I'd been reading; I'd been listening - with my usual mixture of reactions ranging from 'but how?' and 'don't tell me, not again!' - to the whole French 'women are crap' controversy.
And I was thinking, I'd like to meet Mr French. No, seriously. I would. I have no understanding of how a mind like that works. He is as much a curiosity, to me, as a dinosaur. And I want to see how men like him look; the kind who think - and say - that women are crap.
Then I read about these women. And I thought, maybe Mr French should meet all these women.
Better still, we should let Mr French meet Judith Miller. Or Maureen Dowd.
Or both of them.... Together.
Or all of us. At once. Then, he would truly be neck-deep in shit. Or crap.
Whatever...
-----
On another note, I remember going to the Indian Women's Press Corpsfor a press conference (no, it was not organised by, or for, women exclusively) a few months ago. I was wondering why there should be a separate press club for women. So I was given some literature (they have a library too) to read. Turned out, it was set up more than 10 years ago.
I cannot find links to the essays from the founders, but the idea was to start something that gave women journalists a space to call their own. Their own watering hole. Their own chill zone. Their own cheap (relatively) eatery. Or (what the hell) their own bitchfest, for times when they needed it!
The Press Club - which is to say, THE Press Club - was/is a male bastion.
It needed storming, no doubt, but sheer numbers were not doing the trick. There were too many women journalists out there who felt left out of the 'club', even as they sat there. It was 'not a place for women'. Women journalists drinking/smoking publicly raised eyebrows. Tip-offs weren't shared with women. Women's issues weren't being taken up. There weren't enough women editors around. etc.
Now, I don't know whether all these factors are reason enough to have a separate press club. Nor do I know whether it makes a difference to the profession. But I have to say that I like the place.
There are some 350 members. It is a small-ish place and gets very packed during press cons, but it is cool and smells nice. The garden is well-kept. People are polite. Any random member whom you don't know from Eve, smiles at you. The food is good (so I've heard, with special praise for the biryani.)
A couple of weeks ago, I went to THE press club for another press conference.
And I was appalled!
Everything was falling apart. Spit-marks on the staircases, corridors smelling of sweat and piss, paint flaking off, male journalists talking LOUDLY - not on the phone, mind you, but to each other, across the hall - while the poor panelists (who had paid to use the facilities, incidentally) were trying to ignore them and finish their speeches.
The receptionist downstairs was rude. People hanging around outside leered. Everyone wanted my phone number, and being in the 'fraternity', it is hard to refuse. It is also hard to hang up on the 'fraternity' when they call you late at night on a Saturday. Not to share a tip-off. Not to pass on info. Oh no... but to 'just chat!'
And no, I do not like gender-based segregation. I do not like 'women-sit-here; men-sit-there' kind of places. And I do think that segregation is too high a price to pay for equality.
But if I'm ever taking membership, I know where I'm headed... towards the, umm, 'crap' corps.
Friday, October 28, 2005
Monday, October 24, 2005
Sophia and Savitri
A few days ago, I came across this report in the Asian Age (no link available, though I know it appeared in the Delhi edition, on 20th or 21st of October) about some luncheon club started by St Stephen's alumni - a sort of old boys' network, intended for the specific purpose of 'networking'.
One of the founders apparently said (I forget the exact wording of the quote) that it was restricted to those who graduated in the 70s and 80s, because those who graduated before were too old to matter and those who came later weren't yet important enough.
I distinctly remember the use of the word 'important', and I distinctly remember that I reacted with a hoot of bemused laughter.
You graduate from an 'important' college, and you want to 'network' with only those people who are 'important'.
Of course, I always knew that this is how it is, but I was both taken aback and wildly amused by such an unashamed admission of ego and socio-economic snobbery.
----
Driven by this report about old boys' ganging up for the sake of 'importance' , I decided to run a check on my own alma mater. To check on just how low my importance quotient was.
Google told me, first thing, that Sophia Girls College, Ajmer, is ranked a B++ by the National Assessment and Accreditation Council.
This isn't so bad, actually.
Because I was wondering whether my degree was going to be worth the paper it was printed on. Nobody I know (barring fellow-sophians) has even heard of the university, and every time I mentioned Sophia College, people just assumed I was from the more hip college of the same name, in Bombay.
The girls there pronounced the name as an indulgently westernised 'So-fi-aa'. We stuck to a humiliatingly ordinary 'So-phee-aa'.
But what I was really worried about was the ranking given to Savitri College.
I would have died of horror and humiliation if Savitri College ended up with a better ranking, because the Savitri girls were matched equal to us in all the cultural and sporting events (okay, so they were better, sometimes... but we founded our own theatre club, so there!) and they used to darkly suggest that except for our proficiency in English, the Sophians - Sopheeians - were worse off, in every other respect.
And we, we who spoke in English, trembled inwardly at the possibility. Could it be...?
What was even more galling was that both So-phee-aa and Savitri were affiliated to the same university, and that it was rumoured that Savitri actually got more grants and concessions from the government, because it was Hindi-medium for the most part. (I can't vouch for this)
As it happens, to my immense relief and satisfaction, Savitri is ranked lower. They are only a B+, while we are a B++.
Left to us Sopheeans, they wouldn't even get a B; we think they're quite average, and a C+ is about all they deserve... which probably means there are no Sophia girls on the NAAC board.
One of the founders apparently said (I forget the exact wording of the quote) that it was restricted to those who graduated in the 70s and 80s, because those who graduated before were too old to matter and those who came later weren't yet important enough.
I distinctly remember the use of the word 'important', and I distinctly remember that I reacted with a hoot of bemused laughter.
You graduate from an 'important' college, and you want to 'network' with only those people who are 'important'.
Of course, I always knew that this is how it is, but I was both taken aback and wildly amused by such an unashamed admission of ego and socio-economic snobbery.
----
Driven by this report about old boys' ganging up for the sake of 'importance' , I decided to run a check on my own alma mater. To check on just how low my importance quotient was.
Google told me, first thing, that Sophia Girls College, Ajmer, is ranked a B++ by the National Assessment and Accreditation Council.
This isn't so bad, actually.
Because I was wondering whether my degree was going to be worth the paper it was printed on. Nobody I know (barring fellow-sophians) has even heard of the university, and every time I mentioned Sophia College, people just assumed I was from the more hip college of the same name, in Bombay.
The girls there pronounced the name as an indulgently westernised 'So-fi-aa'. We stuck to a humiliatingly ordinary 'So-phee-aa'.
But what I was really worried about was the ranking given to Savitri College.
I would have died of horror and humiliation if Savitri College ended up with a better ranking, because the Savitri girls were matched equal to us in all the cultural and sporting events (okay, so they were better, sometimes... but we founded our own theatre club, so there!) and they used to darkly suggest that except for our proficiency in English, the Sophians - Sopheeians - were worse off, in every other respect.
And we, we who spoke in English, trembled inwardly at the possibility. Could it be...?
What was even more galling was that both So-phee-aa and Savitri were affiliated to the same university, and that it was rumoured that Savitri actually got more grants and concessions from the government, because it was Hindi-medium for the most part. (I can't vouch for this)
As it happens, to my immense relief and satisfaction, Savitri is ranked lower. They are only a B+, while we are a B++.
Left to us Sopheeans, they wouldn't even get a B; we think they're quite average, and a C+ is about all they deserve... which probably means there are no Sophia girls on the NAAC board.
Saturday, October 22, 2005
Genesis of a drawstrung nation
This is absurd.
Whether the news is true or not, whether the alleged fatwa is justified or not, is secondary. What intrigues me is the bit about 'salwars' being Tamil gear... Tamil? Since when?
It's really quite intriguing - this mad scramble across the sub-continent to claim the unobstrusive salwar as 'traditionally ours' and hang it round women's pelvises.
I ran a search on the genesis of shalwaar (also of salwar), and found little historical information, though I did find several idiotic claims that it was of 'Indian' or 'Pakistani', 'Punjabi' or 'Muslim', origin. Much marketing of this piece of baggy sackage (there's no other apt term for it, really); while some speak of it's in-betweenness, others hint at it's genesis and the journey thus far.
Now, I'm no authority on traditional garments (though, we really should stop writing 'salwar-kameez' because it is pronounced 'shalwaar' and 'qameez', as in 'qatl' and 'qayamat'), but I do know that shalwaar-qameez is about as 'Indian' or as 'Muslim', as aeroplanes or T-shirts.
----
Let's go back a little. Let's go back 20 years.
I'm in primary school. I'm wearing a blue-green shalwaar (churidaar, actually) and it's my birthday. This is rural Rajasthan. Everyone is gawking. NOBODY wears shalwaars here. Not our teachers (all wear sarees) and not the students (all the girls wear skirts or frocks or, if the family's daring, pants).
This is the first time I'm spending any length of time in the costume either. My mother tells me, after school-hours, she found me wandering about with the kurta tucked inside the churidaar, pant-shirt-style.
----
Fast-forward 15 years.
I'm in high school. Everyone wears shalwaars - the Mallu Bio teacher, the Rajput kindergarten teacher, the Tamil Maths teacher, the Gujjar Socio teacher. they're not calling it 'shalwar-qameez' anymore. They're calling it 'suit'.
----
Fast-forward 5 years.
I'm in college. We're wearing 'suits' for formal functions, 'suits' for photo-sessions, 'suits' for karate practice (some girls wore shalwaars topped with with T-shirts), 'suits' for shopping.
The college administration approved. The hostel warden approved. Jeans were barely tolerated. Skirts (with shorts underneath) were acceptable only on the sports' field.
----
A year later, in Bombay, I attend a Bajrang-Dal-organised workshop for young girls. They talk of the 'outsider race' (read Muslim). They talk of denigration of women's status in society. They ask the girls to wear bindi or tika, as a symbol of their 'Indian' identity. All the girls are in shalwaars. ALL. Most of them are Maharashtrian or Gujarati.
I ask, casually - why?
The girls look surprised. "It's 'our' dress. What else will we wear?"
----
This dress of 'Muslim' origin, they say. This dress of 'Indian' origin, they say. This dress of 'Pakistani' origin, they say. This 'punjabi' dress, they say.... even (allegedly) this dress of Tamil origin, they say?
----
Rewind.
Go back 50 years.
My grandmother is not in shalwaar-qameez. She's in a gharara. She is wound into sareescape by my grandfather, with his nationalistic fervour - one India, secular India, free India... and one national dress - the saree.
Fast-forward 50 years.
My grandmother wears nothing but shalwaar-qameez. My aunts too. My neighbours too. And (wonder of wonders, she who wouldn't be caught dead in the garment, 5 years ago) my ultra-hip mother too!
----
Rewind.
Go back 60 years.
Who's wearing a shalwaar?
A punjabi woman, on both sides of undivided India. Of both communities.
And oh yes, the Punjabi men too! Of both communities. They called it a shalwaar for men as well, until it became unfashionable and we started calling them simply pyjama.
[I have to interject - pyjama is not correct. It is silly to call everything 'pyjama' when men wear it. They can choose between shalwaar, churidaar AND pyjamas of various cuts and shapes.]
What they're wearing is very similar to what Afghani, or Pathan, men wore. The costume today is sometimes referred to as a 'pathan suit'.
----
Go to Saudi Arabia. Go to Egypt. Go to Morocco.
Shalwaars, no. Muslims, yes. T-shirts... maybe. In Iran, pants, head-scarves and T-shirts are more common than shalwaars. Even in Saudi Arabia, underneath the abayas, you won't find too many shalwaars.
----
Rewind.
Go back 100 years.
Who's wearing a shalwaar?
We don't know. Possibly the Pathans. Possibly the Turks, though their version is more like 'harem-pants'.
Go back 1000 years.
Who's wearing a shalwaar?
We don't know. Probably not us. Probably nobody.
Go back 2000 years.
Go back to ancient India.
Go back to Harappa.
Go anywhere in the world.
There are no shalwaars.
There are no aeroplanes either.
Nor any T-shirts.
----
Fast-forward to now.
My domestic help does not wear shalwaars.
"People laugh... They look at me like I was wearing something odd. Nobody in the family wears it." This one is from Rajasthan. The last domestic help lady wore only shalwaars. She was Haryanvi.
----
What makes a shalwaar Indian?
What does the wearing of a shalwaar-qameez make us? Good 'Indian' girls?
How did it get to be this way? How did the shalwaar worm it's way into the moral good books of an entire nation?
Correction. An entire sub-continent.
By being what it is - comfortable? Even, cyclically trendy?
I don't think so.
It isn't just about comfort. It is also about being covered up.
It's about a drawstrung modesty.
Sarees are alright, sort of. But try wearing a saree 'sexily'. Wear it with a strappy blouse, or without one altogether. See how many 'Indians' approve.
Shalwaars are acceptable because they're non-threatening. And that's how we like our women, don't we?
Not slavish. Just non-threatening. Not disembodied, just non-physical. Not invisible, just non-visible.
Non-out-there. Non-this-is-how-I-am. Non-look-if-you-want-like-I-care.
Oh, yes, we like our shalwaars.
----
Rewind.
Lucknow, 2 years ago.
My mother cuts up her transparent sarees to make shalwaar-kameezes for me. Now, I'm still wearing shalwaars, only they don't quite hide my body away.
My aunt refuses to take me out to the market. "Are you out of your mind? What do you think? This isn't Bombay... ".
I used to wonder, in fact... why did Bombay's young women not take to shalwaars with as much enthusiasm? (IMHO, the shalwaar-related fashions were a disaster over there.)
Now, I think I know why.
Whether the news is true or not, whether the alleged fatwa is justified or not, is secondary. What intrigues me is the bit about 'salwars' being Tamil gear... Tamil? Since when?
It's really quite intriguing - this mad scramble across the sub-continent to claim the unobstrusive salwar as 'traditionally ours' and hang it round women's pelvises.
I ran a search on the genesis of shalwaar (also of salwar), and found little historical information, though I did find several idiotic claims that it was of 'Indian' or 'Pakistani', 'Punjabi' or 'Muslim', origin. Much marketing of this piece of baggy sackage (there's no other apt term for it, really); while some speak of it's in-betweenness, others hint at it's genesis and the journey thus far.
Now, I'm no authority on traditional garments (though, we really should stop writing 'salwar-kameez' because it is pronounced 'shalwaar' and 'qameez', as in 'qatl' and 'qayamat'), but I do know that shalwaar-qameez is about as 'Indian' or as 'Muslim', as aeroplanes or T-shirts.
----
Let's go back a little. Let's go back 20 years.
I'm in primary school. I'm wearing a blue-green shalwaar (churidaar, actually) and it's my birthday. This is rural Rajasthan. Everyone is gawking. NOBODY wears shalwaars here. Not our teachers (all wear sarees) and not the students (all the girls wear skirts or frocks or, if the family's daring, pants).
This is the first time I'm spending any length of time in the costume either. My mother tells me, after school-hours, she found me wandering about with the kurta tucked inside the churidaar, pant-shirt-style.
----
Fast-forward 15 years.
I'm in high school. Everyone wears shalwaars - the Mallu Bio teacher, the Rajput kindergarten teacher, the Tamil Maths teacher, the Gujjar Socio teacher. they're not calling it 'shalwar-qameez' anymore. They're calling it 'suit'.
----
Fast-forward 5 years.
I'm in college. We're wearing 'suits' for formal functions, 'suits' for photo-sessions, 'suits' for karate practice (some girls wore shalwaars topped with with T-shirts), 'suits' for shopping.
The college administration approved. The hostel warden approved. Jeans were barely tolerated. Skirts (with shorts underneath) were acceptable only on the sports' field.
----
A year later, in Bombay, I attend a Bajrang-Dal-organised workshop for young girls. They talk of the 'outsider race' (read Muslim). They talk of denigration of women's status in society. They ask the girls to wear bindi or tika, as a symbol of their 'Indian' identity. All the girls are in shalwaars. ALL. Most of them are Maharashtrian or Gujarati.
I ask, casually - why?
The girls look surprised. "It's 'our' dress. What else will we wear?"
----
This dress of 'Muslim' origin, they say. This dress of 'Indian' origin, they say. This dress of 'Pakistani' origin, they say. This 'punjabi' dress, they say.... even (allegedly) this dress of Tamil origin, they say?
----
Rewind.
Go back 50 years.
My grandmother is not in shalwaar-qameez. She's in a gharara. She is wound into sareescape by my grandfather, with his nationalistic fervour - one India, secular India, free India... and one national dress - the saree.
Fast-forward 50 years.
My grandmother wears nothing but shalwaar-qameez. My aunts too. My neighbours too. And (wonder of wonders, she who wouldn't be caught dead in the garment, 5 years ago) my ultra-hip mother too!
----
Rewind.
Go back 60 years.
Who's wearing a shalwaar?
A punjabi woman, on both sides of undivided India. Of both communities.
And oh yes, the Punjabi men too! Of both communities. They called it a shalwaar for men as well, until it became unfashionable and we started calling them simply pyjama.
[I have to interject - pyjama is not correct. It is silly to call everything 'pyjama' when men wear it. They can choose between shalwaar, churidaar AND pyjamas of various cuts and shapes.]
What they're wearing is very similar to what Afghani, or Pathan, men wore. The costume today is sometimes referred to as a 'pathan suit'.
----
Go to Saudi Arabia. Go to Egypt. Go to Morocco.
Shalwaars, no. Muslims, yes. T-shirts... maybe. In Iran, pants, head-scarves and T-shirts are more common than shalwaars. Even in Saudi Arabia, underneath the abayas, you won't find too many shalwaars.
----
Rewind.
Go back 100 years.
Who's wearing a shalwaar?
We don't know. Possibly the Pathans. Possibly the Turks, though their version is more like 'harem-pants'.
Go back 1000 years.
Who's wearing a shalwaar?
We don't know. Probably not us. Probably nobody.
Go back 2000 years.
Go back to ancient India.
Go back to Harappa.
Go anywhere in the world.
There are no shalwaars.
There are no aeroplanes either.
Nor any T-shirts.
----
Fast-forward to now.
My domestic help does not wear shalwaars.
"People laugh... They look at me like I was wearing something odd. Nobody in the family wears it." This one is from Rajasthan. The last domestic help lady wore only shalwaars. She was Haryanvi.
----
What makes a shalwaar Indian?
What does the wearing of a shalwaar-qameez make us? Good 'Indian' girls?
How did it get to be this way? How did the shalwaar worm it's way into the moral good books of an entire nation?
Correction. An entire sub-continent.
By being what it is - comfortable? Even, cyclically trendy?
I don't think so.
It isn't just about comfort. It is also about being covered up.
It's about a drawstrung modesty.
Sarees are alright, sort of. But try wearing a saree 'sexily'. Wear it with a strappy blouse, or without one altogether. See how many 'Indians' approve.
Shalwaars are acceptable because they're non-threatening. And that's how we like our women, don't we?
Not slavish. Just non-threatening. Not disembodied, just non-physical. Not invisible, just non-visible.
Non-out-there. Non-this-is-how-I-am. Non-look-if-you-want-like-I-care.
Oh, yes, we like our shalwaars.
----
Rewind.
Lucknow, 2 years ago.
My mother cuts up her transparent sarees to make shalwaar-kameezes for me. Now, I'm still wearing shalwaars, only they don't quite hide my body away.
My aunt refuses to take me out to the market. "Are you out of your mind? What do you think? This isn't Bombay... ".
I used to wonder, in fact... why did Bombay's young women not take to shalwaars with as much enthusiasm? (IMHO, the shalwaar-related fashions were a disaster over there.)
Now, I think I know why.
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
This day, that day
I often wonder what karmic contract oversees our mornings.
What stipulates, for instance, that one morning I will get up and be greeted by an empty gas cylinder, instead of the usual chai. And that, another day will begin with an hour of non-stop ranting and scolding from people whom I've done nothing to offend.
Which is what happened.
I was up bright and early (okay, so my weekday sunrise happens at 8 am... to each her own dawn) trying to call up a certain urban planner, to fix up an interview.
I had only introduced myself when the dam broke, so to speak.
The good lady refused me an interview, first-off on the grounds that I worked for a media group that doesn't 'report' but only 'supports' our editors' friends (very vehement, vitrolic emphasis on 'Frrrriends', virtually spitting out an explamation mark every time she used the word).
My plea, that I wished to understand the issues, and considered it my duty to speak to as many experts as possible - esp those with contrasting views - fell on deaf ears. To be honest, I didn't even get to make the plea. At least, not in one go.
I would say two words, be interrupted and listen to the good-if-angry lady, for fifteen minutes. How her clients' side of the picture was never represented.
Then, I'd say another three words (inclusive of articles and pronouns) and be interrupted again. Then, I'd listen to complaints about the media being biased, how my story was 'unconstitutional', how we were conducting 'trial by media' and how she couldn't care less, and would never speak to our group, in particular. And why didn't I just go speak to my editor-in-chief's 'Frriends!'
"Go to them! Go! Go to Mr R... Go to Mr D... Go!" she seethed.
She said that the activists were all being paid off. And that she could prove it. I asked her to, but she didn't want to meet me.
She asked me to ask myself - why was this issue being raked up now? At this crucial juncture? She insinuated that my bosses had sent me sniffing on the track on this story because they (or their Frrriends!) had vested interests. I did not tell her that the story was my own idea, not my boss', and that I had not even heard of Mr R and other names she was throwing at me faster than I could grab them.
I tried intermittently - three words at a time - to ask if she'd agree to an emailed list of questions, if she found it too painful dealing with me, in person. Unfortunately, she declined. She apparently didn't even want to share the same bit of newsprint with Mr R and Mr D.
She didn't want to be spoken of in the same breath as those "jokers". Several times during the conversation, she referred to various prominent people as 'bast**ds".
I was torn between hanging up on her, and reminding her that she was speaking to the media, and would she please watch her tongue? Suppose I had a recorder on, all this time? Did she realise I could, techinically, (for, although she said she didn't want to talk to me, she did speak a long, long time) put her words in print?
But there was also this bit of my mind that said this was just vented steam. And since I'd called her, maybe it was all part of destiny's preordainment - that the steam should burn my face.
Maybe it's just bad karma. Maybe, in a previous birth, I had been rude to a young journalist, first thing in the morning... Maybe this was payback time. So, I politely thanked her before assuring her that I would do my best to do a balanced story.
But yesterday.....
True, I awoke to find an empty gas cylinder, and - like always - it was left to me to tackle the crisis (read: lift gas cyclinder, carry downstairs to the re-filling shop, carry back upstairs... where are the boyfriends when you need them, I ask?).
True, I might have pulled a muscle and a half.
Also true that I am an unpleasant sight before my first cup of chai.
Especially when I trudge into daylight with a cylinder (okay, so it was a small cylinder that holds only 3-1/2 kilos of LPG, but so what?).
But then.....
Riding beside me, there are two tiny pre-schoolers, three-year-old (or two-and-a-half?) boys, in a cycle-rickshaw (closed up like a cage, for their safety). Neat uniforms, slicked hair, hankies pinned to their breast-pockets.
They look at me and whisper something to each other.
They smile. I smile.
I wave. They wave back.
Then, timidly, one of them mouths -
'Sexy'.
I stare, open-mouthed, while one giggles to the other and repeats it -
'Sexy'.
And I cannot stop laughing for the rest of the morning.
What was that about karma, again?
What stipulates, for instance, that one morning I will get up and be greeted by an empty gas cylinder, instead of the usual chai. And that, another day will begin with an hour of non-stop ranting and scolding from people whom I've done nothing to offend.
Which is what happened.
I was up bright and early (okay, so my weekday sunrise happens at 8 am... to each her own dawn) trying to call up a certain urban planner, to fix up an interview.
I had only introduced myself when the dam broke, so to speak.
The good lady refused me an interview, first-off on the grounds that I worked for a media group that doesn't 'report' but only 'supports' our editors' friends (very vehement, vitrolic emphasis on 'Frrrriends', virtually spitting out an explamation mark every time she used the word).
My plea, that I wished to understand the issues, and considered it my duty to speak to as many experts as possible - esp those with contrasting views - fell on deaf ears. To be honest, I didn't even get to make the plea. At least, not in one go.
I would say two words, be interrupted and listen to the good-if-angry lady, for fifteen minutes. How her clients' side of the picture was never represented.
Then, I'd say another three words (inclusive of articles and pronouns) and be interrupted again. Then, I'd listen to complaints about the media being biased, how my story was 'unconstitutional', how we were conducting 'trial by media' and how she couldn't care less, and would never speak to our group, in particular. And why didn't I just go speak to my editor-in-chief's 'Frriends!'
"Go to them! Go! Go to Mr R... Go to Mr D... Go!" she seethed.
She said that the activists were all being paid off. And that she could prove it. I asked her to, but she didn't want to meet me.
She asked me to ask myself - why was this issue being raked up now? At this crucial juncture? She insinuated that my bosses had sent me sniffing on the track on this story because they (or their Frrriends!) had vested interests. I did not tell her that the story was my own idea, not my boss', and that I had not even heard of Mr R and other names she was throwing at me faster than I could grab them.
I tried intermittently - three words at a time - to ask if she'd agree to an emailed list of questions, if she found it too painful dealing with me, in person. Unfortunately, she declined. She apparently didn't even want to share the same bit of newsprint with Mr R and Mr D.
She didn't want to be spoken of in the same breath as those "jokers". Several times during the conversation, she referred to various prominent people as 'bast**ds".
I was torn between hanging up on her, and reminding her that she was speaking to the media, and would she please watch her tongue? Suppose I had a recorder on, all this time? Did she realise I could, techinically, (for, although she said she didn't want to talk to me, she did speak a long, long time) put her words in print?
But there was also this bit of my mind that said this was just vented steam. And since I'd called her, maybe it was all part of destiny's preordainment - that the steam should burn my face.
Maybe it's just bad karma. Maybe, in a previous birth, I had been rude to a young journalist, first thing in the morning... Maybe this was payback time. So, I politely thanked her before assuring her that I would do my best to do a balanced story.
But yesterday.....
True, I awoke to find an empty gas cylinder, and - like always - it was left to me to tackle the crisis (read: lift gas cyclinder, carry downstairs to the re-filling shop, carry back upstairs... where are the boyfriends when you need them, I ask?).
True, I might have pulled a muscle and a half.
Also true that I am an unpleasant sight before my first cup of chai.
Especially when I trudge into daylight with a cylinder (okay, so it was a small cylinder that holds only 3-1/2 kilos of LPG, but so what?).
But then.....
Riding beside me, there are two tiny pre-schoolers, three-year-old (or two-and-a-half?) boys, in a cycle-rickshaw (closed up like a cage, for their safety). Neat uniforms, slicked hair, hankies pinned to their breast-pockets.
They look at me and whisper something to each other.
They smile. I smile.
I wave. They wave back.
Then, timidly, one of them mouths -
'Sexy'.
I stare, open-mouthed, while one giggles to the other and repeats it -
'Sexy'.
And I cannot stop laughing for the rest of the morning.
What was that about karma, again?
Friday, October 14, 2005
Stand up, be counted
It's taken me three days to compose this.
To snap out of this spell of fatigue caused by people who like to call themselves educationists but .... oh, look at all this evidence!
I've just been reading and re-reading all the different blog-posts about this nasty business of I I P M and their silly legal notices and the tasteless comments on Rashmi's blog and the overwhelming reactions - some funny and some serious - from all around me.
And what I'm really bothered by is Mr AC's pony-tail. I admittedly know nothing about his institute - never having been interested in the least - but I have problems with his having a pony-tail because I've always stood up for long(ish) hair.
Correction - men with long hair.
I have a thing for long hair because men who sport pony-tails symbolize something... don't ask what. Just something that none of the boys had in my backofbeyondschool-days. Or it could also have something to do with the fact that all the pony-tail-sporting men I know are cool, honest, talented, charming and down-to-earth. So, in all my naivete, I really believed that a guy who nurses a pony-tail can't be a twit. He could be smart. He could be smart-evil. But he can't be petty. He can't be sub-ordinary.
Or so I thought.
Now, I'll have to change a whole chunk of my philosophy towards hair and do a rethink about my systemofonthespotevaluationofmeniknownothingabout.
Siiiigh!
Anyway, Gaurav Sabnis, I have never met you, and I don't know if you have a pony-tail, but hats off and wish you all the best etc.
Rashmi, ditto.
To snap out of this spell of fatigue caused by people who like to call themselves educationists but .... oh, look at all this evidence!
I've just been reading and re-reading all the different blog-posts about this nasty business of I I P M and their silly legal notices and the tasteless comments on Rashmi's blog and the overwhelming reactions - some funny and some serious - from all around me.
And what I'm really bothered by is Mr AC's pony-tail. I admittedly know nothing about his institute - never having been interested in the least - but I have problems with his having a pony-tail because I've always stood up for long(ish) hair.
Correction - men with long hair.
I have a thing for long hair because men who sport pony-tails symbolize something... don't ask what. Just something that none of the boys had in my backofbeyondschool-days. Or it could also have something to do with the fact that all the pony-tail-sporting men I know are cool, honest, talented, charming and down-to-earth. So, in all my naivete, I really believed that a guy who nurses a pony-tail can't be a twit. He could be smart. He could be smart-evil. But he can't be petty. He can't be sub-ordinary.
Or so I thought.
Now, I'll have to change a whole chunk of my philosophy towards hair and do a rethink about my systemofonthespotevaluationofmeniknownothingabout.
Siiiigh!
Anyway, Gaurav Sabnis, I have never met you, and I don't know if you have a pony-tail, but hats off and wish you all the best etc.
Rashmi, ditto.
Monday, October 10, 2005
time to Help
The South Asia Quake Help blog (for news, information about resources, aid, donations and volunteer efforts) is up here.
Do what you can!
Do what you can!
Allahabad
In another language, I've said before, I have a special bond with Allahabad.
This time, I discovered some of the reasons why I like Allahabad.
I like it for the way in which its crochety-yellow buildings turn black with age and disrepair, but somehow, stay dignified and upright. Like they were going to snap at you if you pointed out that they needed a facelift.
For the way in which the wooden doors in the old quarters refuse to be varnished.
For the town's refusal to be jump-started, kick-started or made-over. It is sleepy, unashamedly so, and needs much convincing before it stretches, or even turns over on its side. The glassy malls will come. But they'll come one wall at a time. And behind the glass-fronts of new shopping complexes, the backyards will often remain stolid brick.
For its resistance to impatience, for its quick tempers and imagined slights.
For chalk-notices near cinema halls, like "Cycle Stand. Rs 2. You can watch any film, anywhere."
For its butcher-shop called 'Murga Mahal'.
For the prominent notice on the railway platform saying "wishing you a safe and happy journey AT ALL TIMES" (in large, bold type)
For its old men who do not let go of a conversation, easily, because it is not polite to say abrupt goodbyes. Because you don't just walk off when there's nothing else to be said - you dither, you turn around and repeat a few things you've already made clear, you explain why, you nod in comprehension of why, you say 'yes, then, ok, I will, won't you' and such meaningless phrases a few times.
For its old men who man stores, and cannot find the bill-books because they cannot find their spectacles, and they cannot find their spectacles because they cannot find their spectacles.... And for the way in which I do not drum my fingers on the counter, seething with impatience, because it would not be polite to do so. For the way I keep my head bent, and resist the temptation to push their spectacles into their hands and tell them to hurry.... Besides, where is the hurry?
For its old hotels where they don't have telephones even in the most expensive rooms, and the most expensive rooms overlook a busy market-street.
For its snazzied-up trains, with plug-points for laptop and phone chargers - infuriating sockets that no plausible plug could ever fit into, without serious amputations.
For its STD booths where you still wait, in queue, while the young man ahead of you hogs the only STD line, cootchie-cooing away, in a low voice, back turned to your deliberate glare.
For the way in which the town lurks behind the lips of honey-cheeked girls; the way in which university students can speak unaccented English but let their mothers' accents pepper their Hindi.
For its clingy, just-short-of-slimy pujaaris, playing the caste card as often as I blink - the originals who inspired the filmi stereotype.
A town with such habits as you remember seeing only in the cinema of the 80s. A town of slow rhythms and garish tastes. A town resigned to itself...How can you not like a town whose face is as flawed as your own?
This time, I discovered some of the reasons why I like Allahabad.
I like it for the way in which its crochety-yellow buildings turn black with age and disrepair, but somehow, stay dignified and upright. Like they were going to snap at you if you pointed out that they needed a facelift.
For the way in which the wooden doors in the old quarters refuse to be varnished.
For the town's refusal to be jump-started, kick-started or made-over. It is sleepy, unashamedly so, and needs much convincing before it stretches, or even turns over on its side. The glassy malls will come. But they'll come one wall at a time. And behind the glass-fronts of new shopping complexes, the backyards will often remain stolid brick.
For its resistance to impatience, for its quick tempers and imagined slights.
For chalk-notices near cinema halls, like "Cycle Stand. Rs 2. You can watch any film, anywhere."
For its butcher-shop called 'Murga Mahal'.
For the prominent notice on the railway platform saying "wishing you a safe and happy journey AT ALL TIMES" (in large, bold type)
For its old men who do not let go of a conversation, easily, because it is not polite to say abrupt goodbyes. Because you don't just walk off when there's nothing else to be said - you dither, you turn around and repeat a few things you've already made clear, you explain why, you nod in comprehension of why, you say 'yes, then, ok, I will, won't you' and such meaningless phrases a few times.
For its old men who man stores, and cannot find the bill-books because they cannot find their spectacles, and they cannot find their spectacles because they cannot find their spectacles.... And for the way in which I do not drum my fingers on the counter, seething with impatience, because it would not be polite to do so. For the way I keep my head bent, and resist the temptation to push their spectacles into their hands and tell them to hurry.... Besides, where is the hurry?
For its old hotels where they don't have telephones even in the most expensive rooms, and the most expensive rooms overlook a busy market-street.
For its snazzied-up trains, with plug-points for laptop and phone chargers - infuriating sockets that no plausible plug could ever fit into, without serious amputations.
For its STD booths where you still wait, in queue, while the young man ahead of you hogs the only STD line, cootchie-cooing away, in a low voice, back turned to your deliberate glare.
For the way in which the town lurks behind the lips of honey-cheeked girls; the way in which university students can speak unaccented English but let their mothers' accents pepper their Hindi.
For its clingy, just-short-of-slimy pujaaris, playing the caste card as often as I blink - the originals who inspired the filmi stereotype.
A town with such habits as you remember seeing only in the cinema of the 80s. A town of slow rhythms and garish tastes. A town resigned to itself...How can you not like a town whose face is as flawed as your own?
Friday, October 07, 2005
A trip, alone
Aloneness is an inviting thing.
Especially to essentially small-town people, driven to the big cities. People who have learnt to seek silence in too-much-noise, solitude in too-much-crowd, simplicity in the relatively-sparse, familiarity in the old-abandoned-rundown.
We are those who had to teach themselves to look for richness in women's figures, excess in overflowing monsoon-streets, lushness in embroidered floor-rugs and companionship on barsati-terraces.
Aloneness is a inviting thing to us.
Even at 3.15 am, breathing deep in Delhi's dew-grey 3.15 am aura.
Even at 3.45 am, on New Delhi railway station, it is a special thing.
------------
Even when I step onto the stillness of platform no. 1, and find it lined with bodies - so terribly asleep, they could be dead. So covered are the faces, so careless these exhausted bodies, that the sharp whistles, and the cries of the 4 am-shift sweepers - "Up! Up all!" - are a relief.
In a minute and a half, these faux-dead, these refugees from nowhere, are stretching. As I see them sleepily move their baggage, I shoulder mine, and move to the tea-stall to drink machine-coffee in a clay kullad.
-----------
Even when I cross the bridge to look for my train and am followed by the freshly-awakened louts who whisper "where, madam? All alone?"... even so, the aloneness is welcome.
There is relief in the fact that I alone am irritated. Not a brother, father or male companion who will feel duty-bound to beat up the louts. Not a mother, sister or female friend who will take offence and look fearfully over her shoulder, or whisper angrily about the insolence of it all.
-------------
Even when I am the only woman in sight and every service available is simply passing me by. The newspaper-wala doesn't offer me any newspapers. The chai-wala doesn't offer me any tea. The lock-chain-wala, the book-wala, the polish-wala, the biscuit-chips-wala, the anda-bhurji-wala - they all ignore me, as if I did't exist.
Under my breath, I whisper 'patriarchal so-n-so's!', but I do not mind so much.
In cities, being ignored is a luxury. Somebody NOT trying to sell something is a luxury.
-------------
I check my weight.
Two men who look like they've been here forever and are in no mood to go anywhere, tell me that the weighing machine doesn't work. They are sitting on the machine. I ignore them and fumble for a coin, while they vacate their haunt; the red-n-white wheel stops spinning; I drop the coin.
The cardboard ticket stumbling out tells me I've put on 1.5 kilos; it also tells me, on it's reverse face, that happiness is waiting for me, after a long journey. I amusedly think that at least one part of the machine works. I know where these new 1.5 kilos come from, where they will settle, refugee-like... in relief camps of the stomach, for a month, in abandoned mills of the hips, for a year... nobody knows what will happen to them afterwards. Who wants to think beyond a year?
And I think, stupidly, of the weight of happiness. And whether there's some scientific principle at work - weighted means? Laws of averages dictate that chocolate is directly proportion to... subcutaneous depression is inversely proportional to.... other factors - like money, social network and anorex-quotient - being constant....
-------------
And, in the train, I think about a question I've thought about for ages: Why do small towns have talented sexologists, above all othe fields of specialisation? And why do they advertise so aggressively on walls and fences that border the railway line?
In Madhya Pradesh, for instance, Dr Prabhakar Jain, it seems, is the new toast of those challenged in the bedroom. His name is plastered across three districts -Gwalior, Bhind and Morena.
He welcomes all sorts of problems that I try to translate, out of sheer boredom: namard (impotent, I think?), niyogi(?), nakaam (useless? failure?), niraash (hopeless), charm-rogi(what does this mean?), gupt-rogi (sexually-diseased... but gupt is actually 'sexret' or hidden. strange, isn't it, that anything sexual is also secret?), sheeghrapaat (sheeghra meaning quick, paat meaning falling...? Yes, I know; I do not have an immediate career in translation)
And across all these advertisements, the word SEX keeps guard, like a large, blue-uniformed watchman.
Especially to essentially small-town people, driven to the big cities. People who have learnt to seek silence in too-much-noise, solitude in too-much-crowd, simplicity in the relatively-sparse, familiarity in the old-abandoned-rundown.
We are those who had to teach themselves to look for richness in women's figures, excess in overflowing monsoon-streets, lushness in embroidered floor-rugs and companionship on barsati-terraces.
Aloneness is a inviting thing to us.
Even at 3.15 am, breathing deep in Delhi's dew-grey 3.15 am aura.
Even at 3.45 am, on New Delhi railway station, it is a special thing.
------------
Even when I step onto the stillness of platform no. 1, and find it lined with bodies - so terribly asleep, they could be dead. So covered are the faces, so careless these exhausted bodies, that the sharp whistles, and the cries of the 4 am-shift sweepers - "Up! Up all!" - are a relief.
In a minute and a half, these faux-dead, these refugees from nowhere, are stretching. As I see them sleepily move their baggage, I shoulder mine, and move to the tea-stall to drink machine-coffee in a clay kullad.
-----------
Even when I cross the bridge to look for my train and am followed by the freshly-awakened louts who whisper "where, madam? All alone?"... even so, the aloneness is welcome.
There is relief in the fact that I alone am irritated. Not a brother, father or male companion who will feel duty-bound to beat up the louts. Not a mother, sister or female friend who will take offence and look fearfully over her shoulder, or whisper angrily about the insolence of it all.
-------------
Even when I am the only woman in sight and every service available is simply passing me by. The newspaper-wala doesn't offer me any newspapers. The chai-wala doesn't offer me any tea. The lock-chain-wala, the book-wala, the polish-wala, the biscuit-chips-wala, the anda-bhurji-wala - they all ignore me, as if I did't exist.
Under my breath, I whisper 'patriarchal so-n-so's!', but I do not mind so much.
In cities, being ignored is a luxury. Somebody NOT trying to sell something is a luxury.
-------------
I check my weight.
Two men who look like they've been here forever and are in no mood to go anywhere, tell me that the weighing machine doesn't work. They are sitting on the machine. I ignore them and fumble for a coin, while they vacate their haunt; the red-n-white wheel stops spinning; I drop the coin.
The cardboard ticket stumbling out tells me I've put on 1.5 kilos; it also tells me, on it's reverse face, that happiness is waiting for me, after a long journey. I amusedly think that at least one part of the machine works. I know where these new 1.5 kilos come from, where they will settle, refugee-like... in relief camps of the stomach, for a month, in abandoned mills of the hips, for a year... nobody knows what will happen to them afterwards. Who wants to think beyond a year?
And I think, stupidly, of the weight of happiness. And whether there's some scientific principle at work - weighted means? Laws of averages dictate that chocolate is directly proportion to... subcutaneous depression is inversely proportional to.... other factors - like money, social network and anorex-quotient - being constant....
-------------
And, in the train, I think about a question I've thought about for ages: Why do small towns have talented sexologists, above all othe fields of specialisation? And why do they advertise so aggressively on walls and fences that border the railway line?
In Madhya Pradesh, for instance, Dr Prabhakar Jain, it seems, is the new toast of those challenged in the bedroom. His name is plastered across three districts -Gwalior, Bhind and Morena.
He welcomes all sorts of problems that I try to translate, out of sheer boredom: namard (impotent, I think?), niyogi(?), nakaam (useless? failure?), niraash (hopeless), charm-rogi(what does this mean?), gupt-rogi (sexually-diseased... but gupt is actually 'sexret' or hidden. strange, isn't it, that anything sexual is also secret?), sheeghrapaat (sheeghra meaning quick, paat meaning falling...? Yes, I know; I do not have an immediate career in translation)
And across all these advertisements, the word SEX keeps guard, like a large, blue-uniformed watchman.
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Kebab dilemmas
We (my immediate family) have a rather tenuous relationship with religion.
Like a now on-now, now-off affair between lovers who really don't see eye-to-eye and are a little mortified at the prospect of a lifelong marriage-type commitment... but since they can't see where else they could go for relief and familiar acceptance, they jsut stay.
And so, whenever confronted with the ridiculous, the mad, the incongruous, the false, the stretched-to-limits-of-incredulity in our religion, our reactions range from a shrug to a laugh.
Often, I try to examine my own, and my family's, attitudes to the religion we were born into, to study the multi-pronged fork with which we stab at it, and the social sabre it uses, in turn, to stun us into conformity.
Example:
When inviting distant relatives over for dinner, my mother spends several hours agonizing over the choice between veg/non-veg. This is as much a mehmaan-nawaazi dilemma, as it is a religious one.
It is serious stuff because, culturally, if there's no maas-machhi on the menu, our guests won't feel honoured. Mutton or chicken or both are expected, sort of, when you call people over.
On the other hand, there's this business of halaal and haraam. You have to make sure the meat-shop is a Muslim guy's shop.
This is the part where I suffer horribly because, if the butcher isn't obviously muslim - wearing a cap, a beard and a checked lungi, and a big chalk sign somewhere saying 'halaal', how am I to know?
In Delhi, with new, swankier kebab-shops opening up where the names are cosmopolitan and the shopkeepers rather suave, clean-shaven people, I have no way of knowing halaal from haraam. And I refuse to find out. Besides, I don't care. Why should I ask?
But my mom points out that it might bother our guests.
I point out - we don't need to tell them.
Mom points out - but they may not eat, if they suspect it's not halaal.
I point out - not my concern. Let them go hungry.
Mom points out - It is our concern. The food will go waste.
I am silenced, at this point.
My solution to this is simple though - let's just not call people who're so touchy about their meat.
Mom say - it's not a solution at all. You can't escape family.
But later, as we finally eat our suspect-halaal kebabs, mom muses - But what do these people do at MacDonalds? Do they ask for halaal burgers?
And I try to recall a single instance when somebody has questioned MacDonalds' burgers' halaal quotient. I can't.
I see plenty of burqa-clad, head-scarf-donning women at MacD's. I see Arab men. Nobody kicks up a fuss. Yet, these same people do kick up a huge fuss when it comes to the neighbourhood butcher-shop...
And I completely fail to understand - why?
I've heard Mohammad (the prophet) himself ate without kicking up a fuss. He ate with tribal chieftains who weren't necessarily his followers. He ate with Europeans, Greeks. I can't imagine him checking with the chefs.
But then, they say that religion is not about Mohammad alone, not anymore. Religion is never about its origins, its prophets, its holy books. I'm still trying to figure out why.
Like a now on-now, now-off affair between lovers who really don't see eye-to-eye and are a little mortified at the prospect of a lifelong marriage-type commitment... but since they can't see where else they could go for relief and familiar acceptance, they jsut stay.
And so, whenever confronted with the ridiculous, the mad, the incongruous, the false, the stretched-to-limits-of-incredulity in our religion, our reactions range from a shrug to a laugh.
Often, I try to examine my own, and my family's, attitudes to the religion we were born into, to study the multi-pronged fork with which we stab at it, and the social sabre it uses, in turn, to stun us into conformity.
Example:
When inviting distant relatives over for dinner, my mother spends several hours agonizing over the choice between veg/non-veg. This is as much a mehmaan-nawaazi dilemma, as it is a religious one.
It is serious stuff because, culturally, if there's no maas-machhi on the menu, our guests won't feel honoured. Mutton or chicken or both are expected, sort of, when you call people over.
On the other hand, there's this business of halaal and haraam. You have to make sure the meat-shop is a Muslim guy's shop.
This is the part where I suffer horribly because, if the butcher isn't obviously muslim - wearing a cap, a beard and a checked lungi, and a big chalk sign somewhere saying 'halaal', how am I to know?
In Delhi, with new, swankier kebab-shops opening up where the names are cosmopolitan and the shopkeepers rather suave, clean-shaven people, I have no way of knowing halaal from haraam. And I refuse to find out. Besides, I don't care. Why should I ask?
But my mom points out that it might bother our guests.
I point out - we don't need to tell them.
Mom points out - but they may not eat, if they suspect it's not halaal.
I point out - not my concern. Let them go hungry.
Mom points out - It is our concern. The food will go waste.
I am silenced, at this point.
My solution to this is simple though - let's just not call people who're so touchy about their meat.
Mom say - it's not a solution at all. You can't escape family.
But later, as we finally eat our suspect-halaal kebabs, mom muses - But what do these people do at MacDonalds? Do they ask for halaal burgers?
And I try to recall a single instance when somebody has questioned MacDonalds' burgers' halaal quotient. I can't.
I see plenty of burqa-clad, head-scarf-donning women at MacD's. I see Arab men. Nobody kicks up a fuss. Yet, these same people do kick up a huge fuss when it comes to the neighbourhood butcher-shop...
And I completely fail to understand - why?
I've heard Mohammad (the prophet) himself ate without kicking up a fuss. He ate with tribal chieftains who weren't necessarily his followers. He ate with Europeans, Greeks. I can't imagine him checking with the chefs.
But then, they say that religion is not about Mohammad alone, not anymore. Religion is never about its origins, its prophets, its holy books. I'm still trying to figure out why.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
When cabbies ask for kisses (auto-maton-6)
Mid-day has a report - cabbie asks tourist for kiss - which, while it is all rather pathetic, brings back scary memories from four years ago.
The time when I worked for Mid-day and took my turn at the shifts - early morning, afternoon or late-night (the newsroom referred to them as 'mourning', 'bakra' and 'graveyard' shifts respectively). The times when I set out of the house at 3.45 in the morning. Or took the last train home, at about 1 o'clock at night. The time when I began to see that Bombay is only as safe as its crowds. Give it a moment of alone-ness, give it a deserted stretch of road, and it can turn into as much of a male beast as Delhi was rumoured to be.
Four years ago, I took an auto-rickshaw home, from Andheri station to the east where we lived, near Mahakali.
I forget whether I was on the graveyard shift, or not. The details are rather fuzzy in my head, but I remember working late, and it was nearly midnight, or way past. I remember being exhausted and taking the first auto that agreed to take me.
I remember being calm until we hit the flyover and two men started giving chase, on a bike. They were shouting - I couldn't hear what, but I remember the fear. They ordered the rickshaw-driver to stop. They tried blocking his way, driving him almost off the bridge.
To my horror, the driver slowed down. He turned round in his seat, leered and said, "Shall I stop? Shall we wait for them?"
For a fraction of a second, I was tongue-tied. But not long enough. I told him, "If you stop now, I will kill you. I really will."
It is an entirely different matter that I wouldn't have known how to begin carrying out my threat, or whether I made any sense at all, but the driver turned his attention to the accelerator. Which was not a good idea either, because he was clearly drunk. But he seemed to be the lesser of two evils.
The men on the bike were riding parallel to us, now. They cursed, kept trying to get the auto to stop, but when the flyover met a junction of the road that was slightly busier, with a little more traffic, they gave up and left.
I couldn't breathe yet, though. Now, I had the driver to contend with. I wanted him to stop and get into another auto, but he would not slow down, not even at traffic lights. So, I held my silence and prayed.
Then, this man began to talk. "So, what are you?"
I did not want to antagonize him right now, so I decided to talk to him as long as he kept getting me closer to home. "What do you mean?"
"What do you do?"
"I write."
"You what?"
"I write for a paper. I'm a journalist."
He laughed outright. "You're lying!"
"What?" I was surprised at his disbelief. "Why should I lie?"
"You don't look like a journalist."
"Why? What do you think a journalist looks like?"
"I don't know.... Not like you."
"What do I look like then?"
"You look like a bar dancer," he turned to look at me and almost drove off the road, in his drunk grinning.
I swallowed this with mixed reactions. Did he mean to compliment me or was he suggesting something? "A bar dancer, hunh? What do bar dancers look like?"
"They look like you."
"Oh!" I didn't know what else to say. I looked down at myself - long checked kurta, loosely clasped vagrant hair, loose salwar, flat kolhapuris, no jewelry, no make-up. Bar dancer?
He drove for a while longer, then began again. "So, which bar do you dance in?"
"I told you - I'm not a dancer. I work for a paper."
He laughed again. "You're lying. Come, tell me the truth."
"But I did tell the truth."
"Really? Which paper do you write for?"
"Mid-day."
He looked into the mirror, unsure now, of whether I was kidding him or not. Besides, we were nearly home. My relief was giving me courage.
So I said, "Why did you say I look like a dancer? You know quite well that I don't."
He grinned again. "I know. I just wanted to say it."
"Stop."
My building's gates loomed large and so did two sleepy watchmen.
I began to take out money to pay him, but the driver said, "Give me one kiss, before you go."
I just stared at him, stupefied. "Why?"
"One kiss. You don't need to pay me, if you like."
I refused and tried to thrust money into his hands but hut he was not listening. "You must give me one kiss before you go."
"Are you out of your mind? Take your money and leave, before I call the watchmen."
The man tried to start up the auto-rickshaw and begin moving again. So, I stepped out quickly, flung money into the passenger-seat and ran, not stopping until I stepped inside the gates.
I didn't say anything at home. Once safe at home, food, sleep and exhaustion took care of the fear. (If you ever read this, mom, it was all a long time ago. No point getting upset about it, now).
I did not mention this because it would serve no purpose. I did not know the auto's number, and wasn't sure if I even wanted the driver arrested. He was drunk; and he did save me from the bike-riders....
If I had mentioned it, it would either have been translated into diktats, like "No more coming home late/No more going out alone". Or, I would have been forced to ask the chief/ editor to excuse me from the mourning and graveyard shifts. Which, I refuse to do. I never have asked for gender-based concessions when it comes to work; don't intend to.
Why am I bringing it up, now?
Because I am thinking of bar dancers and auto-drivers who ask for kisses.
Because a lot of times in Bombay, taking the last train home, I have felt safe only because there were dozens of confident, loud, bar dancers in the ladies' compartment, who would not stand by and watch - I am reasonably certain - if there was trouble.
Because Bombay's 'safe-for-women' tag is not a universal deal; to a lot of women, it is a myth. Because Bombay's sex ratio is also quite skewed. Because I have data that suggests a direct link between the lack of women and the growing cases of violence against women.
Because it is far enough in the past for me to laugh about it, a little. Because the world is so crazy, that I'm even a little sorry for poor auto-drivers who must be so desperate for kisses that they ask complete strangers, and I wonder if they ever get kissed, at all? Are bar dancers the only ones who agree to kiss them?
Or just... because.
The time when I worked for Mid-day and took my turn at the shifts - early morning, afternoon or late-night (the newsroom referred to them as 'mourning', 'bakra' and 'graveyard' shifts respectively). The times when I set out of the house at 3.45 in the morning. Or took the last train home, at about 1 o'clock at night. The time when I began to see that Bombay is only as safe as its crowds. Give it a moment of alone-ness, give it a deserted stretch of road, and it can turn into as much of a male beast as Delhi was rumoured to be.
Four years ago, I took an auto-rickshaw home, from Andheri station to the east where we lived, near Mahakali.
I forget whether I was on the graveyard shift, or not. The details are rather fuzzy in my head, but I remember working late, and it was nearly midnight, or way past. I remember being exhausted and taking the first auto that agreed to take me.
I remember being calm until we hit the flyover and two men started giving chase, on a bike. They were shouting - I couldn't hear what, but I remember the fear. They ordered the rickshaw-driver to stop. They tried blocking his way, driving him almost off the bridge.
To my horror, the driver slowed down. He turned round in his seat, leered and said, "Shall I stop? Shall we wait for them?"
For a fraction of a second, I was tongue-tied. But not long enough. I told him, "If you stop now, I will kill you. I really will."
It is an entirely different matter that I wouldn't have known how to begin carrying out my threat, or whether I made any sense at all, but the driver turned his attention to the accelerator. Which was not a good idea either, because he was clearly drunk. But he seemed to be the lesser of two evils.
The men on the bike were riding parallel to us, now. They cursed, kept trying to get the auto to stop, but when the flyover met a junction of the road that was slightly busier, with a little more traffic, they gave up and left.
I couldn't breathe yet, though. Now, I had the driver to contend with. I wanted him to stop and get into another auto, but he would not slow down, not even at traffic lights. So, I held my silence and prayed.
Then, this man began to talk. "So, what are you?"
I did not want to antagonize him right now, so I decided to talk to him as long as he kept getting me closer to home. "What do you mean?"
"What do you do?"
"I write."
"You what?"
"I write for a paper. I'm a journalist."
He laughed outright. "You're lying!"
"What?" I was surprised at his disbelief. "Why should I lie?"
"You don't look like a journalist."
"Why? What do you think a journalist looks like?"
"I don't know.... Not like you."
"What do I look like then?"
"You look like a bar dancer," he turned to look at me and almost drove off the road, in his drunk grinning.
I swallowed this with mixed reactions. Did he mean to compliment me or was he suggesting something? "A bar dancer, hunh? What do bar dancers look like?"
"They look like you."
"Oh!" I didn't know what else to say. I looked down at myself - long checked kurta, loosely clasped vagrant hair, loose salwar, flat kolhapuris, no jewelry, no make-up. Bar dancer?
He drove for a while longer, then began again. "So, which bar do you dance in?"
"I told you - I'm not a dancer. I work for a paper."
He laughed again. "You're lying. Come, tell me the truth."
"But I did tell the truth."
"Really? Which paper do you write for?"
"Mid-day."
He looked into the mirror, unsure now, of whether I was kidding him or not. Besides, we were nearly home. My relief was giving me courage.
So I said, "Why did you say I look like a dancer? You know quite well that I don't."
He grinned again. "I know. I just wanted to say it."
"Stop."
My building's gates loomed large and so did two sleepy watchmen.
I began to take out money to pay him, but the driver said, "Give me one kiss, before you go."
I just stared at him, stupefied. "Why?"
"One kiss. You don't need to pay me, if you like."
I refused and tried to thrust money into his hands but hut he was not listening. "You must give me one kiss before you go."
"Are you out of your mind? Take your money and leave, before I call the watchmen."
The man tried to start up the auto-rickshaw and begin moving again. So, I stepped out quickly, flung money into the passenger-seat and ran, not stopping until I stepped inside the gates.
I didn't say anything at home. Once safe at home, food, sleep and exhaustion took care of the fear. (If you ever read this, mom, it was all a long time ago. No point getting upset about it, now).
I did not mention this because it would serve no purpose. I did not know the auto's number, and wasn't sure if I even wanted the driver arrested. He was drunk; and he did save me from the bike-riders....
If I had mentioned it, it would either have been translated into diktats, like "No more coming home late/No more going out alone". Or, I would have been forced to ask the chief/ editor to excuse me from the mourning and graveyard shifts. Which, I refuse to do. I never have asked for gender-based concessions when it comes to work; don't intend to.
Why am I bringing it up, now?
Because I am thinking of bar dancers and auto-drivers who ask for kisses.
Because a lot of times in Bombay, taking the last train home, I have felt safe only because there were dozens of confident, loud, bar dancers in the ladies' compartment, who would not stand by and watch - I am reasonably certain - if there was trouble.
Because Bombay's 'safe-for-women' tag is not a universal deal; to a lot of women, it is a myth. Because Bombay's sex ratio is also quite skewed. Because I have data that suggests a direct link between the lack of women and the growing cases of violence against women.
Because it is far enough in the past for me to laugh about it, a little. Because the world is so crazy, that I'm even a little sorry for poor auto-drivers who must be so desperate for kisses that they ask complete strangers, and I wonder if they ever get kissed, at all? Are bar dancers the only ones who agree to kiss them?
Or just... because.
Friday, September 30, 2005
The realm of the brew
Having spent four days in Chhattisgarh, doing what I do - consuming substantial quantities of chai - I realise what a grave mistake it is to give up control in the realm of the brew.
Chai is not the sort of thing you drink because it is a nice brew with many variations on the theme, and you're fond of it. Or because it helps you relax. Or because you need a caffeine fix. Or because you're socializing politely amongst people who don't drink.
No... chai just is a bit of you. Like blood. Or, like a steel rod fixed somewhere between your joints. It gets internalised, as gradually as bone and ligament, as inevitably. It becomes a large part of you, and you get so used to it, you can no longer function without it.
Chai is personal, intensely so. As personal as touch, and you feel as bereft and vulnerable without it as you would without your underclothes. Very few people can quite make it so it exactly fits your gut, your tongue. Very few people even realise what they're doing wrong when they're making it. And you can guide them but you cannot imbue them with your gastronomic sensibility. Their hands will often err on this side of sweet or that side of milky.
Such is my take on chai.
And for me to get bad chai - day after day, morning after night, theme after varied theme, in office after office, on railway station after station - is a relentless assault upon all five senses, which I bravely endured, for three days, without a word of complaint. But when I began to feel like there was a thick powdery-solid layer of milky chai drying itself on the back of my tongue, my resolve died. On the night of the third day, I buckled and asked the hotel to send up some hot water in a flask, tea bags and cubed sugar.
But my travails were yet to end. Room Service mixed up orders, and sent me milky tea instead. And, for the first time in my life, I SENT IT BACK to the kitchen. Never before have I summoned a waiter, induced just the right amount of icy disapproval and restrained irritation into my voice and said, "Take this away, please!"
And having said all this, I apologize.
Sorry, Rajdhani train.
I like your chai.
I like the little satchets of everything and the flasks of boiling (give or take 35 degrees C) water.
I like being able to hold my tray on my lap, a cup held awkwardly between my knees. I like being able to use only half a satchet of sugar and perhaps no milk powder at all. I like tea when it is weak, suggestively sweet-bitter. I like being in control.
I promise you, Rajdhani train, I will never EVER complain, even when my knees get scalded. Just don't give up on the flasks, please.
Chai is not the sort of thing you drink because it is a nice brew with many variations on the theme, and you're fond of it. Or because it helps you relax. Or because you need a caffeine fix. Or because you're socializing politely amongst people who don't drink.
No... chai just is a bit of you. Like blood. Or, like a steel rod fixed somewhere between your joints. It gets internalised, as gradually as bone and ligament, as inevitably. It becomes a large part of you, and you get so used to it, you can no longer function without it.
Chai is personal, intensely so. As personal as touch, and you feel as bereft and vulnerable without it as you would without your underclothes. Very few people can quite make it so it exactly fits your gut, your tongue. Very few people even realise what they're doing wrong when they're making it. And you can guide them but you cannot imbue them with your gastronomic sensibility. Their hands will often err on this side of sweet or that side of milky.
Such is my take on chai.
And for me to get bad chai - day after day, morning after night, theme after varied theme, in office after office, on railway station after station - is a relentless assault upon all five senses, which I bravely endured, for three days, without a word of complaint. But when I began to feel like there was a thick powdery-solid layer of milky chai drying itself on the back of my tongue, my resolve died. On the night of the third day, I buckled and asked the hotel to send up some hot water in a flask, tea bags and cubed sugar.
But my travails were yet to end. Room Service mixed up orders, and sent me milky tea instead. And, for the first time in my life, I SENT IT BACK to the kitchen. Never before have I summoned a waiter, induced just the right amount of icy disapproval and restrained irritation into my voice and said, "Take this away, please!"
And having said all this, I apologize.
Sorry, Rajdhani train.
I like your chai.
I like the little satchets of everything and the flasks of boiling (give or take 35 degrees C) water.
I like being able to hold my tray on my lap, a cup held awkwardly between my knees. I like being able to use only half a satchet of sugar and perhaps no milk powder at all. I like tea when it is weak, suggestively sweet-bitter. I like being in control.
I promise you, Rajdhani train, I will never EVER complain, even when my knees get scalded. Just don't give up on the flasks, please.
Skirts, skin and tarnished images
A few days ago, I read a column by Pamela Philipose where she says "we confront one of the most assiduously cultivated fears in traditional societies: the fear of female sexuality as a potential destabiliser of ways of life and social hierarchies — not least those governing men and women. The fear is an old and familiar one and is especially associated with unattached women...."
It got me thinking. What, really, is it about short skirts and culture?
Have we forgotten our own culture so completely? Are we really so out of tune the reality of what comprises India? I'm thinking of the adivasi women in Bastar, right now. They wear one short piece of cloth round the waist and another thrown round the shoulder. When they work in the fields, the upper cloth is thrown off entirely. When they carry babies, another bit of cloth is added, as a sort of sling.
Not that I didn't look at them. In all honesty, I did notice their bodies - the deep-brown skin, the bare breast, the stringy calves. But I found myself looking at them in a more whole, a more integral, sort of way. I looked at withered wrinkled skin. I looked at young, supply skin. I saw grey hair. I saw toothy smile. I saw a breast. I saw swollen stomach. And I found I could not look at them as objects - I could not longer look at parts of the body without looking at the whole woman.
Or man. Because the men also wore only a single short piece of cloth round the waist. And after a while, you stopped looking at the fact that so much skin was visible. You only saw the worry in the eyes, the lines on the forehead.
Of course, it is also true that they more they are exposed to life outside the forests, the more ashamed they seem to be of their bodies. The women have begun to wear blouses under their two bits of cloth. Some even wear full-length sarees. Nylon, invariably - cheap and entirely unsuitable for the weather. As you drive closer to urban centres, you find the women covering up more and more, some of them even covering their heads and hinding their faces when they talk to you.
The sight always leaves me incredibly sad.
How is it that we can undo, or try to, everything that represents colonial slavishness, except when it comes to our minds and our ideas of morality?
We change street names, city names, institution names. Why can we not go back to dressing the way we did in pre-british times? Why is it that we never, ever, hear a politician stand up and demand that women stop wearing petticoats under their sarees, since that is what 'Indian' culture dictated? How is it that school uniforms are never cotton kurtas, especially for boys? Why are we so afraid of being, and appearing, 'native'?
--------
On the other hand, I'm not feeling too sympathetic towards Khushboo either. Who asked the silly woman to go crying and apologizing on television? If she has the guts to feel something, she should have the guts to stand by it. If she - with her money, her police protection and her ability to get people to listen - gets cowed down this once, so will all those other Tamil women who agree with her. And I can bet there are a whole lot of them out there.
Speak up, you!
-----------
Speaking of tarnished images, here's some more furrowed brows on that account.
Stupid, stupid people. Did they think the dance-bar-ban would really settle down quietly, like so much dust?
It got me thinking. What, really, is it about short skirts and culture?
Have we forgotten our own culture so completely? Are we really so out of tune the reality of what comprises India? I'm thinking of the adivasi women in Bastar, right now. They wear one short piece of cloth round the waist and another thrown round the shoulder. When they work in the fields, the upper cloth is thrown off entirely. When they carry babies, another bit of cloth is added, as a sort of sling.
Not that I didn't look at them. In all honesty, I did notice their bodies - the deep-brown skin, the bare breast, the stringy calves. But I found myself looking at them in a more whole, a more integral, sort of way. I looked at withered wrinkled skin. I looked at young, supply skin. I saw grey hair. I saw toothy smile. I saw a breast. I saw swollen stomach. And I found I could not look at them as objects - I could not longer look at parts of the body without looking at the whole woman.
Or man. Because the men also wore only a single short piece of cloth round the waist. And after a while, you stopped looking at the fact that so much skin was visible. You only saw the worry in the eyes, the lines on the forehead.
Of course, it is also true that they more they are exposed to life outside the forests, the more ashamed they seem to be of their bodies. The women have begun to wear blouses under their two bits of cloth. Some even wear full-length sarees. Nylon, invariably - cheap and entirely unsuitable for the weather. As you drive closer to urban centres, you find the women covering up more and more, some of them even covering their heads and hinding their faces when they talk to you.
The sight always leaves me incredibly sad.
How is it that we can undo, or try to, everything that represents colonial slavishness, except when it comes to our minds and our ideas of morality?
We change street names, city names, institution names. Why can we not go back to dressing the way we did in pre-british times? Why is it that we never, ever, hear a politician stand up and demand that women stop wearing petticoats under their sarees, since that is what 'Indian' culture dictated? How is it that school uniforms are never cotton kurtas, especially for boys? Why are we so afraid of being, and appearing, 'native'?
--------
And just when I'd fimished fuming about Sania Mirza and her silly talk of forgiveness for short skirts (I could tell her that 'Allah' doesn't care. He/She made her pretty much nude, and didn't blindfold Himself, while doing so... like the song goes, "Pardah nahin jab koi khudaa se, bando.n se pardah karna kya?"), I come across this Khushboo controversy.
Poor Woman.
All she did was say (according to reports) that pre-marital sex was okay 'provided safety measures are followed to prevent pregnancy and sexually-transmitted diseases' and that 'No educated man today would expect his wife to be a virgin.'
And for this, they burn effigies, and file lawsuits?
According to the report, "The women's wing of PMK, an ally of the United Progressive Alliance (UPA) government, filed a civil suit in a metropolitan magistrate's court seeking action against the actress under sections 499 and 500 of the Indian Penal Code.... 'Khushboo has tarnished the image of Tamil women, making them hang their heads in shame,' the wing's central Chennai district leader Deepam Jaikumar said."
Right now, it is I who am hanging my head in shame on behalf of all the women of this country who are watching this happen and not daring to say "But of course! We agree with Khushboo".On the other hand, I'm not feeling too sympathetic towards Khushboo either. Who asked the silly woman to go crying and apologizing on television? If she has the guts to feel something, she should have the guts to stand by it. If she - with her money, her police protection and her ability to get people to listen - gets cowed down this once, so will all those other Tamil women who agree with her. And I can bet there are a whole lot of them out there.
Speak up, you!
-----------
Speaking of tarnished images, here's some more furrowed brows on that account.
Stupid, stupid people. Did they think the dance-bar-ban would really settle down quietly, like so much dust?
Morena and the modi*
On our way to the villages in Morena's rural regions, I muse, "Six lakhs each, eh? Multiplied by seven. Are the stakes that high in this sonography game? And how much more must the doctors be making? I mean, the village people can't afford that much, can they?"
"They can't. Not any more. But earlier, the sheer volumes made up for low prices. Rs 2000 was the going rate for revealing the sex of the foetus. The landed farmers could afford that much."
"And now?"
"Now, the business is shifting towards Agra, Gwalior, even Bhind. But the rates are higher there. Maybe Rs 5000. Maybe more. At least, rural folk think twice about gettign a test done - the travel, lodging and boarding expenses to and fro, the tests, the bribes... often, they get a sonography done in bigger cities and come back to Morena's small government hospitals to get an abortion. It works out cheaper."
"And those who can't afford it?"
"The very poor anyway don't bother. Also, the poorer ones are often lower caste or tribal. They don't mind having daughters."
"Why?"
She explains, "Some of the lower castes here are not so much into dowry. And even if they are, marriage is not sacrosanct, nor a one-time affair. If, for instance, the bride's parents find out that the girl is being mistreated, they will bring her back home, and soon set her up with someone else. That way, the girl's got more of a chance at surviving, even after birth."
"And dowry rates? For the average person, not very highly educated, let's say."
She says, "Guess."
I can't imagine, but I venture a number, anyway. "10 lakhs?"
"Haha! No, more like 35 lakhs in the city. For the average guy. For an IAS, or a doctor, don't even ask."
I don't ask. I don't want to know.
But the math begins to fall into place.
Later, in the village, I ask a woman why she is not educating all her daughters. She is barely forty, has seven daughters, of whom one has been given up for adoption. There would have been ten, but three girls were aborted.
She says, "5 lakhs, if the girl is illiterate. But if you educate her, you have to give more. How much can I give?"
I look at six of her seven daughters. The youngest is a newborn babe, flies buzzing around an open eye-wound. The eldest is about sixteen, combing out her hair because I'm going to take photographs. If she were a boy, she'd have been out with her father, handling the bullocks, managing the fields. I ask her if she will become a farmer, and spare her mother any future attempts to have boys. She lowers her head and does not reply.
Dowry means she will not study. Which means she cannot manage her own land easily. Which means she must be married off to somebody else. Which means she needs a dowry. Which means she had better stay uneducated. Which means...
I look at her little sister, who is about ten, and still attends school. I mumur, "At least, one... you will study, won't you? At least, one of you?"
She grins, not understanding.
I tell myself, maybe she will, after all.
[* Modi, in the Morena dialect, means girl]
"They can't. Not any more. But earlier, the sheer volumes made up for low prices. Rs 2000 was the going rate for revealing the sex of the foetus. The landed farmers could afford that much."
"And now?"
"Now, the business is shifting towards Agra, Gwalior, even Bhind. But the rates are higher there. Maybe Rs 5000. Maybe more. At least, rural folk think twice about gettign a test done - the travel, lodging and boarding expenses to and fro, the tests, the bribes... often, they get a sonography done in bigger cities and come back to Morena's small government hospitals to get an abortion. It works out cheaper."
"And those who can't afford it?"
"The very poor anyway don't bother. Also, the poorer ones are often lower caste or tribal. They don't mind having daughters."
"Why?"
She explains, "Some of the lower castes here are not so much into dowry. And even if they are, marriage is not sacrosanct, nor a one-time affair. If, for instance, the bride's parents find out that the girl is being mistreated, they will bring her back home, and soon set her up with someone else. That way, the girl's got more of a chance at surviving, even after birth."
"And dowry rates? For the average person, not very highly educated, let's say."
She says, "Guess."
I can't imagine, but I venture a number, anyway. "10 lakhs?"
"Haha! No, more like 35 lakhs in the city. For the average guy. For an IAS, or a doctor, don't even ask."
I don't ask. I don't want to know.
But the math begins to fall into place.
Later, in the village, I ask a woman why she is not educating all her daughters. She is barely forty, has seven daughters, of whom one has been given up for adoption. There would have been ten, but three girls were aborted.
She says, "5 lakhs, if the girl is illiterate. But if you educate her, you have to give more. How much can I give?"
I look at six of her seven daughters. The youngest is a newborn babe, flies buzzing around an open eye-wound. The eldest is about sixteen, combing out her hair because I'm going to take photographs. If she were a boy, she'd have been out with her father, handling the bullocks, managing the fields. I ask her if she will become a farmer, and spare her mother any future attempts to have boys. She lowers her head and does not reply.
Dowry means she will not study. Which means she cannot manage her own land easily. Which means she must be married off to somebody else. Which means she needs a dowry. Which means she had better stay uneducated. Which means...
I look at her little sister, who is about ten, and still attends school. I mumur, "At least, one... you will study, won't you? At least, one of you?"
She grins, not understanding.
I tell myself, maybe she will, after all.
[* Modi, in the Morena dialect, means girl]
The honourable Rustom Singh-ji of Morena
Did I ever mention my pursuit of the honourable Mr Rustom Singh, MLA, state minister for health, ex-cop and self-acknowledged polygot - or at least, bi-got (I really didn't intend the pun... no really, I swear), wearer of berets and moustaches?
So, there I was, at about 6 pm, in Morena, waiting for a chance to speak to the honourable state (cabinet) minister of public health, who happens to be in the town, which is also his constituency.
He is sitting in the front row of the pandal, waiting to ascend to the stage, along with some fifteen other gentlemen - local heavyweights all - at a function organised by the Nav Yug Manhar Gware Vaishya Maharaj Mahasen Samaj (okay, so I might have got the order of the words wrong, but I swear all these words stood, juxtaposed with themselves, up on the banner above Mr Rustam Singh's head).
And I am listening to the doyens of the Gware samaj buzz about business against a backdrop of hit-filmi sangeet, while watching the little cherubs of the Gware samaj dancing to win prizes in a freestyle, pop-sy dance competition, to an audience of semi-silk rustles of the semi-ghoonghat-bearing matrons of the Gware samaj, trying to ignore the persistently-consistently booming voice of the Gware Samaj emcee.
Just below the stage, four men stood with long wooden poles on their shoulders, strung with hundreds of marigold garlands.
The emcee invites, one by heavyweighted-named one representative of the Gware Samaj, up on the 'stayz' , to garland the honorable Rustom Singh-ji, MLA. (He broke the monotony by ordering some others to honour the slightly-less-honourable-but-equally-garland-worthy Gajaraj Singh Sikarwal-ji, rival politician from the same constituency).
First, Mr ABC-ji, local doctor, was invited, to marigold-garland Rustom Singh-ji. Then Mr BCD-ji, local marble-quarry owner, was invited, to marigold-garland Gajaraj Singh Sikarwal-ji. Then Mr CDE-ji, local independent-candidate-who-lost-the-election, was invited to garland both Rustom Singh-ji and Gajaraj singh Sikarwal-ji. Then Mr DEF-ji was invited.....
This went on. And on. And on.
The emcee enthusiastically goaded spectators - mostly restless children wearing lipstick and rustling mothers impatient to watch their children perform - to 'Hands Together!' for ABC or PQR personage, and "Swaagat kariye".
The emcee took a two-minute break from coordinating the 'swagat' brigade, to allow a lamp to be lit in front of the photograph of Maharaj Mahasen, who was also garlanded in marigold, incidentally. Then, everyone went back to their seats, and the marigolden-swaagat recommenced.
A sole note of confusion crept into the proceedings, when Mr GHI who was supposed to garland an old freedom fighter also sitting on the stage, ended up garlanding Rustam Singh-ji instead. Poor Mr emcee could only mutter, between the marathon garlanding: "Oh? Er... yes, yes. Aap bhi stayz pe aaiye. Swaagat! (you're also welcome.)"
With a morbid kind of fascination, I stayed tuned in.
I have never seen so much marigold, barring weddings. I never never seen 'swaagat' on this scale. Such endurance, such enthusiasm for garlanding political necks, such a lengthy list of 'community-leaders', I have never seen!
When the Mr A-Zs of the Gware samaj were run through, the emcee began inviting the Mrs ABCs of the community. However, there were much fewer women being invited up on the 'stayz'.
Then, it was the turn of the local boys - 'the youngster generation' - to take up the baton of this marigold marathon.
Finally, the emcee invited honorable mantri-ji to speak, thus: "Not a sound. I tell you, not a sound out of you all! The honourable mantri-ji will speak now."
The mantri-ji returned his compliments, by beginning his speech, thus:
"First of all, I want to admire the compere. He is truly, really, totally charming. His voice is so attractive. He is so natural. His English is wonderful... and I am impressed; you see, I speak both English and Hindi myself. I am impressed at his English. So wonderful. He is a truly attractive compere... what is your name, young man? Ah! I must congratulate the Gware community for having produced such wonderful younger generation...."
I was rather impressed myself, but I began to tune out.
Another, much more interesting conversation is happening at my shoulder. A young boy is shaking hands with my companion, a local activist working to counter female foeticide in the region.
He tells her, "Didi, you're doing good work. These people... they deserved it."
He is referring to the local campaign against doctors who perform sonography tests, without finishing the accompanying legalities. I discover that the boy is a cousin of a local radiologist, one whose clinic was on the blacklist, and whose license had been temporarily suspended, that is, until honourable Rustam Singh-ji took over the state public health portfolio. (My report, here and here).
The activist asks, "Is it true that the clinics had to pay up to get their licenses back?"
The boy shrugged, "6 lakhs. Pakki baat hai (it's a certainty)."
"All pooled in?"
"Hah! 6 lakhs each!"
"And it went to?"
The boy smiled a slow smile and nodded at the stage, where the honorable minister was poking public fun at his fellow-garlanded heavyweights, the ones who lost the last election, at any rate.
------------------
I wait to meet the honourable minister.
He has told me that he will speak to me after the Gware samaj function. After the function, he tells me he will speak to me after the dinner. After his dinner, he tells me he will speak to me after he has visited a colleague.
I wait for him at the circuit-house, hoping that he will eventually return here., before going back to Bhopal.
9 pm. I wait. 9.30 pm, I wait. 10 pm. I wait. 10.30 pm, I wait.
And then, a flash of whirring red-light topped ambassadors and the screech of tyres. Armed bodyguards and circuit-house karmchaaris rushing to put on their white caps, and bend their heads, by way of swaagat.
He doesn't arrive alone. There are at least 30-35 men with him. I sit my ground. I mean, a white-linen covered sofa. I'm not going away, I firmly decide.
After bantering with half the crowd, accepting compliments and flowers, turning down a marriage invitation and blessing those who touch his feet with a half-wave of the hand, he turns to me.
"Yes, madam?"
The honourable Ruston Singh speaks to me in English (sort of), throughout, despite my attempts at switching to Hindi, to spare both of us our individual linguistic pains.
When I ask a particularly uncomfortable question, he says, "I am only speaking to you in English because you're from Delhi. You Delhi people - you are all English. You see, I am equally comfortable in both languages. English and Hindi. I can even speak in our Morena-dialect. But you will not understand our moda-modi language."
I assure him, I will. Then, I add, "Actually, I'd prefer it if you speak in Hindi."
He leans back into the sofa, sighs with relief and promptly does so.
I promptly ask him more uncomfortable questions. Like how it was that the sonography-equipped clinics got back their licenses after he took over the public health portfolio in the state.
He denies it. "As a matter of fact, the licenses were suspended only when I took over. I master-minded the raids you see. You think the administration could do anything without my wanting it to?"
The activist accompanying me points out that the dates don't quite correspond - the raids happened, the licenses got cancelled, he took over as state health minister, pleas were filed, the directorate of health reinstated the licenses.... in that order.
At this point, the honourable Rustam Singh-ji lost his temper and raised his voice, all the while continuing to bless, with a half-wave, those who continued to touch his feet. "You know nothing! What do you know about Morena?....... But I have given you enough time. I have other things to do."
While another devotee dived towards his feet, the mantri-ji stood up, adjusted his beret, and stalked off into the cool recesses of the circuit-house.
I remain seated on the white-linen covered sofa, taking notes furiously. Taking down every single word.
[Cont, in the next post]
---------------------
So, there I was, at about 6 pm, in Morena, waiting for a chance to speak to the honourable state (cabinet) minister of public health, who happens to be in the town, which is also his constituency.
He is sitting in the front row of the pandal, waiting to ascend to the stage, along with some fifteen other gentlemen - local heavyweights all - at a function organised by the Nav Yug Manhar Gware Vaishya Maharaj Mahasen Samaj (okay, so I might have got the order of the words wrong, but I swear all these words stood, juxtaposed with themselves, up on the banner above Mr Rustam Singh's head).
And I am listening to the doyens of the Gware samaj buzz about business against a backdrop of hit-filmi sangeet, while watching the little cherubs of the Gware samaj dancing to win prizes in a freestyle, pop-sy dance competition, to an audience of semi-silk rustles of the semi-ghoonghat-bearing matrons of the Gware samaj, trying to ignore the persistently-consistently booming voice of the Gware Samaj emcee.
Just below the stage, four men stood with long wooden poles on their shoulders, strung with hundreds of marigold garlands.
The emcee invites, one by heavyweighted-named one representative of the Gware Samaj, up on the 'stayz' , to garland the honorable Rustom Singh-ji, MLA. (He broke the monotony by ordering some others to honour the slightly-less-honourable-but-equally-garland-worthy Gajaraj Singh Sikarwal-ji, rival politician from the same constituency).
First, Mr ABC-ji, local doctor, was invited, to marigold-garland Rustom Singh-ji. Then Mr BCD-ji, local marble-quarry owner, was invited, to marigold-garland Gajaraj Singh Sikarwal-ji. Then Mr CDE-ji, local independent-candidate-who-lost-the-election, was invited to garland both Rustom Singh-ji and Gajaraj singh Sikarwal-ji. Then Mr DEF-ji was invited.....
This went on. And on. And on.
The emcee enthusiastically goaded spectators - mostly restless children wearing lipstick and rustling mothers impatient to watch their children perform - to 'Hands Together!' for ABC or PQR personage, and "Swaagat kariye".
The emcee took a two-minute break from coordinating the 'swagat' brigade, to allow a lamp to be lit in front of the photograph of Maharaj Mahasen, who was also garlanded in marigold, incidentally. Then, everyone went back to their seats, and the marigolden-swaagat recommenced.
A sole note of confusion crept into the proceedings, when Mr GHI who was supposed to garland an old freedom fighter also sitting on the stage, ended up garlanding Rustam Singh-ji instead. Poor Mr emcee could only mutter, between the marathon garlanding: "Oh? Er... yes, yes. Aap bhi stayz pe aaiye. Swaagat! (you're also welcome.)"
With a morbid kind of fascination, I stayed tuned in.
I have never seen so much marigold, barring weddings. I never never seen 'swaagat' on this scale. Such endurance, such enthusiasm for garlanding political necks, such a lengthy list of 'community-leaders', I have never seen!
When the Mr A-Zs of the Gware samaj were run through, the emcee began inviting the Mrs ABCs of the community. However, there were much fewer women being invited up on the 'stayz'.
Then, it was the turn of the local boys - 'the youngster generation' - to take up the baton of this marigold marathon.
Finally, the emcee invited honorable mantri-ji to speak, thus: "Not a sound. I tell you, not a sound out of you all! The honourable mantri-ji will speak now."
The mantri-ji returned his compliments, by beginning his speech, thus:
"First of all, I want to admire the compere. He is truly, really, totally charming. His voice is so attractive. He is so natural. His English is wonderful... and I am impressed; you see, I speak both English and Hindi myself. I am impressed at his English. So wonderful. He is a truly attractive compere... what is your name, young man? Ah! I must congratulate the Gware community for having produced such wonderful younger generation...."
I was rather impressed myself, but I began to tune out.
Another, much more interesting conversation is happening at my shoulder. A young boy is shaking hands with my companion, a local activist working to counter female foeticide in the region.
He tells her, "Didi, you're doing good work. These people... they deserved it."
He is referring to the local campaign against doctors who perform sonography tests, without finishing the accompanying legalities. I discover that the boy is a cousin of a local radiologist, one whose clinic was on the blacklist, and whose license had been temporarily suspended, that is, until honourable Rustam Singh-ji took over the state public health portfolio. (My report, here and here).
The activist asks, "Is it true that the clinics had to pay up to get their licenses back?"
The boy shrugged, "6 lakhs. Pakki baat hai (it's a certainty)."
"All pooled in?"
"Hah! 6 lakhs each!"
"And it went to?"
The boy smiled a slow smile and nodded at the stage, where the honorable minister was poking public fun at his fellow-garlanded heavyweights, the ones who lost the last election, at any rate.
------------------
I wait to meet the honourable minister.
He has told me that he will speak to me after the Gware samaj function. After the function, he tells me he will speak to me after the dinner. After his dinner, he tells me he will speak to me after he has visited a colleague.
I wait for him at the circuit-house, hoping that he will eventually return here., before going back to Bhopal.
9 pm. I wait. 9.30 pm, I wait. 10 pm. I wait. 10.30 pm, I wait.
And then, a flash of whirring red-light topped ambassadors and the screech of tyres. Armed bodyguards and circuit-house karmchaaris rushing to put on their white caps, and bend their heads, by way of swaagat.
He doesn't arrive alone. There are at least 30-35 men with him. I sit my ground. I mean, a white-linen covered sofa. I'm not going away, I firmly decide.
After bantering with half the crowd, accepting compliments and flowers, turning down a marriage invitation and blessing those who touch his feet with a half-wave of the hand, he turns to me.
"Yes, madam?"
The honourable Ruston Singh speaks to me in English (sort of), throughout, despite my attempts at switching to Hindi, to spare both of us our individual linguistic pains.
When I ask a particularly uncomfortable question, he says, "I am only speaking to you in English because you're from Delhi. You Delhi people - you are all English. You see, I am equally comfortable in both languages. English and Hindi. I can even speak in our Morena-dialect. But you will not understand our moda-modi language."
I assure him, I will. Then, I add, "Actually, I'd prefer it if you speak in Hindi."
He leans back into the sofa, sighs with relief and promptly does so.
I promptly ask him more uncomfortable questions. Like how it was that the sonography-equipped clinics got back their licenses after he took over the public health portfolio in the state.
He denies it. "As a matter of fact, the licenses were suspended only when I took over. I master-minded the raids you see. You think the administration could do anything without my wanting it to?"
The activist accompanying me points out that the dates don't quite correspond - the raids happened, the licenses got cancelled, he took over as state health minister, pleas were filed, the directorate of health reinstated the licenses.... in that order.
At this point, the honourable Rustam Singh-ji lost his temper and raised his voice, all the while continuing to bless, with a half-wave, those who continued to touch his feet. "You know nothing! What do you know about Morena?....... But I have given you enough time. I have other things to do."
While another devotee dived towards his feet, the mantri-ji stood up, adjusted his beret, and stalked off into the cool recesses of the circuit-house.
I remain seated on the white-linen covered sofa, taking notes furiously. Taking down every single word.
[Cont, in the next post]
---------------------
Tuesday, September 27, 2005
New
I have new links (see right panel).
Suhail, Quizman, R. and Anand were long overdue.
V and R are new bloggers, but old friends. Biddin' ye welcome, Ladies.
And I have bloglines.
Finally!
Though I like visiting each blogger's url individually, as a sort of profound ritual, there are finally too many blogs and too little time.
Suhail, Quizman, R. and Anand were long overdue.
V and R are new bloggers, but old friends. Biddin' ye welcome, Ladies.
And I have bloglines.
Finally!
Though I like visiting each blogger's url individually, as a sort of profound ritual, there are finally too many blogs and too little time.
Monday, September 26, 2005
Sleepy, sleepy Noida
It is a hot Sunday afternoon in Noida's Sector 62.
I am dropping off, in a cab, while my friend J waits for a real-estate broker to turn up and show us some rented accomodation.
The ATM, the lone one visible for miles around - a mildly disconcerting phenomena in modern ATM-every-100-yards-cities - is sleepy.
The dusty road is sleepy.
The half-constructed buildings are sleepy.
The play-school - daringly painted in blues, reds, yellows (?) and whites - is a sleepy reminder of where our country's future architects and dress designers acquire their unforgiveable aesthetics.
The homes across the half-mile wide roads look more dead than sleepy. Not a child plays. Not a bird sings. A leaf moves, reluctantly, goaded by a sleepy breeze. No cabs, no autos zip past. One cycle-rickshaw trundles past, on an average, every half hour. A zigzagging row of sleepy buffaloes trudges past.
I am, understandably, sleepy.
J is, understandably, depressed.
"You could commute...?"
"Need a car."
"Could buy."
"Need money... have loans."
"Hmm."
Now, I'm mildly depressed too.
No car, no money. No broker in sight and no access to the happening malls we'd heard so much about.
Suddenly, J begins to count - '2, 4, 6, 8... that's 50 grand.'
I say, "What?"
"50,000 rupees... on the road."
I stare, then roll down the windows and stare harder. "Where?"
She nods at the row of ambling buffaloes, "Amit Varm'a post on the cost of buffaloes, remember?" (For the life of me, I cannot locate that link, despite an hour of googling. Amit, help?)
As I try to picture us - stealing buffaloes, a young cowherd, brandishing a lathi, in hot pursuit, while we try dragging the beasts to the nearest car showroom, attempting to exchange our loot for a second-hand Maruti....
we collapse into giggles.
Two of the buffaloes turn to us and amble over. J squeals, "roll up the window, roll up the window."
I don't. "Maybe they overheard, and are coming over to negotiate a deal."
We giggle louder.
If I wasn't giggling, I'd have described the vision in my mind - in glassy, air-conditioned splendour, these dark beauties regally wallowing in a specially-crafted mud-pond. But we couldn't stop giggling.
And then, the sleepy Sunday afternoon in Noida is not so sleepy after all.
I am dropping off, in a cab, while my friend J waits for a real-estate broker to turn up and show us some rented accomodation.
The ATM, the lone one visible for miles around - a mildly disconcerting phenomena in modern ATM-every-100-yards-cities - is sleepy.
The dusty road is sleepy.
The half-constructed buildings are sleepy.
The play-school - daringly painted in blues, reds, yellows (?) and whites - is a sleepy reminder of where our country's future architects and dress designers acquire their unforgiveable aesthetics.
The homes across the half-mile wide roads look more dead than sleepy. Not a child plays. Not a bird sings. A leaf moves, reluctantly, goaded by a sleepy breeze. No cabs, no autos zip past. One cycle-rickshaw trundles past, on an average, every half hour. A zigzagging row of sleepy buffaloes trudges past.
I am, understandably, sleepy.
J is, understandably, depressed.
"You could commute...?"
"Need a car."
"Could buy."
"Need money... have loans."
"Hmm."
Now, I'm mildly depressed too.
No car, no money. No broker in sight and no access to the happening malls we'd heard so much about.
Suddenly, J begins to count - '2, 4, 6, 8... that's 50 grand.'
I say, "What?"
"50,000 rupees... on the road."
I stare, then roll down the windows and stare harder. "Where?"
She nods at the row of ambling buffaloes, "Amit Varm'a post on the cost of buffaloes, remember?" (For the life of me, I cannot locate that link, despite an hour of googling. Amit, help?)
As I try to picture us - stealing buffaloes, a young cowherd, brandishing a lathi, in hot pursuit, while we try dragging the beasts to the nearest car showroom, attempting to exchange our loot for a second-hand Maruti....
we collapse into giggles.
Two of the buffaloes turn to us and amble over. J squeals, "roll up the window, roll up the window."
I don't. "Maybe they overheard, and are coming over to negotiate a deal."
We giggle louder.
If I wasn't giggling, I'd have described the vision in my mind - in glassy, air-conditioned splendour, these dark beauties regally wallowing in a specially-crafted mud-pond. But we couldn't stop giggling.
And then, the sleepy Sunday afternoon in Noida is not so sleepy after all.
Monday, September 19, 2005
'Other persuations' and the girl child
I was doing some background research for an article, and came up with the following snippet from First Report on Religion Data (collected during the 2001 Census):
Of India 's total population, seven years old and above, 64.8% are literate... Christians, at 80.3%, and Buddhists, at 72.7%, follow the Jains in literacy rates. The lowest literacy rates are among people of 'other religions and persuasions', at 47%.
States such as Punjab , Haryana and Gujarat depict a distinct bias against the girl-child regardless of religious affiliation.
Similarly, religion seems to have little effect on attitudes towards women. Christians down south have a better sex ratio - so do Hindus and Muslims. But the Christians in Punjab have a shamefully low child sex ratio ratio of 870 girls /1,000 boys .
Surprisingly, this 'other persuations' category of people, i.e. those who don't want to report their religion, records the highest child sex ratio of 976/1,000 across the country....
Hmmm.
Interesting, no?
---------------------
And, on a related note, found this through a CJP press note -
The Citizens for Justice and Peace and Women’s Centre, Mumbai have in a joint intervention application sought to become party respondents to a petition filed in the Bombay High Court challenging the constitutionality of the Pre-natal Diagnostic Techniques (Regulation and Prevention of Misuse) Amendment Act, 2002 (14 of 2003) along with The Pre-conception and Pre-natal Diagnostic Techniques (Prohibition of Sec Selection) Rules, 1996.
The petition filed by one Shri Vinod Soni and his wife in early 2005, is on the grounds that as father of boys they have the fundamental right to a balanced family and therefore choose to select and conceive a female baby.
Recent media reports however have shown that the petitioner couple have admitted to not having much knowledge of the petition but had actually been asked to become petitioners by medical practioneers interested in the continuance of practices that result in the select elimination of girl babies.
Oh fie! Aren't you ashamed of yourselves, Mr and Mrs Soni!?
Of India 's total population, seven years old and above, 64.8% are literate... Christians, at 80.3%, and Buddhists, at 72.7%, follow the Jains in literacy rates. The lowest literacy rates are among people of 'other religions and persuasions', at 47%.
States such as Punjab , Haryana and Gujarat depict a distinct bias against the girl-child regardless of religious affiliation.
Similarly, religion seems to have little effect on attitudes towards women. Christians down south have a better sex ratio - so do Hindus and Muslims. But the Christians in Punjab have a shamefully low child sex ratio ratio of 870 girls /1,000 boys .
Surprisingly, this 'other persuations' category of people, i.e. those who don't want to report their religion, records the highest child sex ratio of 976/1,000 across the country....
Hmmm.
Interesting, no?
---------------------
And, on a related note, found this through a CJP press note -
The Citizens for Justice and Peace and Women’s Centre, Mumbai have in a joint intervention application sought to become party respondents to a petition filed in the Bombay High Court challenging the constitutionality of the Pre-natal Diagnostic Techniques (Regulation and Prevention of Misuse) Amendment Act, 2002 (14 of 2003) along with The Pre-conception and Pre-natal Diagnostic Techniques (Prohibition of Sec Selection) Rules, 1996.
The petition filed by one Shri Vinod Soni and his wife in early 2005, is on the grounds that as father of boys they have the fundamental right to a balanced family and therefore choose to select and conceive a female baby.
Recent media reports however have shown that the petitioner couple have admitted to not having much knowledge of the petition but had actually been asked to become petitioners by medical practioneers interested in the continuance of practices that result in the select elimination of girl babies.
Oh fie! Aren't you ashamed of yourselves, Mr and Mrs Soni!?
Friday, September 16, 2005
Not all bad
A few months ago, I was added onto the mailing list of this network in Delhi, where members, apparently, are keen on changing the system. On lowering power tariffs, and lobbying for rollbacks. On wiping out corruption. On making us all think laterally.
Now, I don't know what their politics is but I'd take bets on the fact that they're largely middle-class, if not fairly well-off. They're educated and they have net access.
I am not particularly keen on jumping into this particular fray, but I read their mails now and then, in the hope that someone may have something really interesting to say. This is what one particular gentleman recommends:
"...let us take a oath that we will stop working for system right from today.
instead of garao (sic) of politicians we should concentrate on public servants.
See the following Irony
If you are public servants not only you are taked (sic) care in your life but also after life by taking care of your family and children as well and housing and foodany (sic) thing even in most cases telephone or free electricity or railway passes as well.
but you are free man and common citizen you are not even allowed to work freely or start a school or hospital or some other scocial cause work but only hointerences (sic) in form of rules and regulation, forget the loafty Slgans Like Roti Kapara Aur MAnkan (sic) but bebare (sic) if they kew (the public servants) will come and take that away as well.
hencee (sic) start
*Scrap the constitutiom
Garao of dishonest public servants and force them to resign..."
Etc.
The rest is probably an angry outburst. But 'scrap the constitution'? Where did that one come from?
Incidentally, I've found that going into a sarkaari office is not necessarily an unpleasant experience, even for the 'free man and common citizen'.
I had been postponing applying for a PAN card for some time now, and when I absolutely HAD to, I was carrying a little extra cash... I was so sure I'd have to bribe a little, or fight a little, or brandish a press card, or all three.
I got a form ready, which I stupidly filled with blue ink, though the instructions specifically mentioned 'black ink only'. The passport photograph I carried along was too large (again, stupidly ignoring instructions about getting a stamp-size). I wasn't carrying any glue, either. I didn't even know how to check the area code for my own Delhi region, and had left those sections blank.
In anticipation of stupid first-timers like me, they'd set up a desk where glue, a black pen and a razor-blade (to cut a passport photo, so it fits the relevant column) were available. A chart was pasted outside the door, to help us identify regional codes.
There were long queues; the officials accepting and stamping forms were harried and impatient, because EVERY third person would either mess up their forms, or leave them incomplete. But they kept working, and working fast, without screaming or asking for bribes.
I was sent back to fill a new form and I internally groaned, thinking the counter would shut down in fifteen minutes, since it was already 12 noon. But they officials kept working until the appointed lunch-hour, and even beyond.
To my enormous surprise, I finished the process in fifteen minutes flat. A couple of weeks later, the pan card arrived by post.... And when it did, I remember a distinct feeling of gratitude, and sheepishness, for assuming that every other sarkaari worker out there is lazy and corrupt. Mentally, I apologized.
Now, I don't know what their politics is but I'd take bets on the fact that they're largely middle-class, if not fairly well-off. They're educated and they have net access.
I am not particularly keen on jumping into this particular fray, but I read their mails now and then, in the hope that someone may have something really interesting to say. This is what one particular gentleman recommends:
"...let us take a oath that we will stop working for system right from today.
instead of garao (sic) of politicians we should concentrate on public servants.
See the following Irony
If you are public servants not only you are taked (sic) care in your life but also after life by taking care of your family and children as well and housing and foodany (sic) thing even in most cases telephone or free electricity or railway passes as well.
but you are free man and common citizen you are not even allowed to work freely or start a school or hospital or some other scocial cause work but only hointerences (sic) in form of rules and regulation, forget the loafty Slgans Like Roti Kapara Aur MAnkan (sic) but bebare (sic) if they kew (the public servants) will come and take that away as well.
hencee (sic) start
*Scrap the constitutiom
Garao of dishonest public servants and force them to resign..."
Etc.
The rest is probably an angry outburst. But 'scrap the constitution'? Where did that one come from?
Incidentally, I've found that going into a sarkaari office is not necessarily an unpleasant experience, even for the 'free man and common citizen'.
I had been postponing applying for a PAN card for some time now, and when I absolutely HAD to, I was carrying a little extra cash... I was so sure I'd have to bribe a little, or fight a little, or brandish a press card, or all three.
I got a form ready, which I stupidly filled with blue ink, though the instructions specifically mentioned 'black ink only'. The passport photograph I carried along was too large (again, stupidly ignoring instructions about getting a stamp-size). I wasn't carrying any glue, either. I didn't even know how to check the area code for my own Delhi region, and had left those sections blank.
In anticipation of stupid first-timers like me, they'd set up a desk where glue, a black pen and a razor-blade (to cut a passport photo, so it fits the relevant column) were available. A chart was pasted outside the door, to help us identify regional codes.
There were long queues; the officials accepting and stamping forms were harried and impatient, because EVERY third person would either mess up their forms, or leave them incomplete. But they kept working, and working fast, without screaming or asking for bribes.
I was sent back to fill a new form and I internally groaned, thinking the counter would shut down in fifteen minutes, since it was already 12 noon. But they officials kept working until the appointed lunch-hour, and even beyond.
To my enormous surprise, I finished the process in fifteen minutes flat. A couple of weeks later, the pan card arrived by post.... And when it did, I remember a distinct feeling of gratitude, and sheepishness, for assuming that every other sarkaari worker out there is lazy and corrupt. Mentally, I apologized.
Tuesday, September 13, 2005
Auto-maton 5.
There are auto-rickshaws available right outside my office building. But I am resigned to a five-minute walk before I find one that uses the meter. I refuse, barring emergencies (or when a movie is about to begin in exactly 30 minutes), to haggle with drivers.
The drivers outside office have begun to recognize me: meter-wali sawari.... I am, to them, the passenger who cannot be wooed without a meter.
Everyday, they'd ask me 'Madam, kahaan?' (madam, where?)
And everyday, I'd say, "Kahin bhi... jahannum bhi jaaon, meter se chaloongi' (Wherever I go, even if I go to hell, I'll insist on the meter)
Often, I'd lose my cool. They would say 'But we're only asking for ten rupees more.'
I'd say, 'Would you accept five rupees less? Why should I lose ten rupees, then?'
Very deliberately, I would march off, sulkily, waiting for a driver who used the meter without a fuss.
Imagine my surprise when, the day I was struggling to haggle with rick-drivers at CP, an auto brakes to a halt barely inches from my toes. A grinning driver leaned out and invited me to sit inside, while switching on his meter with a flourish. The pock-marked face (is that politically incorrect? Not meant as insensitive, but merely a description), the tiny eyes and leathery skin were familiar. It was the same man who refused to use the meter everyday, outside the office.
I smiled and thanked him.
A few days later, I found myself similarly stuck, near Mandi House. And there was Mr Grinny-Marked Face, again to my rescue. Since then, he's become like my commute-knight. I see him and I know I won't have to haggle.
Last week, I hailed him, but he was busy chatting up a friend, over chai. Nevertheless, he took me to another auto-driver and sternly told the latter, "Daily ki sawari hain. Meter se...' (She's a daily passenger. Use the meter.)
On Saturday, I was forced to haggle again. It was late at night and Mr Grinny-Marked Face was nowhere to be seen. So, I argued, I marched off, I came back, I haggled. But ultimately, I gave in, taking the only auto available. Just as the auto swung away, I noticed a very visibly angry Mr Grinny-Marked Face stamping behind us.
And I am hoping that my commute-knight will give his biradari-brethren a sound verbal lashing on behalf of the 'daily ki sawari'.
Auto-maton 1, 2, 3, 4
The drivers outside office have begun to recognize me: meter-wali sawari.... I am, to them, the passenger who cannot be wooed without a meter.
Everyday, they'd ask me 'Madam, kahaan?' (madam, where?)
And everyday, I'd say, "Kahin bhi... jahannum bhi jaaon, meter se chaloongi' (Wherever I go, even if I go to hell, I'll insist on the meter)
Often, I'd lose my cool. They would say 'But we're only asking for ten rupees more.'
I'd say, 'Would you accept five rupees less? Why should I lose ten rupees, then?'
Very deliberately, I would march off, sulkily, waiting for a driver who used the meter without a fuss.
Imagine my surprise when, the day I was struggling to haggle with rick-drivers at CP, an auto brakes to a halt barely inches from my toes. A grinning driver leaned out and invited me to sit inside, while switching on his meter with a flourish. The pock-marked face (is that politically incorrect? Not meant as insensitive, but merely a description), the tiny eyes and leathery skin were familiar. It was the same man who refused to use the meter everyday, outside the office.
I smiled and thanked him.
A few days later, I found myself similarly stuck, near Mandi House. And there was Mr Grinny-Marked Face, again to my rescue. Since then, he's become like my commute-knight. I see him and I know I won't have to haggle.
Last week, I hailed him, but he was busy chatting up a friend, over chai. Nevertheless, he took me to another auto-driver and sternly told the latter, "Daily ki sawari hain. Meter se...' (She's a daily passenger. Use the meter.)
On Saturday, I was forced to haggle again. It was late at night and Mr Grinny-Marked Face was nowhere to be seen. So, I argued, I marched off, I came back, I haggled. But ultimately, I gave in, taking the only auto available. Just as the auto swung away, I noticed a very visibly angry Mr Grinny-Marked Face stamping behind us.
And I am hoping that my commute-knight will give his biradari-brethren a sound verbal lashing on behalf of the 'daily ki sawari'.
Auto-maton 1, 2, 3, 4
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