Darling, yeh hai India

Darling, yeh hai India

By R. Akhileshwari

Why are we like this, asked an anguished NRI dancer after we established eye contact in the railway compartment and got talking. Why are our roads so dirty? Why don’t we follow traffic rules? Why do our buses/bureaucrats/bosses treat us so badly? The questions put my back up. Isn’t this the attitude of all NRIs? Find fault with everything in India? Expect the best on par with their adopted land without contributing anything? You run away from here daunted by the challenges, return to get emotionally recharged, and then have the gumption to criticize India? I bristled. But let’s be honest. Shouldn’t we ask ourselves, why are we like this? Our daily experiences provide plenty of cause for not only for  heart-burn but plenty of soul-searching too.

        Sleeplessness, brought on by the stress of daily deadlines prompted me to advance my morning cuppa of caffeine brew to pre-dawn. The venue was changed from the dining table to the sit-out and as I was sipped the heart-warming drink and drinking in the new experience, I spied upon my neighbour, a religious woman, who was collecting flowers from across the neighbours’ compound walls. She also got her share of exercise by the acrobatics that were necessary to reach flowers that were blooming tantalizingly almost out of reach, over the compound walls or on higher branches. She tried to pull a branch of pomegranate tree, trying to reach the flaming “anarkali” but it proved a tough task so she gave up. I discovered subsequently that the flowers were for her morning puja and this method of gathering flowers was a daily ritual. Surely, when the neighbourhood had ready flowers why buy them from the vendor who shouts his heart out every evening trying to find a customer? Besides, doesn’t the Hindu philosophy enjoin the faithful to do their duty (of worshipping God with flowers) and not bother about the consequences of depriving the neighbours of their flowers and fruits, in the semidarkness of pre-dawn hours? And without their permission to boot.

        A neighbour in our office complex decided to expand his wholesale business since his road-facing office was ideal for a retail outlet of readymade clothes. He remodeled his office into a posh shop, removed the hitherto broken pavement in front of his office and replaced it with gleaming granite and soon installed iron rods and connected them with chain, cordoning off the space in front of his office so as to ensure that his potential customers were not inconvenienced by having to rub shoulders with the traffic of humans into the office building. A painted sign warned that the enclosed parking space was meant only for his customers. The only trouble was that the space belonged to the municipal corporation. The access to the building was reduced by half which led yours truly to approach the building’s elected body for redress. They regretted they had no control on the municipal space. Evidently, the businessman worked out an arrangement with the contractor who had “contracted” the parking space by “sub-letting” the space to the businessman. If we complained to the municipal corporation, my colleagues argued, the inspectors will come, take a bribe from the businessman and continue to allow him to use the space. Thus, we would ensure one more source of income to another corrupt official. Besides, we would be incurring the ill-will of a neighbour. So what if the reduced parking space inconveniences the visitors and often a two-wheeler parked literally on the road, obstructs the free flow of traffic and results in a jam?

        Then there are neighbours who let out their drains on the roads instead of laying an underground pipe to connect to the neighbourhood’s drain. There are others who in the cover of darkness dump garbage in the unused corner outside your house. Again, those put out the trash can in the corridor of the apartment complex to avoid their kitchen from getting dirty. There are others who wash the sit-outs, merrily splashing the passers-by with dirty water. Take the instance of this office building I often visit for one reason or the other. The airconditioner is placed outside the office, mounted on a steel stand that effectively occupies almost all the space in the corridor. As we walk past the whirring machine as everyone who uses that floor has to, we are sprayed by film of water. Then we have to watch our step because a constant leak of water keeps the area wet. In such conducive conditions, it is not surprising that moss grows luxuriantly…all in the middle of a corridor of a public building!

        Festival times are risky times, I realized. With Holi round the corner, we put away from public eye all our cane and wooden furniture, ladder, unused wood, bamboos and so on. The cane frames to help creepers to spread themselves are also fastened strongly, or the over-enthusiastic neighbourhood youth will smuggle them away to help them in the process of cleansing the world of evil by burning its effigy. Your goods that they smuggled out facilitate the burning! Come Ganesha festival, and your decorative plants are endangered. The crotons, coleas, and the evergreens are all useful in beautifying the local Ganesha installed by the neighbourhood army of brigands who not only coerce you into making a hefty “chanda” or donation but also slyly take away both potted and other plants that you have placed within or outside your house. All in the name of Ganesha, of course.

        Anyone who has lived abroad will bear me out. An Indian will be an Indian among Indians, especially in a foreign country. An Indian family when eating out in say, an American hotel, behaves just as an American does. The Indians add “please” and “thank you” to their orders, speak softly so as not to intrude on fellow patrons, remove the plates if the place requires it. And then the contrast hits us when we step into a Indian-run, Indian-patronised joint. The atmosphere is, well, what else but Indian? The waiter is shouted at, given orders rudely, the conversation is loud, the children unruly, and worst, the tables are messy after the food is eaten. Worse,  the patrons will try and bargain for a “discount” in the bill. In turn, the establishment will try and fob you off with stale food and refuse to replace a wrong order or spoiled food as is the practice in the mainstream eating places. Why are we like this? I fear the answer is, we will be always like this only. After all, we are Indians, no?

Beyond marriage and motherhood

By R. Akhileshwari

Girls should be taught to think beyond marriage and motherhood. Society should instill in them a sense of self-esteem.

Social change is attributed to several factors including access to education, exposure to different kinds of culture and experiences, a trend adopted by large number of people and so on. One thing that does not bring about change in attitudes, values and deeply ingrained social practices is making a law. For any law to effective, especially those dealing with social traditions, a multi-pronged approach is necessary combining the law, a system of stick and carrot and example set by the elite of society. Child marriages are one such social evil that cannot be eradicated by law.

An argument has been put forward, no less than by a Supreme Court bench that compulsory registration of marriages could deter child marriages. The argument is slightly off the mark. Certainly, it is time we registered all marriages, jut as we do the births and deaths but whether it prevent child marriages or increase the age of marriage, especially of girl children, is arguable. There are already a plethora of laws to protect women against dowry and age of marriage. Making one more law will distract attention from dealing with the problem squarely which is to value the girl, not treat her as a “guest” in her home.

Poor social status

Child marriage should be seen for what it is, a manifestation of the poor social status of the female which in turn results in the female fetuses being aborted in the prosperous states of Haryana and Punjab, in the killing of girl babies by the poor in Tamil Nadu and in the marketing of the girl babies in the poverty-stricken Lambada families in Andhra Pradesh. Despite Ram Mohan Roy, despite 60 years of Independence and despite a law that stipulates minimum age of marriage for girls and boys, child marriage is a reality which we as a civil society, have failed to acknowledge.

       

According to the UN, 38 per cent of adolescent girls in India in the age group of 15-19 are married off. In South and East Asia, India along with Bangladesh, has the highest number of children born to this group of under-age mothers. Early marriage is closely linked to early, repeated and unplanned child-bearing. Death rates are higher for both mothers and babies as teenage bodies cannot stand the rigours of pregnancy and childbirth. Teenage mothers have greater number of miscarriages, death during childbirth, low birth-weight or stillborn babies.

Child or teen marriages also result in sexual abuse, rape and servitude of the girl children. Postponing marriage and child-bearing gives girls the chance for more education, better health for themselves and their children. Interestingly enough, an improvement in economic and educational status has not resulted in concurrent improvement in women’s social status. The age of marriage of a girl is a stark example of the continuing low social status of the female, whether in a rural or urban home, rich or poor, illiterate or educated.

A study puts the median age at marriage of women in urban areas at below 18 years and 14.9 years in rural areas. Though the median age has increased in urban areas, still over 76 per cent girls in urban and 83 per cent in rural areas get married before they are 18 years, the minimum age for marriage. This is not surprising. Any middle-class parent who has an adolescent daughter in school will know that her friends or classmates begin to drop out of school from 9^th or 10^th class onwards, to marry.

The trickle at high school gains momentum in the Intermediate and becomes a flood at the degree level. Very few make it to post-graduation while the number of girls in professional courses is miniscule. If the rural-based, poverty-stricken parents opt for marriage for their pre-adolescent daughter to reduce one mouth to feed or because it is the ‘tradition,’ the urban-based, better-off parents are no better. They too are held hostage by tradition and the thinking that the more the girl gets educated, the more individualistic she will become, not amenable to the dictates of her parents, community and the rest of the world. So, she is married off to keep her under control.

The “model” states of Andhra Pradesh and Karnataka and the developed Maharashtra were among the 10 states asked by the SC recently to explain why child marriage continues as a bane in their states. Evidently, economic strides and technological leaps of these states have not percolated or impacted upon social values and traditions.

How to solve the problem? Education should motivate a girl child to dream and to achieve. As a society all of us should nurture ambition in girls. Not of marriage and motherhood. They can come later. First, she should realize that she has the qualities, talent and capability to scale heights. This change will not come about unless we as people in a position to influence others’ thinking make a conscious break from our own thinking that careers are meant for sons and marriage and motherhood for daughters.

Interpreting hair styles

By R. Akhileshwari

Stereotyping makes life easy. It helps most folks to “understand” situations, people and events. The trouble begins when you are stereotyped into what you seem to be but are not. Short hair (bobbed, in our lingo) on a woman can mean many things to many people, and often it means erroneous things. Invariably, you are “Madam” and not the usual “amma” to the autorickshaw-wallas, bus conductors and fruit and vegetable vendors. Why back in the 1970s which belonged to Mrs.Indira  Gandhi, cheeky youngsters would shout “Indira Gandhi” on seeing me.

          Illiterate women on the other hand seemed to be in awe of short-haired women. Once, two women labourers were walking in step with me. They got whispering as we hurried to reach our destination. One of them gathered courage and drawing closer to me, asked in broken Hindi, what is the time, amma. I responded in Telugu. She was taken aback and went back to her friend and giggled in Telugu, “Arre, she speaks Telugu.”

          Not always was I so “un-Telugu.” My knee-length hair was the envy of all, and interestingly, a sure draw of male attention. Fellow girls would point out that my plait was longer than the mini-kurtas that were in fashion then and that we wore over skin-tight churidars. The nasty landlady, who harassed us for rent that we frequently defaulted on payment, whispered to neighbours that arrogance of having long hair was the reason for my sauciness (since I would not keep a respectful silence at her verbal barbs as was expected of a tenant). Undoubtedly there were pleasures of wearing an attraction constantly on you, but they outweighed the pain of managing such unwieldy hair. After much thought and some heart ache I had it chopped off.

          The day after required much courage to go to college and face friends and admirers. Horrified shrieks, angry remonstrations, outright abuse were heaped on me by the girls. Our limited interaction with the male classmates did not prevent reactions from coming my way. They were scandalized so much at my “cruelty” that even the more timid among them who felt daunted to speak to girls, gathered courage to express their regret. A male classmate for whom I had a weakness gave plenty of sorrow by avoiding me for a couple of days. Even as I wondered why, he conveyed through a friend that he did not want to be friends anymore since I no longer had long tresses! Romance died unwept along with the poor guy’s illusions.

          A few years later, the hair was allowed to grow in anticipation of impending nuptials. It grew back to its original length which was a great source of pride for the inlaws and partially offset their unhappiness over an unconventional marriage. Having to travel 30 kms to work, which meant catching the office transport at an unearthly hour, was not made any easy by long hair. One day, the crowning glory refused to be coaxed into a proper form. It was particularly uncooperative and after a couple of disasters at plaiting it, I collapsed on the stool in front of the mirror in frustration. And jumped up with a yell. A cooperative hubby had placed on it a plate of steaming idlis swimming in hot sambar. That accident resulted in missing the office bus that forced me into a crowded RTC bus-ride of one hour, followed by a 2 km walk in hot sun from the bus stop to office, and losing half a day’s casual leave for the trouble taken. I took a decision. It had to be done. The hair had to return to its former state of short length whose speciality is that it is undemanding of any combing or styling. The shock and the scandal, the inevitable harsh words, especially from the in-laws, had to be endured. Others’ pleasure and perhaps even envy was not my pride…it was a pain.

          Even after two decades of such encounters, one can still be surprised. The other day, I was bargaining for apples with a Muslim fruit vendor. As he quoted an abnormally high price, I unleashed fluent Deccani on him to prove that I was not to be fooled. Sure enough, he was taken aback. “You have turned out to be one of us…of my own land,” he said. I assured him that I was “101 per cent Hyderabadi.”  To seal the “apnapan” of being Urdu-speaking fellow Hyderabadi, he gave me an extra apple, a deeply moving gesture. While short hair had lent distance, language brought us close!

Don’t meow, Dad will hear!

The hazards of keeping a pet are many especially in a house where Dad lives. Dad happens to dislike pets of all kinds. He thinks there are better things to do than pamper an animal. He doesn’t think much of the love we receive in return from them. And he especially doesn’t care for the felines. Maybe dogs yes, because they can bark and scare away the timider variety of thieves. Admittedly, this theory has not been tested, but the cat one is a tried and tested one. The only kitten he tolerated was a waif we picked up on a wet day, half blinded by the red-eye disease that had spread as an epidemic some years ago. Mini, as we called her, survived objections by neighbours who did not like to see an ‘inauspicious’ cat the first thing in the morning, the raid of a municipal stray animal extermination squad and a gang of youth which relished cat meat! Over time Mini became friendly with a neighbourhood tom and the good news of her litter came on the phone at my office as my two daughters gave me a minute by minute description of the birth. They insisted I had become a grandmother!

        Loud protests by Dad as he tripped over a kitten, as he sat inadvertently on a chair occupied by another kitten only to jerk away in shock, and similar daily misadventures followed by the girls’ giggles, angry yells from Dad and threats of ‘dumping’ them, blaming me for spoiling the children by giving in to all their whims and similar tantrums, did not affect either Mini, or her brood of three nor the two girls. But, the breaking point came when the kittens chose Dad’s towels for their morning ablutions and in true professorial style ((he’s university professor) he used the towel to wipe his face. Hell broke loose and for the next few days there was no respite from his angry objections to having the cat family in the house. My daughters have not forgiven me till today, three years later, for abetting Dad in giving away Mini and her kittens to a local animal shelter. Excuses like the need for peace in the house, the over-crowdedness of the flat, the final exams looming on the horizon and the three over-active kittens being a distraction and so on fell flat. For several months mention of Mini or sighting of a feline or any printed picture of a cat brought angry tears to their eyes and accusations of being a phoney animal lover and not possessing a spine were flung at me anew.

        A year or so later we moved into a bigger house and the girls got rooms of their own. With final exams out of their way this summer, teenager Dipa went to look up her friends in the earlier colony. And came back with the decision that she would get two kittens. I don’t care what Dad will say, she said defiantly. The litter was in the care of Mrs Bose, who facilitated a colony of cats in the neighbourhood amidst unremitting hostility all around. She offered Dipa two of the four of the new litter. I put my foot down. Only one kitten, I insisted. And like a true bargain-hunter, Dipa had her way…asking for two, hoping she’d at least get one!

        Accompanied by pre-teen Amulya on her two wheeler, Dipa went on the mission. And returned triumphant. Dad was at home as was evident from his scooter parked in the portico. Thus began the daily battle of wits to keep Dad and Cassy (Cassiopeia, a Ethiopian legendary heroine…Dipa had to be racially correct by opting for a black heroine’s name) out of each other’s way. As Dad was in the front of the house, the two girls went to the back door and gave the box in which Cassy was ensconced to Sulochana who cooks for us. Sulochana carried it furtively inside. Dipa and Amulya walked in from the front nonchalantly, greeted Dad and ran upstairs to Dipa’s room where Cassy in the box had been deposited. From then on Amulya, who was stuck to TV after her school closed down for summer vacation is not to be seen downstairs, much to Dad’s relief. Both girls are closeted in Dipa’s room and he is heartened by their unusual closeness, but loses patience as Dipa’s door is constantly closed and he has to call several times to get their attention or summon them downstairs.

        The other day Cassy got lost. She is generally hidden in the bathroom while the bedroom is being cleaned, but one day both the doors were left open and Cassy disappeared. Dad was home and everybody was nervous. The two girls hunted desperately. Dad became aware of the tension and asked what they were searching for. ‘My earring,’ Dipa said brazenly. ‘Why can’t you be more careful?’ he responded with a touch of exasperation. ‘Yes Dad, I will be,’ said Dipa with unusual meekness. I left with Dad for work and after sometime called up home to check. For the next half hour the phone was busy and I felt assured that the crisis had blown over. I learnt later that Cassy had hidden herself in a small aperture behind the wash basin and was tempted out with a bowl of milk! When Dad is around, milk and curd rice is smuggled upstairs by Amulya. When Dad is not around Dipa brings Cassy downstairs much to the dismay of Grandmother who is worried that Dad might appear suddenly and a verbal conflagration might happen!

        Should Dad be around and Cassy decides to get demanding and  and meows for attention, Amulya starts singing loudly to drown the meowing. Dad indulgently comments that she is becoming a good singer! The inevitable happened the other day. Dad picked me up from work rather early as it was a lean day workwise. As I entered the house there was a flurry of activity and the two girls were flinging angry words at each other. Amulya was nearly in tears. She had brought Cassy downstairs and she had disappeared. And Dad had arrived earlier than usual before she could smuggle Cassy back into her room. “Cassy! Cassy! Meow, Meow! Puss, puss,” whispered Amulya into all corners, under the bed and especially behind wash basins, scared that Dad would hear her. Fortunately, Dad was busy in the garden as he was worried about the heat-afflicted plants which were thirsting for water. Suddenly Cassy ran out playfully from her hiding place. Amulya grabbed her and gave her a gentle whack on her head in anger. Then immediately she kissed her in remorse and promptly locked Cassy up in the bathroom.

        Yesterday at the local market Dad and I ran into Mrs Bose. My heart sank as I knew “cat conversation” was inevitable. I said the kitty was fine, thanks and quickly changed the subject, asking about her smoking and children. Dad was busy examining vegetables with total concentration and as usual did not pay attention to what was going around him. God bless him!

        PS: The girls were scandalized that I was going to write about Cassy for my newspaper’s Sunday magazine. “You want to tell him through print?” asked Dipa, the smart one. “No, he will not read the supplement,” said Amulya, the realist. “Of course, he will read it…he reads all Mummy’s write ups,” responded the all-knowing Dipa, not quite correctly though this time. “You can hide it,” said Amulya who has a solution for all tricky situations. Risk-taking is the spice of life with Dad. So here goes...

(Published in Deccan Herald, Bangalore, India)