance? Throughout my time in India, I wanted to know if people appreciated what I did for them, if I was as valuable to them as they were to me. I was never able to find out because of all the barriers that prevented me from “reading” them accurately—language, culture, shyness, suspicion. I kept on giving, hoping that somehow I would earn their love. Yet I will still never fully know what they think.
But love that is not reciprocated is still love.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Assimilation
I've been back in Atlanta for nearly two weeks and I still think about India a lot. Nine weeks still seems like an incredibly short time for me, but I need to acknowledge that it was a long enough period for me to get a relatively good sense of how people in Jodhpur live.
Little ways in which my life was changed from this trip:
--
When I moved into Clairmont, I turned off the A/C and opened the windows in my living room and bedroom. I didn't want to be so separate from the outside. In Singapore and in Jodhpur the houses I live in are built with large windows so air can flow in. I like knowing what the weather is like outside, hearing the faint sounds of nature, even dealing with the heat and humidity.
And then my Area Director told us we had to make sure all the thermostats were on and set to 72F to prevent "moisture issues". So after a week's delay I turned on the A/C but kept it at 78F.
--
Whenever I get the chance, I eat with my right hand only. But I apologise to the people around me in case it bothers them.
--
I feel compelled to say "thiiiik hai" instead of "okaaaay" but I can't since no one will understand me.
--
I don't feel comfortable wearing short shorts around (this will probably change). It also amazes me to see girls in two-piece bathing suits (even though I wear one as well).
--
I'd like to take a road trip to explore different parts of the US, or at least the South, or at least Georgia. I wish I could walk and walk for hours along the Atlanta streets but I don't think that would be as interesting or as colourful as it is in Jodhpur because Atlanta is more spread out than Jodhpur. I know that Atlanta has a lot of interesting events and I'd like to continue to discover them. Maybe that could be my fall break activity...
Little ways in which my life was changed from this trip:
--
When I moved into Clairmont, I turned off the A/C and opened the windows in my living room and bedroom. I didn't want to be so separate from the outside. In Singapore and in Jodhpur the houses I live in are built with large windows so air can flow in. I like knowing what the weather is like outside, hearing the faint sounds of nature, even dealing with the heat and humidity.
And then my Area Director told us we had to make sure all the thermostats were on and set to 72F to prevent "moisture issues". So after a week's delay I turned on the A/C but kept it at 78F.
--
Whenever I get the chance, I eat with my right hand only. But I apologise to the people around me in case it bothers them.
--
I feel compelled to say "thiiiik hai" instead of "okaaaay" but I can't since no one will understand me.
--
I don't feel comfortable wearing short shorts around (this will probably change). It also amazes me to see girls in two-piece bathing suits (even though I wear one as well).
--
I'd like to take a road trip to explore different parts of the US, or at least the South, or at least Georgia. I wish I could walk and walk for hours along the Atlanta streets but I don't think that would be as interesting or as colourful as it is in Jodhpur because Atlanta is more spread out than Jodhpur. I know that Atlanta has a lot of interesting events and I'd like to continue to discover them. Maybe that could be my fall break activity...
Dance class
 Nithu seems happy to smile for the camera while the rest of the girls are choosing a song. |
Dance class usually works this way: I lug my laptop to the centre (because I still don't have an iPod :P), turn it on, and start dancing with the girls.
The girls sometimes have song requests, so I let them look through my list of traditional Rajasthani songs (all copied from Vijay's computer).
There's always a bunch of girls who are ready to go, namely Chandrakanta (in greenish yellow) and Santosh (right at the back in the colourful traditional Marwari dress). But some of the others take a while to warm up.
Rajini (in pink and blue) is always really shy and here I'm coaxing her to dance with me. Sometimes she does, other times she doesn't. By the way, usually I wear more culturally appropriate attire, such as the salwar kameezes the girls are wearing. I think my kurtas (long shirts) were being pressed that day, so I had to wear a Western t-shirt.
Another volunteer, Sarah, dancing with the girls.
 |
| Santosh |
I really love it when people enjoy themselves dancing!
Sunday, August 08, 2010
Filtering ideas from a foreign culture
The idea of coming in as an outsider and changing local people's perspectives never sat easily with me. The legacy of colonialism always haunts me and I am fully aware that development is often tagged as neocolonialism. However, I'm also careful not to be completely culturally relativistic; all aspects of a local culture are not always good for the people, especially in modern, globalised times. Culture changes as one's environment changes, and even in conservative Jodhpur, things are changing.
When "outsiders" attempt to change local people's belief systems, the ideas they introduce are not indigenous to the target culture, and so a process of assimilation needs to occur in order for the new concept to be beneficial to society. This process of assimilation needs to be driven by the local peoples themselves, but I believe it is filtered through different sections of society until they finally reach the "local" people.
In the case of women's empowerment:
"Local" people are usually poorer Indians who either reside in villages or have recently migrated from the rural areas into the city. Their beliefs are that sons are more valuable than women; women will eventually be given away to another household (their husband's). Thus all resources should be diverted away from the women and to the son, who will produce a greater return on investment. Women are just trained to be good wives; the man is responsible for providing for the household.
Others--Westerners, people from a higher caste or different part of the city--see that women are more than that.
Indians from a higher caste say that they believe women and men should be treated equally. However, women from a higher caste still adhere to traditional women's roles: they stay in the house, take care of the children, busy themselves with household chores and with their job, if they have one. My host mother cooks all the food from scratch every day when she gets home from work; she leaves the house at 6:30am and returns at 4pm.
Westerners see that women and men are just as valuable. Women should be given the same opportunities--which includes freedoms--as men. However, if this were suddenly the case--if the dowry system, which I think is the root cause of son preference, were abolished--and all women really insisted they studied and not cook, marry later, and choose their husbands, I think Indian society would be dismantled very quickly. Such quick disintegration is usually destructive.
The middle class Indians, I think, will get it eventually. Since they come into close contact with the lower class Indians and are more similar to them culturally than Westerners, it will be their influence that ultimately catalyses change in the lower, more conservative sectors of society. I think I initially viewed the middle class's actions with impatience; women say they are empowered but they still voluntarily submit to the prevailing culture. Now I'm beginning to see that this is necessary for the society to evolve and progress.
When "outsiders" attempt to change local people's belief systems, the ideas they introduce are not indigenous to the target culture, and so a process of assimilation needs to occur in order for the new concept to be beneficial to society. This process of assimilation needs to be driven by the local peoples themselves, but I believe it is filtered through different sections of society until they finally reach the "local" people.
In the case of women's empowerment:
"Local" people are usually poorer Indians who either reside in villages or have recently migrated from the rural areas into the city. Their beliefs are that sons are more valuable than women; women will eventually be given away to another household (their husband's). Thus all resources should be diverted away from the women and to the son, who will produce a greater return on investment. Women are just trained to be good wives; the man is responsible for providing for the household.
Others--Westerners, people from a higher caste or different part of the city--see that women are more than that.
Indians from a higher caste say that they believe women and men should be treated equally. However, women from a higher caste still adhere to traditional women's roles: they stay in the house, take care of the children, busy themselves with household chores and with their job, if they have one. My host mother cooks all the food from scratch every day when she gets home from work; she leaves the house at 6:30am and returns at 4pm.
Westerners see that women and men are just as valuable. Women should be given the same opportunities--which includes freedoms--as men. However, if this were suddenly the case--if the dowry system, which I think is the root cause of son preference, were abolished--and all women really insisted they studied and not cook, marry later, and choose their husbands, I think Indian society would be dismantled very quickly. Such quick disintegration is usually destructive.
The middle class Indians, I think, will get it eventually. Since they come into close contact with the lower class Indians and are more similar to them culturally than Westerners, it will be their influence that ultimately catalyses change in the lower, more conservative sectors of society. I think I initially viewed the middle class's actions with impatience; women say they are empowered but they still voluntarily submit to the prevailing culture. Now I'm beginning to see that this is necessary for the society to evolve and progress.
"No mind"
 |
| Usha during English class. |
(Disclaimer: since I know very little Hindi, I cannot vouch for the accuracy of many of my statements. I was mostly reading body language and asking the women and girls to explain things to me whenever possible. In addition, I was viewing these situations through very Western eyes. Shama, the sewing teacher, is a traditional Indian teacher: strict when necessary but also generous towards diligent students. I don't agree with her teaching methods but I recognise that this is how most of India operates.)
Shama arrived at 3:35pm; the students were already waiting for her. Chandrakanta was happy today; she wrote on the board that she likes Anju-didi. “She’s the best!” Shama translated for me.
Usha was working on her kurta at the sewing machine while Chenna (a former student who now teaches at a nearby village and visits the centre occasionally) was teaching some women and girls to sew a kurta outside. Two girls, Nithu and Rajini, had been consistently idle for the past few days and I wanted to find out why.
I took Anju-ji aside and asked her why Nithu and Rajini were not doing anything. She made to announce this question to someone but I stopped her and made her ask Santosh instead. They both responded, “because they have no mind.”
What? I asked them to clarify just to make sure. “No interest? Scared of teacher?” I asked.
“No, no mind,” they replied. It seemed that they were saying that the girls had no capacity to learn.
I told them that’s not possible; everyone has a mind that they can use. It seems, however, that these women and girls believe that some people are born with intelligence at certain things while others are not, and those who are not skilled at something are quickly discouraged from pursuing that skill.
For example, when I asked another girl, Usha, why she wasn’t repeating 8th standard since she failed it. She responded that she had no mind. I wasn’t sure what she said initially and asked Anju-ji and Shama to translate. "She says she has no mind," they told me.
I was shocked to hear that Usha would say that about herself. How can you believe that you have no capacity to do something? Usha in particular is an incredibly dedicated student who I believe will do well in school; Shama had singled her out as the most diligent student in class.
“Do you want to go to school?” I asked Usha.
“Do you want to go to school?” I asked Usha.
“Yes,” she replied.
That willingness to learn, in my opinion, should be the only prerequisite for attending school. It is true that some people have more natural ability for a particular task than others, but that doesn't mean one should give up trying. What's even more discouraging is that these women don’t seem believe that each one of them has the capacity to do something they put their mind to. How can they encourage and support each other in that case then?
A friend pointed out that the women's liberation movement in the West began because women themselves began realising that they were just as capable as men. It's going to take a while before that happens here in Jodhpur. People still accept the prevailing belief that women are bound traditionally to the household. While many middle-class girls are well-educated, lower caste/class girls are treated as temporary members of the household, trained to be wives in their husband's households.
MSS focuses on empowering women and girls economically, but I'm pushing for Vijay to adopt more encouraging, empowering teaching methods so that this belief of having "no mind" can be dismantled.
That willingness to learn, in my opinion, should be the only prerequisite for attending school. It is true that some people have more natural ability for a particular task than others, but that doesn't mean one should give up trying. What's even more discouraging is that these women don’t seem believe that each one of them has the capacity to do something they put their mind to. How can they encourage and support each other in that case then?
A friend pointed out that the women's liberation movement in the West began because women themselves began realising that they were just as capable as men. It's going to take a while before that happens here in Jodhpur. People still accept the prevailing belief that women are bound traditionally to the household. While many middle-class girls are well-educated, lower caste/class girls are treated as temporary members of the household, trained to be wives in their husband's households.
MSS focuses on empowering women and girls economically, but I'm pushing for Vijay to adopt more encouraging, empowering teaching methods so that this belief of having "no mind" can be dismantled.
Cast of characters
These are some of the women and girls I got to know at the centre. Anju-ji, Bhagwati, Santosh Mundela, Santosh Baroti and Leela-ji are women (ie they are married); Nithu, Rajini, Ravina, Kiran, Chandrakanta, Nisha and Usha are girls. I'm sure I spelled some of their names incorrectly but that's how they're spelled in my head.
"Ji" is respectful term that is used at the end of one's name. I initially tried to use "ji" when addressing every woman, but for some reason that didn't work out. Bhagwati, for example, I can't bring myself to call "ji" because she's the same age as me. Santosh Baroti I don't call "ji" because she's so headstrong and modern that using such a traditional term doesn't befit her. The girls don't call all the women "ji" either; sometimes they use the more informal term "didi", which means sister.
"Ji" is respectful term that is used at the end of one's name. I initially tried to use "ji" when addressing every woman, but for some reason that didn't work out. Bhagwati, for example, I can't bring myself to call "ji" because she's the same age as me. Santosh Baroti I don't call "ji" because she's so headstrong and modern that using such a traditional term doesn't befit her. The girls don't call all the women "ji" either; sometimes they use the more informal term "didi", which means sister.
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| Celebrating stitching teacher Shama's birthday at the centre. Shama is in pink on the extreme right. |
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| Women (married) students from right: Santosh Mundela, Bhagwati, Anju-ji |
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| Santosh Baroti with her daughter. Santosh is the unofficial spokesperson of the women and girls from the Meghwal Basti community. |
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| Leela-ji and me at her home. Leela-ji is Santosh's husband's brother's wife. |
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| Nithu |
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| Rajini |
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| Left: Ravinia; right: Kiran |
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| Left: Chandrakanta; right: Nisha. |
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| Usha |
Waking up
I'm back in Atlanta...
It's strange to be back, strange that I'll be starting a new year soon and my thoughts will be diverted from India, from the girls and women I gave so much to and received so much from for the past two months. I'll be posting a few more entries to wrap up this adventure and give it a sense of closure.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
"In India, we do like this."
I feel Chandrakanta's pain as she reads my questions and writes out her answer. She doesn’t understand most of the questions and has to ask Santosh to explain them to her. She takes about five minutes to write out her answer. I’m afraid that she will give up halfway but she thankfully keeps going.
Chandrakanta filled some questions up yesterday and I got my boss to translate her answers. One of my questions asked her if she went to school and if not, why. She replied that she does not because she failed 8th standard. Today I asked her why she didn’t just repeat 8th standard. After a lot of discussion with all five women in the room, Lakshmi, the woman with the best English, explained that she didn’t want to study; she wanted to go to a private school, not a government school. After some more discussion, Lakshmi spouted a flurry of words at Chandrakanta, and Chandrakanta fell silent and serious; her beautiful eyes were focused softly on the ground, her fingers lightly gripping the pen poised on the sheet of paper.
“What did you tell her?” I asked Lakshmi. Chandrakanta is never that pensive; she’s usually very cheerful and boisterous.
“I told her,” Lakshmi replied, “now she study and learn stitching because later she get married, her husband, her father-in-law no allow her to study. Then what she do? At least now if she learn, later she can sew, can make money, help family.”
“Does she have to get married?” I asked, even though I knew it was rhetorical. In my world I can choose if I want to get married, who I should get married to, when I want to get married. In her world, she doesn’t have any say in this matter. If she did, she might be ostracised by her family, which is everything to her.
Lakshmi responded as I expected her to. “You are from Singapore. She is from India. In India, we do like this.”
Monday, July 19, 2010
Old City
Spotted some old men playing chess while wandering through the streets and took a photograph with a girl who was walking back home.
No photo montage of Jodhpur is incomplete without cows!
We wandered through the winding streets and soon arrived on top of a small hill, where we took a rest and gazed out at Old City. When we were ready to move on, we took a right through an ornate archway and found this lake! Don't be deceived by this romantic picture; the lake water was murky and, according to Christian who dived into it, "slimy". We met some Indian men there who asked us about our countries and showed us their rain shrine to Shiva, and a newspaper photographer took pictures of Christian participating in their rain ritual.
I sat on the steps and contemplated life in front of the peaceful smelly lake.
Outsiders
I give the bus conductor 10 rupees, expecting 5 back. I take this bus to work every day and the fee is usually 5. Today the bus conductor gives me 3 rupees back. 2 rupees is worth 5 cents in the US but I know he’s doing this because I’m a foreigner; he’s trying to see how much he can get away with. I berate him about my fee until he finally smiles and gives me the correct change. When I get off the bus, he smiles again. “Seven rupees,” he insists. “Five,” I reply, annoyed, and walk off.
Call me nitpicky, but it’s the principle that I don’t agree with. There is a foreigner price and a local price here, and after a while that wears down on me. I’m tired of being treated differently as a foreigner: either I’m a celebrity and people are fawning over me or I’m a gullible stranger who doesn’t speak Hindi whom people can take advantage of and laugh at. When people laugh at me, are they laughing spitefully or amusedly? I can’t tell; that bothers me.
I understand that I can’t change the fact that I look and act differently here. I also understand that it’s human nature to exert power over the more vulnerable. That still doesn’t mean I should be satisfied with the way I am being treated. I’m glad I’m learning to assert myself more but I want to do this in a way that still loves the people I meet. I feel that coming to India has made me less touchy-feely, more in tune with the harsh realities of human relationships. If someone is trying to cut in front of me I don’t have any qualms blocking his way, but I know I can get frustrated and push him away as well. That’s not loving at all.
As for people laughing at me, I also laugh at crazy things Indians do as well. There is no malice involved in that; I just find things amusing here. Maybe that’s the same case for Indians who observe me. It’s just so hard to interpret a different culture without knowing the language.
Call me nitpicky, but it’s the principle that I don’t agree with. There is a foreigner price and a local price here, and after a while that wears down on me. I’m tired of being treated differently as a foreigner: either I’m a celebrity and people are fawning over me or I’m a gullible stranger who doesn’t speak Hindi whom people can take advantage of and laugh at. When people laugh at me, are they laughing spitefully or amusedly? I can’t tell; that bothers me.
I understand that I can’t change the fact that I look and act differently here. I also understand that it’s human nature to exert power over the more vulnerable. That still doesn’t mean I should be satisfied with the way I am being treated. I’m glad I’m learning to assert myself more but I want to do this in a way that still loves the people I meet. I feel that coming to India has made me less touchy-feely, more in tune with the harsh realities of human relationships. If someone is trying to cut in front of me I don’t have any qualms blocking his way, but I know I can get frustrated and push him away as well. That’s not loving at all.
As for people laughing at me, I also laugh at crazy things Indians do as well. There is no malice involved in that; I just find things amusing here. Maybe that’s the same case for Indians who observe me. It’s just so hard to interpret a different culture without knowing the language.
Didi
My suspicion is that the girls are not motivated by the prospect of making money or being the best at anything. I think the girls seek the approval of those they look up to, and as an older girl, I am in a good position to give them this approval and use this to steer them in the right direction.
Ethnography
I’m finally getting into the meat of my work here, and I’m sad that my internship will end so soon. The past few days I’ve been observing classes both at MSS and at my friends’ NGO, Sambal Sansthan, as part of research for my best practices report. The days have yielded very interesting observations and I’m kicking myself for not doing this earlier.
Despite my cognitive knowledge of the importance of finding out what locals think and going “to the ground”, I never thought to do this earlier. I never thought it would be necessary for my project, which I felt initially focused on the NGO’s operations. I’m used to looking at an organisation from an administrative, managerial point of view and forgot that a comprehensive evaluation of a non-profit must also take into account the beneficiaries’ experiences and well-being. That involves observing MSS classes and the dynamics between students and teacher.
Although I’m kicking myself about not doing this earlier, I also realise that I’ve only just begun to feel like I have a proper understanding of how things work here, and so the frame through which I view interactions is only now closer to the truth, less coloured by my foreign perspective. I’ve also only just begun understanding how disparate pieces of the women’s empowerment puzzle fit in together and so can now ask relevant questions. I still have 2 weeks left here; I need to make the most of it and leave behind a trail for those who come afterwards.
Despite my cognitive knowledge of the importance of finding out what locals think and going “to the ground”, I never thought to do this earlier. I never thought it would be necessary for my project, which I felt initially focused on the NGO’s operations. I’m used to looking at an organisation from an administrative, managerial point of view and forgot that a comprehensive evaluation of a non-profit must also take into account the beneficiaries’ experiences and well-being. That involves observing MSS classes and the dynamics between students and teacher.
Although I’m kicking myself about not doing this earlier, I also realise that I’ve only just begun to feel like I have a proper understanding of how things work here, and so the frame through which I view interactions is only now closer to the truth, less coloured by my foreign perspective. I’ve also only just begun understanding how disparate pieces of the women’s empowerment puzzle fit in together and so can now ask relevant questions. I still have 2 weeks left here; I need to make the most of it and leave behind a trail for those who come afterwards.
Udaipur
Udaipur was wet and cool; we ran out in the rain, water up to our ankles, droplets dribbling down our backs. I bought two new dresses, pored over beautiful paintings, held my breath as the dancer stamped in time to the music with three water pots on her head.
Udaipur is famed for its minature paintings. An elephant symbolises good luck.
Visiting the Kumbhalgarh Fort in Udaipur. It's the longest fort in India. There were a lot of cool hiding places and monuments to explore.
Visiting the Kumbhalgarh Fort in Udaipur. It's the longest fort in India. There were a lot of cool hiding places and monuments to explore.
Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Rain!
It rained yesterday evening! I was watching the Aviator on TV when things started happening. Leonardo DiCaprio had just pulled himself out of his depressed, paranoid funk and turned the tables on Senator Brewster when the lights fizzled and the TV went out.
Outside, a strong wind was blowing dust everywhere. It didn't smell like rain. I went back inside, determined not to get my hopes up. The wind flirts with me often and I've been tricked by it before.
This time, though, the wind was serious and it delivered. Rain came half an hour later, splattering on the streets angrily. But no one else was angry; we were busy indulging ourselves in the cool, wet breeze, drenching our bodies in the rain.
It rained till evening, and the electricity was intermittent: Auntie had to cook by candlelight. But all that didn't matter--the monsoon has finally, finally arrived in Jodhpur and I'm looking forward to cooler days for the rest of my stay.
This morning, I woke up sweatless. It was glorious!
Outside, a strong wind was blowing dust everywhere. It didn't smell like rain. I went back inside, determined not to get my hopes up. The wind flirts with me often and I've been tricked by it before.
This time, though, the wind was serious and it delivered. Rain came half an hour later, splattering on the streets angrily. But no one else was angry; we were busy indulging ourselves in the cool, wet breeze, drenching our bodies in the rain.
It rained till evening, and the electricity was intermittent: Auntie had to cook by candlelight. But all that didn't matter--the monsoon has finally, finally arrived in Jodhpur and I'm looking forward to cooler days for the rest of my stay.
This morning, I woke up sweatless. It was glorious!
Cooking
Nena is teaching me how to roll out rotis despite our not sharing a common language. First you mix the flour with a bit of salt and water until the dough is sticky and stretchy. Then you take a bit of the dough, slap it against your palms, roll it into a ball, and press it between your hands to flatten it. Then you dip the dough into the shallow bowl of flour so it doesn’t stick to the rolling pin.
It is very hard to roll the dough into a perfect circle, especially when your teacher does not speak English and can only demonstrate it to you. I’m slowly, very slowly getting the hang of it, but it will take a couple more lessons before I can actually claim to make good rotis. The first day I tried I made a heart-shaped roti; today I made a rectangular roti. Nena hooted in laughter, and soon the entire household knew of my latest adventure. Nena pressed my rectangular roti together into a ball of dough and rolled it out perfectly to Auntie Williams’ liking.
If the dough is not rolled out properly, the roti doesn’t puff up well when it is heated over the fire. I don’t know if that affects the texture of the roti much; I ate my slightly deformed rotis today and they were fine, but the Indians might be more critical about it, the same way I’m critical about Maggie Mee. I’ll keep working at perfecting my rotis, and by the end of this trip I’ll get it right!
It is very hard to roll the dough into a perfect circle, especially when your teacher does not speak English and can only demonstrate it to you. I’m slowly, very slowly getting the hang of it, but it will take a couple more lessons before I can actually claim to make good rotis. The first day I tried I made a heart-shaped roti; today I made a rectangular roti. Nena hooted in laughter, and soon the entire household knew of my latest adventure. Nena pressed my rectangular roti together into a ball of dough and rolled it out perfectly to Auntie Williams’ liking.
If the dough is not rolled out properly, the roti doesn’t puff up well when it is heated over the fire. I don’t know if that affects the texture of the roti much; I ate my slightly deformed rotis today and they were fine, but the Indians might be more critical about it, the same way I’m critical about Maggie Mee. I’ll keep working at perfecting my rotis, and by the end of this trip I’ll get it right!
Dance therapy
The MSS women and girls are happy to see me, as usual. They are not afraid of me any more and greet me with their sweet smiles and waves. “Namaste!”
I am afraid; I am petrified. Teaching scares me: I hate presenting in front of groups of people, I never feel my knowledge about the subject is adequate, and I am afraid that my bad teaching will turn the girls off the subject forever. Despite this, I am here because this is what I can offer, because Vijay wants me to teach, because the girls like to dance, and because I know it’s important to face my fears.
My plan was to teach the participants how to move to the beat as I noticed during the last class that some of the women and girls were too preoccupied with copying me and thus tended to fall behind the beat. I wanted to help them to establish a relationship with the music, and had armed myself with a couple of exercises that I thought would realise this. Vijay, the sewing teacher Shama, and Madhu-ji were in the classroom watching, helping and interpreting.
My attempts to communicate what exactly a beat is fail. I don’t even remember who taught me how to move to the beat, and I am at a loss to teach the women and girls how to do so. I try to get them to clap to the beat of a song, to varying degrees of success. Some of them are on time—this is easy to them. Others are following my hands instead; they are always a beat late.
Then I get them to stand up and move different body parts to a beat—shoulders, arms, feet. They take to it almost immediately; this seems more like dancing to them. Dancing to music is familiar to them; breaking down the dance into something abstract that I can’t even define properly for them is not. Perhaps sensing a beat is innate and to an extent unteachable. In that case, why do some of them still not seem to move with it?
I recall the times when I am behind the beat when I dance, and I suspect the issue is not that the girls cannot sense the beat; it’s their inhibition that keeps from being fully immersed in the music and in their movement. If I can’t teach the girls to dance to a beat, I need to show them that they can dance to a beat. I need to create an environment where the girls feel comfortable to try and fail and try again.
The most successful activity I had so far involved turning on music and getting the girls to dance however they wanted. So I build on that. I keep the music on and tell the girls to pair up and dance with their partners. They dutifully do so and most have fun mimicking each other. The lesson continues with variations on this game: dance with another partner, let the women dance first, mimic someone else, try to travel when you dance (they automatically form a circle). Some variations are more successful than others and although it’s important to teach them new things, I also recognise the importance of giving them something familiar and comfortable to coax the more reserved ones out of their shell.
The most precious moments are those that involve girls or women who were previously hesitant about dancing. While most of the girls are dancing, I seek out those who are hiding. One woman who I noticed tends to hunch is standing in a corner. She seems to shrink into her scarf and the folds of her stiff skirt. I make my way towards her and take both of her hands; her arms are limp but I keep my hands in hers and we sway from side to side. She is out of time but I don’t care; it’s more important for her to enjoy herself first, and soon I see the inklings of a smile. When I finally leave her to interact with other girls, I see her dancing with her friends happily.
Each girl or woman reveals something about herself to me when she dances. Santos dances with abandonment and a wicked sense of humour. Chandrakanta dances with confidence—sometimes too much confidence—because she knows she’s good and better than the rest. Pushpar dances creatively to catch my attention and to seek my approval. I want to see how the rest of the girls’ personalities express themselves as I dance more with them. Although I will probably teach the girls a real dance, I also want to keep building on this improvisational structure as I feel it encourages creativity and confidence, two forms of empowerment.
After class, Pushpar tells me she will not be returning; school begins tomorrow and she thinks it’s more important to study. I tell her she’s right, and she should focus on her studies. “I will remember you,” she replies, and I am surprised that someone so imperfect like myself can still do some good for someone else. Despite what I tell myself many times, strength, intelligence and power are not always necessary for success.
I am afraid; I am petrified. Teaching scares me: I hate presenting in front of groups of people, I never feel my knowledge about the subject is adequate, and I am afraid that my bad teaching will turn the girls off the subject forever. Despite this, I am here because this is what I can offer, because Vijay wants me to teach, because the girls like to dance, and because I know it’s important to face my fears.
My plan was to teach the participants how to move to the beat as I noticed during the last class that some of the women and girls were too preoccupied with copying me and thus tended to fall behind the beat. I wanted to help them to establish a relationship with the music, and had armed myself with a couple of exercises that I thought would realise this. Vijay, the sewing teacher Shama, and Madhu-ji were in the classroom watching, helping and interpreting.
My attempts to communicate what exactly a beat is fail. I don’t even remember who taught me how to move to the beat, and I am at a loss to teach the women and girls how to do so. I try to get them to clap to the beat of a song, to varying degrees of success. Some of them are on time—this is easy to them. Others are following my hands instead; they are always a beat late.
Then I get them to stand up and move different body parts to a beat—shoulders, arms, feet. They take to it almost immediately; this seems more like dancing to them. Dancing to music is familiar to them; breaking down the dance into something abstract that I can’t even define properly for them is not. Perhaps sensing a beat is innate and to an extent unteachable. In that case, why do some of them still not seem to move with it?
I recall the times when I am behind the beat when I dance, and I suspect the issue is not that the girls cannot sense the beat; it’s their inhibition that keeps from being fully immersed in the music and in their movement. If I can’t teach the girls to dance to a beat, I need to show them that they can dance to a beat. I need to create an environment where the girls feel comfortable to try and fail and try again.
The most successful activity I had so far involved turning on music and getting the girls to dance however they wanted. So I build on that. I keep the music on and tell the girls to pair up and dance with their partners. They dutifully do so and most have fun mimicking each other. The lesson continues with variations on this game: dance with another partner, let the women dance first, mimic someone else, try to travel when you dance (they automatically form a circle). Some variations are more successful than others and although it’s important to teach them new things, I also recognise the importance of giving them something familiar and comfortable to coax the more reserved ones out of their shell.
The most precious moments are those that involve girls or women who were previously hesitant about dancing. While most of the girls are dancing, I seek out those who are hiding. One woman who I noticed tends to hunch is standing in a corner. She seems to shrink into her scarf and the folds of her stiff skirt. I make my way towards her and take both of her hands; her arms are limp but I keep my hands in hers and we sway from side to side. She is out of time but I don’t care; it’s more important for her to enjoy herself first, and soon I see the inklings of a smile. When I finally leave her to interact with other girls, I see her dancing with her friends happily.
Each girl or woman reveals something about herself to me when she dances. Santos dances with abandonment and a wicked sense of humour. Chandrakanta dances with confidence—sometimes too much confidence—because she knows she’s good and better than the rest. Pushpar dances creatively to catch my attention and to seek my approval. I want to see how the rest of the girls’ personalities express themselves as I dance more with them. Although I will probably teach the girls a real dance, I also want to keep building on this improvisational structure as I feel it encourages creativity and confidence, two forms of empowerment.
After class, Pushpar tells me she will not be returning; school begins tomorrow and she thinks it’s more important to study. I tell her she’s right, and she should focus on her studies. “I will remember you,” she replies, and I am surprised that someone so imperfect like myself can still do some good for someone else. Despite what I tell myself many times, strength, intelligence and power are not always necessary for success.
30 rupees
It’s rare to have to actively seek out a rickshaw; most of the time the drivers recognise foreigners and quickly drive alongside them, honking tdulu duludu!. No drivers are chasing me now; they are busy fanning themselves and hiding from the heat in their rickshaws outside National Handloom a couple of steps away.
The first rickshaw driver I meet is cleaning his rickshaw, but when he sees me he acts like he’s ready to go. I’ve learned to find out the exact price before bargaining, and today Smita told me it’s Rs 30 from the FSD office to the MSS centre at Paota circle. I deliver this piece of information to the rickshaw driver in Hindi. “Meere Jain Mandir ja rehi hai.”
He doesn’t get it—darn it, I thought my Hindi accent was decent enough!—so I have to give him the slip of paper with the address written on it in Hindi. After some heated discussion with another rickshaw driver that involves a lot of gesticulating, he nods. He knows where it is now.
“Kittene ka hai?” I ask.
I don’t know if they actually understood that, but because it was obvious I was asking how much the ride would cost, the man replies, “Fifty.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Thirty,” I counter.
“Thirty? Noooo. Forty. Indian price, Madam!”
They always use that line, and I’m always sceptical. “C’mon, I know it’s supposed to be thirty. I’m not paying forty.”
Even if the driver didn’t understand all I was saying, he got the gist of it. The man makes a weak, last ditch effort. “Thirty-five?”
“Nehi,” I reply, and am about to walk off to the next rickshaw in line when the first driver goes, “Okay, okay. Come!” So I follow him to his rickshaw and he drives me to Paota circle.
When I pay him and get off, the rickshaw driver smiles nicely at me and gives me my rs 20 change. I can see the hint of a smile when I thank him.
I can never get over the fact that despite how heatedly I bargain with them, the rickshaw drivers are always friendly once the ride is over. Maybe it’s because I’m giving the money; maybe it’s still more than what the locals pay. I’d like to think, though, that rickshaw drivers are genuinely good natured people despite the harsh reality of their lives.
The first rickshaw driver I meet is cleaning his rickshaw, but when he sees me he acts like he’s ready to go. I’ve learned to find out the exact price before bargaining, and today Smita told me it’s Rs 30 from the FSD office to the MSS centre at Paota circle. I deliver this piece of information to the rickshaw driver in Hindi. “Meere Jain Mandir ja rehi hai.”
He doesn’t get it—darn it, I thought my Hindi accent was decent enough!—so I have to give him the slip of paper with the address written on it in Hindi. After some heated discussion with another rickshaw driver that involves a lot of gesticulating, he nods. He knows where it is now.
“Kittene ka hai?” I ask.
I don’t know if they actually understood that, but because it was obvious I was asking how much the ride would cost, the man replies, “Fifty.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Thirty,” I counter.
“Thirty? Noooo. Forty. Indian price, Madam!”
They always use that line, and I’m always sceptical. “C’mon, I know it’s supposed to be thirty. I’m not paying forty.”
Even if the driver didn’t understand all I was saying, he got the gist of it. The man makes a weak, last ditch effort. “Thirty-five?”
“Nehi,” I reply, and am about to walk off to the next rickshaw in line when the first driver goes, “Okay, okay. Come!” So I follow him to his rickshaw and he drives me to Paota circle.
When I pay him and get off, the rickshaw driver smiles nicely at me and gives me my rs 20 change. I can see the hint of a smile when I thank him.
I can never get over the fact that despite how heatedly I bargain with them, the rickshaw drivers are always friendly once the ride is over. Maybe it’s because I’m giving the money; maybe it’s still more than what the locals pay. I’d like to think, though, that rickshaw drivers are genuinely good natured people despite the harsh reality of their lives.
Paperwork
Staring at the computer screen this afternoon, I try to write out my observations from yesterday’s site visit to S. As usual, thoughts are running through my head again. They are knotted; they are tangled. I am afraid that my work will not help anything; I am cognizant that I will have to wait a long time to see the fruit of my labour. I don’t know if I should do more best practices research, I don’t know which organisations to look for, I am afraid that I am wasting time.
I press on and write out my notes; when it’s 2:30 I pack up. I have to go teach the girls at the centre to dance.
I press on and write out my notes; when it’s 2:30 I pack up. I have to go teach the girls at the centre to dance.
Maybe tomorrow
“The newspaper says rain will come tomorrow, but then tomorrow it will say the next day. Always tomorrow, tomorrow; never today.” Auntie Williams is lying on her bed and we are chatting idly.
The creases in my body are coated with a thin film of perspiration; my cheeks are rosy from the day’s activity. My underwear feels like it has been soaked in water when I take it off, and I drink so much water it sloshes around in my stomach when I walk.
I lived more or less like this for 17 years in Singapore, didn’t I?
The creases in my body are coated with a thin film of perspiration; my cheeks are rosy from the day’s activity. My underwear feels like it has been soaked in water when I take it off, and I drink so much water it sloshes around in my stomach when I walk.
I lived more or less like this for 17 years in Singapore, didn’t I?
Rajputs
The Rajputs are the warrior caste, and Rajput men are stereotyped as hot-headed and confrontational. Rajput women, on the other hand, are very meek. I think my programme director, Smita, a Rajput woman, is actually a Rajput man. She is very direct, very blunt, and very capable.
I had a meeting with her to get her opinion about how I should proceed with my work. I am two sentences into telling her my story about yesterday, trying to process everything I’ve learned about S, when she cuts me off and starts yelling at me. “Don’t say those sort of things; you cannot compare S with MSS! S is older than MSS; it’s had many volunteers and many funders. You cannot expect the same results.”
She’s misunderstood me and jumped to conclusions, and I get irritated. So I raise my voice to match hers. “Of course I’m not expecting the same results, but I did go in there to research best practices, so I have to compare them!”
Smita is still indignant about something, and continues speaking at the same tone. I counter, my eyes narrowing and temper flaring. Somehow we both reach some sort of consensus; she gets my point—that I’m not asking for the moon—and I get hers—that I shouldn’t assume S is perfect just because it seems to be after a day visit, and that I should not say it is better than MSS when I speak to Vijay about it because that will just engender unwanted competition between the two NGOs.
When that happens, the conversation suddenly settles. “Zjack”—she tries her hardest to pronounce my name but never succeeds—“you know, you can’t take things so seriously in this business. Sometimes you have to let go, chill, and go dance at On The Rocks.” Smita and I both love dancing at the local club. “If Madhu-ji and I started taking things so seriously we would both go mad!”
“I know, I know,” I replied, “it’s not just work though; it’s been a tough couple of weeks personally.”
Like a tiger, she pounces on my hint, and soon enough I’m spilling my story of the past three weeks out to her and Madhu-ji. It’s a story of love, betrayal and bad choices, and not something I will repeat here. “Like a Hindi drama!” I say, half-jokingly. She laughs. “In India, nothing is ever boring.” She and Madhu-ji give me some good advice that makes me ponder, and I walk out of the office amazed that I’ve only known her and this group of interns for four weeks—it seems like a lifetime.
I had a meeting with her to get her opinion about how I should proceed with my work. I am two sentences into telling her my story about yesterday, trying to process everything I’ve learned about S, when she cuts me off and starts yelling at me. “Don’t say those sort of things; you cannot compare S with MSS! S is older than MSS; it’s had many volunteers and many funders. You cannot expect the same results.”
She’s misunderstood me and jumped to conclusions, and I get irritated. So I raise my voice to match hers. “Of course I’m not expecting the same results, but I did go in there to research best practices, so I have to compare them!”
Smita is still indignant about something, and continues speaking at the same tone. I counter, my eyes narrowing and temper flaring. Somehow we both reach some sort of consensus; she gets my point—that I’m not asking for the moon—and I get hers—that I shouldn’t assume S is perfect just because it seems to be after a day visit, and that I should not say it is better than MSS when I speak to Vijay about it because that will just engender unwanted competition between the two NGOs.
When that happens, the conversation suddenly settles. “Zjack”—she tries her hardest to pronounce my name but never succeeds—“you know, you can’t take things so seriously in this business. Sometimes you have to let go, chill, and go dance at On The Rocks.” Smita and I both love dancing at the local club. “If Madhu-ji and I started taking things so seriously we would both go mad!”
“I know, I know,” I replied, “it’s not just work though; it’s been a tough couple of weeks personally.”
Like a tiger, she pounces on my hint, and soon enough I’m spilling my story of the past three weeks out to her and Madhu-ji. It’s a story of love, betrayal and bad choices, and not something I will repeat here. “Like a Hindi drama!” I say, half-jokingly. She laughs. “In India, nothing is ever boring.” She and Madhu-ji give me some good advice that makes me ponder, and I walk out of the office amazed that I’ve only known her and this group of interns for four weeks—it seems like a lifetime.
"Why don't you ask?"
Yesterday I visited another women’s empowerment organisation, S, as part of my best practices research. The visit had been very informative and I came back with many ideas for MSS. The problem: which ones are the most urgent? Right now Vijay and I are the only full-time staff running the organisation. Vijay is a businessman; I am a student. We have some experience with NGOs but both of us definitely feel very lost at times.
I had a number of projects whirling in my head, with pros and cons all thought out. However, I couldn’t make a decision regarding which ones to pursue for the remainder of my internship. I talked it out with Smita and another intern. “Why don’t you ask Vijay?” both of they suggested.
Why? Because I was afraid he would give me an answer I wouldn’t agree with, despite the fact that I didn’t know which project would be the best to pursue. I think I’ve gotten so invested in this organisation, in my work, that I believe I know what’s best for it. I’ve worked for NGOs before; I know what the West wants. I know how to write grants, write content for a website, publicise the organisation, conduct best practices research. I can organise, schedule, administrate.
I’m forgetting, though, that Vijay has been living in Jodhpur for the past 30 years; that he knows how Indians think and how the Indian government works. He knows the education system and government schemes far better than I do. He also runs a successful business that he does barely any work for and still earns a steady income from it.
Vijay is my boss and after I leave, he will remain. I have to do work that he thinks will be useful for the organisation. I can advise him on what I think would be best, but ultimately he must make the decisions. Essentially, that’s what empowerment is.
I had a number of projects whirling in my head, with pros and cons all thought out. However, I couldn’t make a decision regarding which ones to pursue for the remainder of my internship. I talked it out with Smita and another intern. “Why don’t you ask Vijay?” both of they suggested.
Why? Because I was afraid he would give me an answer I wouldn’t agree with, despite the fact that I didn’t know which project would be the best to pursue. I think I’ve gotten so invested in this organisation, in my work, that I believe I know what’s best for it. I’ve worked for NGOs before; I know what the West wants. I know how to write grants, write content for a website, publicise the organisation, conduct best practices research. I can organise, schedule, administrate.
I’m forgetting, though, that Vijay has been living in Jodhpur for the past 30 years; that he knows how Indians think and how the Indian government works. He knows the education system and government schemes far better than I do. He also runs a successful business that he does barely any work for and still earns a steady income from it.
Vijay is my boss and after I leave, he will remain. I have to do work that he thinks will be useful for the organisation. I can advise him on what I think would be best, but ultimately he must make the decisions. Essentially, that’s what empowerment is.
I am picky.
I. There’s only so much I can take without speaking up.
I look forward to meals; I like being pleasantly surprised by food, which I generally enjoy eating. Unfortunately, breakfast has been rather disappointing lately. Yesterday was roti with something involving curd. The curd was sour and I discovered that I really dislike sour food.
Today Arun handed me a plate of Maggie Mee for breakfast, all twisted and gooey. It’s understandable that people would assume I like Maggie Mee; in a place where noodles are not part of the traditional diet, one would assume that if someone said she liked noodles, she would like any sort of noodles. Last week we had noodles from Uncle’s restaurant for dinner and I loved it. I don’t like Maggie noodles, though. They are on the lowest rung of the noodle ladder, in my opinion, and just like sushi, if the noodles don’t meet my standards, I don’t bother eating them.
Of course, I was being picky and spoilt. My host parents were being nice about considering my tastes, and I think I’ve been giving them a hard time. I haven’t been communicating my food preferences to them very well because it’s painful and awkward to have to explain myself to them. I also dislike having to criticise someone often, which unfortunately does not work will given that I am so fussy. As a result, I’ve grown rather resentful about having to eat things I don’t exactly like and pretend I do.
I ate the noodles reluctantly, but mentioned to my host father that I liked the yellow rice flakes that had been cooked for me a while back.
“We’re trying out new things because Auntie doesn’t like giving you toast every morning and you seem to eat a small variety of things,” my host father replied.
My first reaction was relief, because I was sick of toast as well. My second was, “No, I like most things that Auntie cooks!” And then it occurred to me that what she cooks is probably only a small selection of her real repertoire because I’ve been so picky. I added, “I just don’t like eating too much oil…”
“And you don’t like hard-boiled eggs, or paneer, or parantha, or spicy food, or cream…”
The conversation stopped there because too many thoughts were swimming in my head (“Am I really too picky? Dan has told me that before. But I’ve been trying to be accommodating!”) and Uncle left to play solitaire on his computer.
II. Not everyone is as fussy as me and some people are willing to accommodate.
I couldn’t go another day with a disappointing breakfast, though. And the Maggie Mee was the last straw. So I mustered up my courage and went into Uncle’s room for a heart-to-heart about food.
“I’m sorry I’m so picky about food,” I told him.
“That’s okay; we just want to make sure you feel comfortable here. So if you like something you should just let us know. If you want something you really like you should just tell us.”
This idea was rather foreign to me. As a guest in my host family’s house, I didn’t feel that it was my place to ask for a particular type of food. My host parents are also usually busy resting from the hard day [my host father works two jobs and my host mother goes to work early in the morning] so I don’t want to bother them with my preferences. Despite this, it was clear that I had been communicating nonverbally about my preferences, and this type of communication risked misunderstanding.
Uncle carried on, “It’s rather different for us because Cody and Jack [their previous two interns, both boys] both loved paranthas and would ask us to make them for us all the time. And we like eating paranthas once or twice a week. But you don’t seem to like it very much.”
I then clarified that I actually like paranthas; it’s really the oil that scares me. The first time I was served a parantha I assumed it was made like roti pratas back in Singapore, glistening in ghee. Paranthas are probably made from the same flour as pratas but I think they are made with less oil. My host mother has also taken pains to make it with less oil for me. I decided that it was okay to eat once in a while, and told my host father so. I also made a mental note to expressly ask for it so my host parents would know I want to eat it occasionally.
“So I can speak with Auntie about what she’s making for breakfast?”
“Yes,” Uncle replied. “You could try shopping with Auntie on Sundays, too, so you can pick out foods you want. We’ll try to make you the foods you like for the remaining one month you’re here with us.”
I was interested in shopping in Auntie because that’s another way I can spend time with her and get a sense of what her life is like. I should have probably verbalised that earlier.
The conversation then wandered towards other things, and shortly after was terminated when we ran out of conversation. I walked out of my host parents’ room thankful that I spoke with Uncle about this and also realising that although I was brought up to be polite and accommodating, I don’t have to be that way all the time, especially when it makes me resentful. Maybe accommodating me isn’t as big a challenge for some people as I assume it will be.
I look forward to meals; I like being pleasantly surprised by food, which I generally enjoy eating. Unfortunately, breakfast has been rather disappointing lately. Yesterday was roti with something involving curd. The curd was sour and I discovered that I really dislike sour food.
Today Arun handed me a plate of Maggie Mee for breakfast, all twisted and gooey. It’s understandable that people would assume I like Maggie Mee; in a place where noodles are not part of the traditional diet, one would assume that if someone said she liked noodles, she would like any sort of noodles. Last week we had noodles from Uncle’s restaurant for dinner and I loved it. I don’t like Maggie noodles, though. They are on the lowest rung of the noodle ladder, in my opinion, and just like sushi, if the noodles don’t meet my standards, I don’t bother eating them.
Of course, I was being picky and spoilt. My host parents were being nice about considering my tastes, and I think I’ve been giving them a hard time. I haven’t been communicating my food preferences to them very well because it’s painful and awkward to have to explain myself to them. I also dislike having to criticise someone often, which unfortunately does not work will given that I am so fussy. As a result, I’ve grown rather resentful about having to eat things I don’t exactly like and pretend I do.
I ate the noodles reluctantly, but mentioned to my host father that I liked the yellow rice flakes that had been cooked for me a while back.
“We’re trying out new things because Auntie doesn’t like giving you toast every morning and you seem to eat a small variety of things,” my host father replied.
My first reaction was relief, because I was sick of toast as well. My second was, “No, I like most things that Auntie cooks!” And then it occurred to me that what she cooks is probably only a small selection of her real repertoire because I’ve been so picky. I added, “I just don’t like eating too much oil…”
“And you don’t like hard-boiled eggs, or paneer, or parantha, or spicy food, or cream…”
The conversation stopped there because too many thoughts were swimming in my head (“Am I really too picky? Dan has told me that before. But I’ve been trying to be accommodating!”) and Uncle left to play solitaire on his computer.
II. Not everyone is as fussy as me and some people are willing to accommodate.
I couldn’t go another day with a disappointing breakfast, though. And the Maggie Mee was the last straw. So I mustered up my courage and went into Uncle’s room for a heart-to-heart about food.
“I’m sorry I’m so picky about food,” I told him.
“That’s okay; we just want to make sure you feel comfortable here. So if you like something you should just let us know. If you want something you really like you should just tell us.”
This idea was rather foreign to me. As a guest in my host family’s house, I didn’t feel that it was my place to ask for a particular type of food. My host parents are also usually busy resting from the hard day [my host father works two jobs and my host mother goes to work early in the morning] so I don’t want to bother them with my preferences. Despite this, it was clear that I had been communicating nonverbally about my preferences, and this type of communication risked misunderstanding.
Uncle carried on, “It’s rather different for us because Cody and Jack [their previous two interns, both boys] both loved paranthas and would ask us to make them for us all the time. And we like eating paranthas once or twice a week. But you don’t seem to like it very much.”
I then clarified that I actually like paranthas; it’s really the oil that scares me. The first time I was served a parantha I assumed it was made like roti pratas back in Singapore, glistening in ghee. Paranthas are probably made from the same flour as pratas but I think they are made with less oil. My host mother has also taken pains to make it with less oil for me. I decided that it was okay to eat once in a while, and told my host father so. I also made a mental note to expressly ask for it so my host parents would know I want to eat it occasionally.
“So I can speak with Auntie about what she’s making for breakfast?”
“Yes,” Uncle replied. “You could try shopping with Auntie on Sundays, too, so you can pick out foods you want. We’ll try to make you the foods you like for the remaining one month you’re here with us.”
I was interested in shopping in Auntie because that’s another way I can spend time with her and get a sense of what her life is like. I should have probably verbalised that earlier.
The conversation then wandered towards other things, and shortly after was terminated when we ran out of conversation. I walked out of my host parents’ room thankful that I spoke with Uncle about this and also realising that although I was brought up to be polite and accommodating, I don’t have to be that way all the time, especially when it makes me resentful. Maybe accommodating me isn’t as big a challenge for some people as I assume it will be.
Collage
Today wasn’t exactly representative of my days here. Most days my emotions aren’t as sharply juxtaposed against each other; they usually involve only one dominant emotion, such as frustration, boredom, or delight.
Today might, however, be a collage of emotions and activities depicting my entire summer experience in India. That’s why I want to recount it over the next couple of posts.
Today might, however, be a collage of emotions and activities depicting my entire summer experience in India. That’s why I want to recount it over the next couple of posts.
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Me as a Marwari
More temples
The only photo I took was with these two children, who asked me if I would take a photo with them.
We rode on the bus back to Jodhpur. It took us 1 1/2 hours. But I had a good time speaking with my fellow intern Suzanne and staring back at the baby boy that was staring at me across the aisle. Once back in Jodhpur, we changed quickly and plunged into the cool waters of the Ajit Bhawan swimming pool.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Strategising to tackle poverty
Had a very gruelling yet fruitful day today. I compiled my week and a half’s worth of observations of MSS’ operations into a 4-page Discussion Paper and presented it to Vijay, along with briefing on Strategic Plans and a selection of articles on women’s empowerment. I pushed through my fear, uncertainty and cynicism and in return had a very productive discussion with him about women’s empowerment and non-profit work.
Surprisingly, Vijay was very open to my suggestions; he said a lot of them made sense to him. I was worried that my criticisms would depress him but when I asked if he was depressed he said, “No. We’ll find a solution. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s there.” I was so relieved! I felt it was necessary to play the devil’s advocate for the girls we are working for; there is no point planning a programme that will not ultimately benefit its participants and the society in large.
In my Discussion Paper, I urged Vijay to think about the consequences of his plans on this wider economy. The fact is that there are so many women’s empowerment groups teaching women how to made handicrafts that there is an excess of handicraft-skilled labour, and this drives down the prices of labour and the handicrafts. The big problem with this type of trainings is the dearth of a market. Our programme must find a market and, when it does, cannot simply be replacing workers who are in similar poor circumstances.
It was very scary to lay this out before him; I felt like we were tottering over a very high cliff, staring into the abyss, unsure how far it went and whether we would be able to get back if we fell. To Vijay’s credit, he remained very optimistic, and when I had run out of ideas, he used his businessman acumen and sketched out a rough plan—one of the plans I think he’s had at the back of his mind. It made sense to me but I was hesitant to agree. At the same time, I don’t know Indian society and the Indian market as well as he does, so I have to trust him, and maybe conduct some field research.
When we were done talking about MSS, I asked Vijay about his construction business. What exactly did he do? He told me the story of his business and I was amazed at his creativity and opportunism. If he can build a self-sustaining company like that, he can do good things with this non-profit. I left him with some homework: a long document on poverty and women empowerment written for the International Labor Organization and a couple of articles on women’s empowerment from the New York Times. I wanted him to get a sense of what others were saying about women’s empowerment, to force him to look at the issue on the macro level instead of on the micro level. Hopefully with this information in mind his plans for MSS will truly be sustainable for individuals, the organisation, and the economy.
As Vijay’s intern, part of my job scope involves acting as a consultant. That’s always scary because I’m not sure if Vijay will really take my advice. And yet as an intern, subordinate to him, I will have to listen to him and eventually do what he says. I hope he comes to understand that education seems to be the only sustainable way to lift families out of poverty, and that he should place an emphasis on getting children to school, regardless of what his final strategic plan is about. I hope we will be able to work together towards this goal.
Surprisingly, Vijay was very open to my suggestions; he said a lot of them made sense to him. I was worried that my criticisms would depress him but when I asked if he was depressed he said, “No. We’ll find a solution. I don’t know what it is yet, but it’s there.” I was so relieved! I felt it was necessary to play the devil’s advocate for the girls we are working for; there is no point planning a programme that will not ultimately benefit its participants and the society in large.
In my Discussion Paper, I urged Vijay to think about the consequences of his plans on this wider economy. The fact is that there are so many women’s empowerment groups teaching women how to made handicrafts that there is an excess of handicraft-skilled labour, and this drives down the prices of labour and the handicrafts. The big problem with this type of trainings is the dearth of a market. Our programme must find a market and, when it does, cannot simply be replacing workers who are in similar poor circumstances.
It was very scary to lay this out before him; I felt like we were tottering over a very high cliff, staring into the abyss, unsure how far it went and whether we would be able to get back if we fell. To Vijay’s credit, he remained very optimistic, and when I had run out of ideas, he used his businessman acumen and sketched out a rough plan—one of the plans I think he’s had at the back of his mind. It made sense to me but I was hesitant to agree. At the same time, I don’t know Indian society and the Indian market as well as he does, so I have to trust him, and maybe conduct some field research.
When we were done talking about MSS, I asked Vijay about his construction business. What exactly did he do? He told me the story of his business and I was amazed at his creativity and opportunism. If he can build a self-sustaining company like that, he can do good things with this non-profit. I left him with some homework: a long document on poverty and women empowerment written for the International Labor Organization and a couple of articles on women’s empowerment from the New York Times. I wanted him to get a sense of what others were saying about women’s empowerment, to force him to look at the issue on the macro level instead of on the micro level. Hopefully with this information in mind his plans for MSS will truly be sustainable for individuals, the organisation, and the economy.
As Vijay’s intern, part of my job scope involves acting as a consultant. That’s always scary because I’m not sure if Vijay will really take my advice. And yet as an intern, subordinate to him, I will have to listen to him and eventually do what he says. I hope he comes to understand that education seems to be the only sustainable way to lift families out of poverty, and that he should place an emphasis on getting children to school, regardless of what his final strategic plan is about. I hope we will be able to work together towards this goal.
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