Sorry it’s been so long since I last posted anything. I’ve been teaching four classes a day, conducting a study on why the students here at the vocational training center dropped out of their schools, and editing a book all at the same time, six days a week. But the last batch of students just ended, so I’ve had some free time. I spent two days at one of the three primary schools (the last one I hadn’t visited) run by my NGO, teaching English songs and having fun with the kids. Then I went around Gujarat for two days to see some historical sites. Civilization has existed in Gujarat for around 5,000 years, so there are lots of old temples and ruins. It was a nice chance for me to relax and be a tourist for a little while, and gave me an opportunity to see some of India’s history.
What might be more interesting for you, though, is if I write a bit about the marriage I attended last week. The groom, Raju, is a coworker, and works as the furniture course instructor here. For the occasion, all of the vocational training center staff crammed into two or three cars, and drove two hours to Raju’s village, somewhere in the middle of rural Gujarat.
The sun was already going down by the time we pulled onto a narrow dirt road off of a main highway, and parked the cars next to a wedding tent set up outside Raju’s home. A couple dozen relatives were lulling around, the women in their finest saris, the young men in slacks and shirts, and the old men in kurtas (a loose, long shirt) and lungis (a white wrap thing, part pants, part skirt, and part loin cloth). It didn’t take long for anyone who could speak 10 words of English to find me, shake my hand and ask me “where you coming from?”
Raju soon came out of his house (one-story, concrete, maybe three rooms), bedecked in a turban, a sparkly wedding kurta, pointy shoes, and carrying a faux-golden dagger. His skin looked a sickly yellow-green because his female relatives had been bathing him in turmeric, which is apparently considered auspicious. Raju, who typically leaves his shirts un-tucked and is pretty laid-back, looked somewhat uncomfortable covered from head to toe in formality and wedding tradition. I exchanged a few words with him, but soon the procession started.
This was not a wedding procession in any way that you might imagine. It was led by a pushcart on which rested a cheap electric keyboard and the car battery used to power it, along with three megaphones set on the top. A few teenagers pushed the cart while the local “talent” yelled into a microphone and pounded on the keyboard. It might have seemed more musical if it hadn’t been forced through the megaphones, which distorted whatever chance the sound had of coming through cleanly; imagine it all coming through the loudspeakers of any train station. Leading the cart were two or three men with drums, banging away and keeping the beat to which everyone danced their way through the village. At one point, the cart and drummers stopped and played in once place, allowing a garba dance circle to form. To the delight of all, I joined in, my garba skills coming back to me from the Navratri celebration a few months earlier.
Raju marched alongside some older male relatives, a coconut in one hand and the fake gold dagger in another. The coconut, I’ve learned, is a symbol of purity. The procession marched on. At a few houses, some old ladies gave Raju a coin, threw some rice on his hair, put a dot of red powder on his forehead, and then moved their hands from his head to theirs, as if forcing something from his mind into their own. I learned later that this symbolizes their desire to take all the bad luck away from the groom and to bring it on them instead.
After the music, everyone returned to Raju’s house for dinner. There were vegetables, rice, lentils, and about five different varieties of sweets. As is typical with all Indian sweets, they were basically pure sugar, thinly disguised with food coloring. After dinner and a short break, the garba dancing continued anew, this time under the tent outside Raju’s home. I danced with everyone until about 1 in the morning, and then went to bed at a neighbor’s house.
The next morning was when the real action started. I was surprised that the bride or her family hadn’t even made an appearance at Raju’s house, but this is all part of the tradition. After one last march through the village, everyone boarded a bus to the bride’s village, about 30 kilometers away. Once there, everyone seemed kind of lost. I drank tea at a random person’s home and sat around until someone started playing a drum. I got up, and saw that it was a kid of about 11 or 12 years old playing drums with his father. Some relative of either Raju’s or the bride’s told me that they were “doing their traditional duty” as Valmikis. Valmikis are considered the lowest caste in India’s caste system, and are usually relegated to the most menial and degrading of tasks, like dragging away dead animals or cleaning excreta. Strangely, they are also assigned the duty of playing drums, apparently because drums are usually made of animal skin, and making them is/was considered an unclean task. This boy and his dad, though, were playing store-bought drums that were not made of animal skin; regardless, the “traditional duty” remained.
In any case, to the beat of the drums, the bride’s sister came out of her house, surrounded by female relatives, and carrying a coconut covered in beads on her head. Team Bride confronted Team Groom, and the bride’s sister put some red powder on Raju’s forehead. Raju was now wearing a different turban and carrying a fake gold sword in place of the fake gold dagger, all of which stood in contrast to his 1970’s style suit and loafers. The priest, dressed all in white, said some prayers. All the while, the bride’s female relatives sang songs ridiculing the groom, which is my favorite of the Gujarati wedding traditions. The random relative who spoke English translated some of them for me. In one line of the song, the women said Raju was short and ugly. In another, they asked if all the people standing around him were blind. And then in my favorite, they called everyone who came with him monkeys.
Despite the ridicule, Raju and his entourage were granted permission to approach the bride’s house. At the doorstep, the bride’s mother gave Raju some more red powder on the forehead, and then Raju sat down on one of two purple plush chairs waiting on the porch. Because of my status as an outsider with much-revered white skin (I really hate that Indian people value white skin so much, and it bothers me that if an American with darker skin were in my place they probably would not be treated as well), I was able to get up on the porch and watch the whole ceremony, and take lots of photos. For the first half an hour or so, Raju just sat on the plush chair looking bored while the priest drew designs on the floor with white and orange powder. Eventually, the bride came out, wearing a beautiful red and gold sari, her hands and arms covered in henna, her face and hair elaborately made up. No words or even glances were exchanged between her and Raju, despite the fact that she sat down on the second purple plush chair directly next to him.
The priest continued his chanting, setting out some copper pots around his powder design, and then putting a coconut in the middle of it. Then Raju and the bride stood up and marched around the coconut a few times. Someone guided her hand onto his, and some money was placed on it. Her sari was then tied to his scarf, the coconut was dipped in oil and lit, and once again they marched around the coconut, now flaming.
When the ceremony was over, the old men got together over a pot of crumpled bills, apparently collecting donations from the community to cover the cost of the ceremony and the forthcoming meal. Lunch was good, and was similar to dinner the previous night.
So that was the first Indian wedding I’ve seen. I’m thinking of introducing a flaming coconut into my own wedding, whenever that happens, but I haven’t yet decided about the turban or dagger.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Saturday, January 12, 2008
From village to village...
Last month I had a very interesting trip to about six different villages around Gujarat, and I didn’t have time to write about it, so I'll try now. I should say this this particular day really blew my mind wide open. If you feel like this entry jumps all over the place and covers more than one blog entry really should, that's because this particular day was that full.
Thursday, December 8th is the anniversary of Dr. Bhimrao Ambedkar’s death. (Dr. Ambedkar was the most significant Dalit leader in India’s history, and was the primary framer of the Indian constitution, a document which provides numerous legal safeguards and a job reservation system for Dalits.) As a result, my organization—which is at root a grassroots network of fieldworkers—organized a variety of programs in the villages. The organization has set up hundreds of “Bhimshalas”—Bhim from Bhimrao Ambedkar, and Shala for the Gujarati word for school—which are basically extra-curricular education centers run out of a volunteer’s home. The volunteer is trained by the organization in strategies to combat discrimination at school, and also gives the kids academic support. The organization also provides the volunteer with a library for the children to use.
Anyway, the programs on December 8th were coordinated through the Bhimshalas. When we drove into the first village, we had to spend a bit of time looking for the Dalit locality. We stopped and the director of the organization asked a villager where the Dalit locality was. The villager looked puzzled; Dalit is a relatively new word, and is preferred by the Dalits themselves, while non-Dalits still just use the traditional sub-caste terminology. So the director asked where the weavers and leather-workers lived (these two communities form the biggest part of the Dalit community). The villager waved us on, and said “all the way down”.
The road was narrow and unpaved, and our van was bouncing quite a bit in the potholes, but me made it eventually. When we arrived, we were introduced to the Bhimshala volunteer, a Christian man from the Vankar (weaver) community in his 20’s. He knew a bit of English, and told us about the classes he runs. I also saw the library in his home, which was composed of a small bookshelf and a few dozen books. We got a brief tour of the Dalit locality. A two-minute walk from the volunteer’s home, we met a young man now in the local high school whose protest had resulted in the de-segregation of Dalit and non-Dalit children during the mid-day meal at school. Mid-day meal segregation of Dalits from non-Dalits is typical, because non-Dalits traditionally believe Dalits “pollute” food by their touch or presence, and would not want to even eat while looking at a Dalit. Of course, no child is born with this idea, but the notion is reinforced by their parents and by the school itself, which often enforces the segregation.
We continued walking around the village a bit, and met some local women, about 40 years old. They told my organization’s director that they work as day laborers in fields owned by village Patels (a relatively wealthy non-Dalit caste) for Rs. 40 (one dollar) per day, despite the fact that the minimum daily wage is Rs. 53. They themselves own no land, and are therefore economically dependant on the Patels, and feel powerless to protest their meager wages. The Patels are under no obligation to hire them, so if the women strike or protest, they could lose their only source of income. This type of situation is one reason why my organization has led numerous campaigns on Dalit land rights.
We also went into the Valmiki community. I hadn’t realized that even Dalit localities are divided into clusters of houses based on sub-caste, but this is clearly the case. The Valmikis are the manual scavenger and sweeper caste, and are considered to be the absolute lowest in the caste hierarchy. Even today, tens of thousands of them in Gujarat alone are employed to manually remove and transport human excreta from dry latrines, which are often nothing more than an open area surrounded by four walls. Anyway, a family sat us down on some plastic chairs and gave us some tea, and we talked to some members of the community. They actually seemed to be doing fairly well. One woman we met there was a college graduate now working as a social worker with a different organization, and her daughter is now in college studying English. Her daughter was a bit shy, but when we called her over was able to use the opportunity to practice speaking English a bit. The houses were decent, and made of concrete. They said the government had given some money for their construction.
We then went back to the Bhimshala. Students were sitting in rows, and a fieldworker of the organization was leading them in call-and-response chants related to Ambedkar and equality. My favorite chant was the Hindi, “Hum sub ek hai”, which means “We are all one”. After about 10 minutes of organized chanting, they marched to the village primary school. The kids had been given little signs to hold, which had messages of gender and caste equality printed on them. This little march took us through the non-Dalit part of the village. The villagers looked at us a bit oddly, but I tried to smile at them. Many smiled back. It was a conscious decision on my part to smile; the chants the kids were saying went against the village status quo of caste segregation and gender discrimination, and the villagers probably felt somewhat threatened and surprised that several foreigners were a part of it. A smile can go a long way towards reducing any tension, and also help a cause more than any chants can.
Thursday, December 8th is the anniversary of Dr. Bhimrao Ambedkar’s death. (Dr. Ambedkar was the most significant Dalit leader in India’s history, and was the primary framer of the Indian constitution, a document which provides numerous legal safeguards and a job reservation system for Dalits.) As a result, my organization—which is at root a grassroots network of fieldworkers—organized a variety of programs in the villages. The organization has set up hundreds of “Bhimshalas”—Bhim from Bhimrao Ambedkar, and Shala for the Gujarati word for school—which are basically extra-curricular education centers run out of a volunteer’s home. The volunteer is trained by the organization in strategies to combat discrimination at school, and also gives the kids academic support. The organization also provides the volunteer with a library for the children to use.
Anyway, the programs on December 8th were coordinated through the Bhimshalas. When we drove into the first village, we had to spend a bit of time looking for the Dalit locality. We stopped and the director of the organization asked a villager where the Dalit locality was. The villager looked puzzled; Dalit is a relatively new word, and is preferred by the Dalits themselves, while non-Dalits still just use the traditional sub-caste terminology. So the director asked where the weavers and leather-workers lived (these two communities form the biggest part of the Dalit community). The villager waved us on, and said “all the way down”.
The road was narrow and unpaved, and our van was bouncing quite a bit in the potholes, but me made it eventually. When we arrived, we were introduced to the Bhimshala volunteer, a Christian man from the Vankar (weaver) community in his 20’s. He knew a bit of English, and told us about the classes he runs. I also saw the library in his home, which was composed of a small bookshelf and a few dozen books. We got a brief tour of the Dalit locality. A two-minute walk from the volunteer’s home, we met a young man now in the local high school whose protest had resulted in the de-segregation of Dalit and non-Dalit children during the mid-day meal at school. Mid-day meal segregation of Dalits from non-Dalits is typical, because non-Dalits traditionally believe Dalits “pollute” food by their touch or presence, and would not want to even eat while looking at a Dalit. Of course, no child is born with this idea, but the notion is reinforced by their parents and by the school itself, which often enforces the segregation.
We continued walking around the village a bit, and met some local women, about 40 years old. They told my organization’s director that they work as day laborers in fields owned by village Patels (a relatively wealthy non-Dalit caste) for Rs. 40 (one dollar) per day, despite the fact that the minimum daily wage is Rs. 53. They themselves own no land, and are therefore economically dependant on the Patels, and feel powerless to protest their meager wages. The Patels are under no obligation to hire them, so if the women strike or protest, they could lose their only source of income. This type of situation is one reason why my organization has led numerous campaigns on Dalit land rights.
We also went into the Valmiki community. I hadn’t realized that even Dalit localities are divided into clusters of houses based on sub-caste, but this is clearly the case. The Valmikis are the manual scavenger and sweeper caste, and are considered to be the absolute lowest in the caste hierarchy. Even today, tens of thousands of them in Gujarat alone are employed to manually remove and transport human excreta from dry latrines, which are often nothing more than an open area surrounded by four walls. Anyway, a family sat us down on some plastic chairs and gave us some tea, and we talked to some members of the community. They actually seemed to be doing fairly well. One woman we met there was a college graduate now working as a social worker with a different organization, and her daughter is now in college studying English. Her daughter was a bit shy, but when we called her over was able to use the opportunity to practice speaking English a bit. The houses were decent, and made of concrete. They said the government had given some money for their construction.
We then went back to the Bhimshala. Students were sitting in rows, and a fieldworker of the organization was leading them in call-and-response chants related to Ambedkar and equality. My favorite chant was the Hindi, “Hum sub ek hai”, which means “We are all one”. After about 10 minutes of organized chanting, they marched to the village primary school. The kids had been given little signs to hold, which had messages of gender and caste equality printed on them. This little march took us through the non-Dalit part of the village. The villagers looked at us a bit oddly, but I tried to smile at them. Many smiled back. It was a conscious decision on my part to smile; the chants the kids were saying went against the village status quo of caste segregation and gender discrimination, and the villagers probably felt somewhat threatened and surprised that several foreigners were a part of it. A smile can go a long way towards reducing any tension, and also help a cause more than any chants can.
When we got to the school, I was surprised to see that all of the school’s students were sitting in rows, apparently waiting for us. The school’s staff was sitting in front of the main school building, on the school’s open hallway that provided a kind of makeshift stage. The students who had marched from the Dalit locality (mostly Dalits, but apparently a few non-Dalits as well) joined the other students in rows. We sat on the school floor “stage” facing the students. Some speeches were made, including by my organization’s director. The organization’s fieldworkers helped as well, and all the students joined in chanting “Jay Bhim”, a chant of support for Dr. Ambedkar, which really surprised me. Even some of the school’s staff said “Jay Bhim”, though the principal was more stoic. He had been against the boy who protested the segregated seating at mealtime in school. I made a short speech in Gujarati, in which I said my name, where I’m from, and told the students to read the children’s books brought by the organization for the school; those books deal with gender and caste equality in a way children can relate to. As the event ended, I told the principal that he had a very good school, and shook his hand. I wanted to be overly friendly in order to try to assure the success of the organization’s message.
After the event at the school, we went to another village where we had lunch at someone’s home. There are no dinner tables in the villages, so people sit on the floor, always Indian style, with legs folded. After lunch, four girls who had gotten dressed up for the occasion performed two song and dance numbers for us. They were really impressive, and very well choreographed and rehearsed. One involved throwing flowers, and the other was about how life today differs from life “in the old days”. For example, they said “In the old days women wore saris, but we wear jean pants”, and “In the old days people drank water, but we drink Pepsi”. I recorded the first one, but unfortunately I didn’t get the second. I should say that I didn’t understand much of the song, but it was translated for me after they finished.
Then we went to another village and sat in on their Bhimshala program. Some kids gave us flowers to welcome us, and we put a garland of flowers on Ambedkar’s picture. A volunteer read the children’s books protesting gender and caste inequality. It was interesting to see the women’s and men’s reactions to the points about gender equality. The men weren’t too keen on it, but they perked up during the book about untouchability practices. 
One man in particular—the peon at the town hall—stood up and started passionately explaining how separate water is kept for him because he’s a Dalit. He said it had been that way all the 28 years he’d been working there. I've added his photo just to the right of this text.
We had another interesting experience at yet another village. We were shown a cremation ground about which there had been a protest a year or two back. The ground was built with public funds, but had been used only for upper castes. After a story was published in the newspapers about the discrimination, they were forced to serve Dalits as well. But when we got there, we saw that a new sign proclaiming that the ground was only for Patels had been put up. Also, in a sign explaining the rules for using the grounds, the words “without caste discrimination” had been painted over. You could still see them under the fresh coat of beige paint. We took some photos, and then walked to the area where “lower” castes are forced to cremate their dead. You have to hike through a path into the bushes for a few dozen yards. We saw one place where a cremation had taken place. It was simply a hole in the ground. Some bones were still visible in the ash. The bamboo poles used to carry the body were lying next to the hole. Below, I've posted a photo of the discriminatory sign, with the words "without caste discrimination" painted over in a dull yellow. Unless you can read Gujarati, you'll have to take my word for it. I've also posted a photo of a cremation pit for Dalits, since they cannot use the new facility.
Then, in that village, we joined an event in the Dalit locality. A table was set up under a tent, and we were invited to sit on chairs behind the table, while everyone else sat on pillows in front. The occasion for the meeting was the establishment of an Amebedkar youth club in the village. A bunch of different people spoke. One woman wearing all white—the sign of a widow—worked as a member in the village council through the reservation system that is maintained for Dalits, part of Ambedkar’s constitutional legacy. I misjudged her because she looked so meek, and kept pulling her veil over her face. Also, when a fieldworker asked her if she wanted to make a speech like many others at the gathering, she said no, and the director had to insist that she speak. So I thought, “Wow, this woman is so weak…look at her hiding behind her veil. I’m sure the non-Dalits in the village council walk all over her, and she never speaks up.” But when she spoke she became very passionate, even starting to cry, and the director said she spoke very well. I was angry at myself for judging her before knowing anything, and without even thinking about what might have happened in her life to make her so afraid.
After the event, we had a snack of rice, sauce, and sweets in someone’s house. Then we left for yet another village. This Bhimshala was also holding an event, similar to the other ones. One little girl MC’d the program, others did a dance, the director spoke, and the children’s books were read. The village women were totally engaged in the books, and really connected to it. They nodded, finished sentences, and made sure their kids listened. The men were not enthusiastic about the messages of gender equality, but they became engaged when the book about untouchability was read. One moment that has stuck in my mind happened when the woman reading the book on untouchability asked the kids if they, as Dalits, were allowed to sit in the village square. It's very hard to describe a look in someone's face, so I won't try. But I will say that I have not forgotten the expression on the face of one little girl, maybe 9 years old, when she shook her head no.
Finally, around 11:30 PM, we had dinner in someone’s house. The food was good; potatoes, eggplant, lentils, chappati (Indian bread), and rice. The director had to fight with the woman of the house to be able to wash her own plate. I understood it; it would be hypocritical to push a message of gender equality and then leave plates to be washed by a woman. We all washed our own plates. As I washed mine, a small crowd of boys crowded around, and some practiced their English with me. It was a very positive atmosphere, and everyone wanted to shake my hand or hear me speak some Gujarati. After seeing me wash my own plate, the grandmother of the house suggested to the director that a marriage could be arranged between me and a Dalit girl. I laughed, but the director said she was serious.
Then we left, and I was exhausted. I got back to the vocational training center a few minutes before 2 AM, and went to bed.
So, that was my day. There was plenty to think about, but I was so exhausted that I don't think I was in bed for 10 minutes before I was snoring. It's taken me some time to digest some of the things I saw and learned, but I think it's been sinking in. I've read all kinds of different accounts of discrimination practiced against Dalits in Gujarat and India, but it of course resonates in a different way when it's written on the face of a little girl.
After the event at the school, we went to another village where we had lunch at someone’s home. There are no dinner tables in the villages, so people sit on the floor, always Indian style, with legs folded. After lunch, four girls who had gotten dressed up for the occasion performed two song and dance numbers for us. They were really impressive, and very well choreographed and rehearsed. One involved throwing flowers, and the other was about how life today differs from life “in the old days”. For example, they said “In the old days women wore saris, but we wear jean pants”, and “In the old days people drank water, but we drink Pepsi”. I recorded the first one, but unfortunately I didn’t get the second. I should say that I didn’t understand much of the song, but it was translated for me after they finished.
Then we went to another village and sat in on their Bhimshala program. Some kids gave us flowers to welcome us, and we put a garland of flowers on Ambedkar’s picture. A volunteer read the children’s books protesting gender and caste inequality. It was interesting to see the women’s and men’s reactions to the points about gender equality. The men weren’t too keen on it, but they perked up during the book about untouchability practices. 
One man in particular—the peon at the town hall—stood up and started passionately explaining how separate water is kept for him because he’s a Dalit. He said it had been that way all the 28 years he’d been working there. I've added his photo just to the right of this text.We had another interesting experience at yet another village. We were shown a cremation ground about which there had been a protest a year or two back. The ground was built with public funds, but had been used only for upper castes. After a story was published in the newspapers about the discrimination, they were forced to serve Dalits as well. But when we got there, we saw that a new sign proclaiming that the ground was only for Patels had been put up. Also, in a sign explaining the rules for using the grounds, the words “without caste discrimination” had been painted over. You could still see them under the fresh coat of beige paint. We took some photos, and then walked to the area where “lower” castes are forced to cremate their dead. You have to hike through a path into the bushes for a few dozen yards. We saw one place where a cremation had taken place. It was simply a hole in the ground. Some bones were still visible in the ash. The bamboo poles used to carry the body were lying next to the hole. Below, I've posted a photo of the discriminatory sign, with the words "without caste discrimination" painted over in a dull yellow. Unless you can read Gujarati, you'll have to take my word for it. I've also posted a photo of a cremation pit for Dalits, since they cannot use the new facility.
Then, in that village, we joined an event in the Dalit locality. A table was set up under a tent, and we were invited to sit on chairs behind the table, while everyone else sat on pillows in front. The occasion for the meeting was the establishment of an Amebedkar youth club in the village. A bunch of different people spoke. One woman wearing all white—the sign of a widow—worked as a member in the village council through the reservation system that is maintained for Dalits, part of Ambedkar’s constitutional legacy. I misjudged her because she looked so meek, and kept pulling her veil over her face. Also, when a fieldworker asked her if she wanted to make a speech like many others at the gathering, she said no, and the director had to insist that she speak. So I thought, “Wow, this woman is so weak…look at her hiding behind her veil. I’m sure the non-Dalits in the village council walk all over her, and she never speaks up.” But when she spoke she became very passionate, even starting to cry, and the director said she spoke very well. I was angry at myself for judging her before knowing anything, and without even thinking about what might have happened in her life to make her so afraid.
After the event, we had a snack of rice, sauce, and sweets in someone’s house. Then we left for yet another village. This Bhimshala was also holding an event, similar to the other ones. One little girl MC’d the program, others did a dance, the director spoke, and the children’s books were read. The village women were totally engaged in the books, and really connected to it. They nodded, finished sentences, and made sure their kids listened. The men were not enthusiastic about the messages of gender equality, but they became engaged when the book about untouchability was read. One moment that has stuck in my mind happened when the woman reading the book on untouchability asked the kids if they, as Dalits, were allowed to sit in the village square. It's very hard to describe a look in someone's face, so I won't try. But I will say that I have not forgotten the expression on the face of one little girl, maybe 9 years old, when she shook her head no.
Finally, around 11:30 PM, we had dinner in someone’s house. The food was good; potatoes, eggplant, lentils, chappati (Indian bread), and rice. The director had to fight with the woman of the house to be able to wash her own plate. I understood it; it would be hypocritical to push a message of gender equality and then leave plates to be washed by a woman. We all washed our own plates. As I washed mine, a small crowd of boys crowded around, and some practiced their English with me. It was a very positive atmosphere, and everyone wanted to shake my hand or hear me speak some Gujarati. After seeing me wash my own plate, the grandmother of the house suggested to the director that a marriage could be arranged between me and a Dalit girl. I laughed, but the director said she was serious.
Then we left, and I was exhausted. I got back to the vocational training center a few minutes before 2 AM, and went to bed.
So, that was my day. There was plenty to think about, but I was so exhausted that I don't think I was in bed for 10 minutes before I was snoring. It's taken me some time to digest some of the things I saw and learned, but I think it's been sinking in. I've read all kinds of different accounts of discrimination practiced against Dalits in Gujarat and India, but it of course resonates in a different way when it's written on the face of a little girl.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
A gecko on my shirt, a monkey in the dining hall, and a lizard in my toilet
A pair of pigeons keeps trying to make a nest on my windowsill. They’ve actually succeeded several times, and I have to knock it down, eggs and all. Knocking down the eggs makes me feel guilty, so I try to get rid of the nest before any are laid. Yesterday morning I opened the window to do just that. As I was pushing off the last few twigs, a gecko leapt onto my shirt. I’m not afraid of geckos, which are everywhere in India, but the surprise of it made me start writhing and shaking to try to knock it off. After a couple seconds it fell down onto the floor. It was about six or seven inches long from head to tail, and was a typical gecko like any of the others that come in my room to eat moths or bugs, and leave roughly one capsule-sized black turd on my floor per day. I smiled when I saw that it was nothing to be afraid of.
“Listen, gecko,” I said, “I don’t care if you want to come into my room, but don’t jump on my shirt!” It scampered away under my desk.
I then left for breakfast in the campus dining hall. I was enjoying my tea when I looked up to see a large langour monkey enter the building from the stairs leading to the roof. He must have gotten onto the roof from a nearby tree. “Oh my god,” I said, “a freaking monkey!” Languors are not dangerous, and are actually used in some cities (such as Delhi) to repel the smaller, more malicious macaques. I’ve seen many langours around India before, but this was the first time one had come into the dining hall.
Someone made a noise to scare the monkey back onto the roof, but it didn’t budge. I got up and yelled at it, but that didn’t help either. One of the guys who works in the kitchen ran up the stairs and chased it away with a stick, and then closed the door so it wouldn’t be able to get back in.
I left the dining hall smiling. I’ve always been partial to monkeys.
In the evening, I went to my room to use the toilet. Upon opening the lid, I saw that a lizard—several inches longer than the gecko, with a spiny back, a long, thin tail, and a small piece of toilet paper crowning his head—had somehow gotten inside. How he’d managed to get in I don’t know, because the lid had been on since morning. He was finding it difficult to get out, because the bowl was too slippery for his little feet to grasp.
I closed the lid, left my room, and used a communal toilet instead. I then went to the library, checked the dictionary for the Gujarati word for lizard, and told the librarian and the man in charge of discipline about the kanchindo in my toilet. The librarian laughed, but the disciplinarian was stern.
“Who is better,” he asked me in Gujarati, “David or kanchindo?”
I saw his point. I went back to my room, and used my toilet brush to shift the lizard from the bowl onto a flat piece of wood. The lizard was very antsy, but it wasn’t able to climb off because of the way it had grasped the wood. I dumped it onto the ground outside.
Then I went back to the library to find the disciplinarian. “Kanchindo toilet out,” I told him in awful Gujarati. “Kanchindo better not. David better!” He nodded in approval.
“Listen, gecko,” I said, “I don’t care if you want to come into my room, but don’t jump on my shirt!” It scampered away under my desk.
I then left for breakfast in the campus dining hall. I was enjoying my tea when I looked up to see a large langour monkey enter the building from the stairs leading to the roof. He must have gotten onto the roof from a nearby tree. “Oh my god,” I said, “a freaking monkey!” Languors are not dangerous, and are actually used in some cities (such as Delhi) to repel the smaller, more malicious macaques. I’ve seen many langours around India before, but this was the first time one had come into the dining hall.
Someone made a noise to scare the monkey back onto the roof, but it didn’t budge. I got up and yelled at it, but that didn’t help either. One of the guys who works in the kitchen ran up the stairs and chased it away with a stick, and then closed the door so it wouldn’t be able to get back in.
I left the dining hall smiling. I’ve always been partial to monkeys.
In the evening, I went to my room to use the toilet. Upon opening the lid, I saw that a lizard—several inches longer than the gecko, with a spiny back, a long, thin tail, and a small piece of toilet paper crowning his head—had somehow gotten inside. How he’d managed to get in I don’t know, because the lid had been on since morning. He was finding it difficult to get out, because the bowl was too slippery for his little feet to grasp.
I closed the lid, left my room, and used a communal toilet instead. I then went to the library, checked the dictionary for the Gujarati word for lizard, and told the librarian and the man in charge of discipline about the kanchindo in my toilet. The librarian laughed, but the disciplinarian was stern.
“Who is better,” he asked me in Gujarati, “David or kanchindo?”
I saw his point. I went back to my room, and used my toilet brush to shift the lizard from the bowl onto a flat piece of wood. The lizard was very antsy, but it wasn’t able to climb off because of the way it had grasped the wood. I dumped it onto the ground outside.
Then I went back to the library to find the disciplinarian. “Kanchindo toilet out,” I told him in awful Gujarati. “Kanchindo better not. David better!” He nodded in approval.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Haircuts
So far I've had three haircuts in India. I was a bit nervous about getting a haircut at first, for two reasons. First, most Indians do not have curly hair, and barbers might therefore panic when seeing my head. Second, I didn't want to get lice or something from a comb that is used on everyone's head without being sterilized.
I got over both of these worries, though, for the same reason I've gotten over a lot of other similar worries: I have no choice.
My first haircut was during the orientation for the fellowship, at a town called Mussourie up near the Himalayas. The barbershop was tiny, but well-lit and in possession of some big mirrors and decent-looking scissors. The barber was pretty young, probably in his early 20's, but he was a real pro. After giving me a better haircut than many American barbers have given me, he even gave me a head massage. All told, it set me back 35 Rupees, including 5 Rs. as tip. That's about 90 cents.
My second haircut was a bit less of a positive experience. I live now just outside of a tiny village, so normal barbershop facilities aren't available. What is available, though, is a guy in a shack who has a pair of scissors, a straightedge razor, and a mirror. I went to see him about three weeks ago in the evening, around six, but since the sun was low in the sky and he didn't have electricity, and my curly hair would require more concentration than usual, he asked me to come back the next morning. I did, but the haircut wasn't nearly as good as the one I got in Mussourie. This barber was clearly intimidated by the curls, and kept trying to straighten my hair, which doesn't work very well. As a result, some parts were too short, others too long, and I wasn't particularly satisfied. It cost 15 Rupees, or about 37 cents.
Yesterday I went into the town of Sanand, about 8 km away, to a barbershop recommended by a co-worker. This one had electricity and a fan, which was nice. The smock they put on me had Japanese writing on it, and the barber was amused when I translated it for him. The haircut was decent, so I think this is the place I'm going to use from now on. It cost 20 Rupees, about 50 cents.
I haven't worked up the courage to get a shave from these guys, because it's all with a straightedge razor and something about letting a stranger hold a blade right on my jugular doesn't sit well with me. But I'll get a shave there at some point.
In other news, I'm going to try to embed some pictures into the blog entries. We'll see if it works. OK, it worked. The photo above is of the second haircut.
I got over both of these worries, though, for the same reason I've gotten over a lot of other similar worries: I have no choice.
My first haircut was during the orientation for the fellowship, at a town called Mussourie up near the Himalayas. The barbershop was tiny, but well-lit and in possession of some big mirrors and decent-looking scissors. The barber was pretty young, probably in his early 20's, but he was a real pro. After giving me a better haircut than many American barbers have given me, he even gave me a head massage. All told, it set me back 35 Rupees, including 5 Rs. as tip. That's about 90 cents.
My second haircut was a bit less of a positive experience. I live now just outside of a tiny village, so normal barbershop facilities aren't available. What is available, though, is a guy in a shack who has a pair of scissors, a straightedge razor, and a mirror. I went to see him about three weeks ago in the evening, around six, but since the sun was low in the sky and he didn't have electricity, and my curly hair would require more concentration than usual, he asked me to come back the next morning. I did, but the haircut wasn't nearly as good as the one I got in Mussourie. This barber was clearly intimidated by the curls, and kept trying to straighten my hair, which doesn't work very well. As a result, some parts were too short, others too long, and I wasn't particularly satisfied. It cost 15 Rupees, or about 37 cents.Yesterday I went into the town of Sanand, about 8 km away, to a barbershop recommended by a co-worker. This one had electricity and a fan, which was nice. The smock they put on me had Japanese writing on it, and the barber was amused when I translated it for him. The haircut was decent, so I think this is the place I'm going to use from now on. It cost 20 Rupees, about 50 cents.
I haven't worked up the courage to get a shave from these guys, because it's all with a straightedge razor and something about letting a stranger hold a blade right on my jugular doesn't sit well with me. But I'll get a shave there at some point.
In other news, I'm going to try to embed some pictures into the blog entries. We'll see if it works. OK, it worked. The photo above is of the second haircut.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
One night in a village
This past week was Diwali, the Indian New Year. It’s probably the biggest festival of the year, and most people go back to their native village to celebrate with their families. I went to the home of one of the accountants here, whom I’ll call Suresh, though that’s not his real name. Suresh speaks English quite well, and lives in a village called Ranoda about 25 kilometers away with his parents and sisters.
I left for Ranoda on Friday, and took a series of three shared auto rickshaw taxis, each one packed with about eight people, though they should sit only three. The journey cost me less than fifty cents. I called Suresh when I arrived, and he came out to meet me. We walked together down the main road of the village—unpaved, though level and covered with gravel—and then took a left.
“The road to the right is for non-Dalits,” he said. In nearly every Indian village, the Dalits live in a separate locality some distance from the rest of the village. The road we were now on was in significantly worse condition than the main one; it was probably too narrow for a car or truck, and was fairly muddy.
Nearly everyone we passed was excited to see me. They all asked Suresh where I was from, and nodded in awe when they heard the word “America”. Suresh was clearly enjoying showing me off, but I didn’t mind. I’m sure I was the first foreigner to come into the Dalit locality (probably the overall village, too), and maybe even the first person from outside Gujarat. Soon a trail of people had formed behind us as we walked to Suresh’s house, winding between the houses and alleys. His house was two stories, and made of concrete and wood with an earthen floor. Suresh told me his grandfather built it fifty years ago.
Suresh’s sisters and mother smiled when they saw me. They sat me on a cot, and gave me some water and then tea. When I finished, I went on a short walk with Suresh. It was late in the day, around five-thirty, and it was really just beautiful, very much the picture of Indian village life that you might imagine. Balanced on their heads, women were carrying jugs of water or fodder for the buffalos. Old men, whose smiles displayed only half the number of teeth there should have been, were coming back home from the fields.
I left for Ranoda on Friday, and took a series of three shared auto rickshaw taxis, each one packed with about eight people, though they should sit only three. The journey cost me less than fifty cents. I called Suresh when I arrived, and he came out to meet me. We walked together down the main road of the village—unpaved, though level and covered with gravel—and then took a left.
“The road to the right is for non-Dalits,” he said. In nearly every Indian village, the Dalits live in a separate locality some distance from the rest of the village. The road we were now on was in significantly worse condition than the main one; it was probably too narrow for a car or truck, and was fairly muddy.
Nearly everyone we passed was excited to see me. They all asked Suresh where I was from, and nodded in awe when they heard the word “America”. Suresh was clearly enjoying showing me off, but I didn’t mind. I’m sure I was the first foreigner to come into the Dalit locality (probably the overall village, too), and maybe even the first person from outside Gujarat. Soon a trail of people had formed behind us as we walked to Suresh’s house, winding between the houses and alleys. His house was two stories, and made of concrete and wood with an earthen floor. Suresh told me his grandfather built it fifty years ago.
Suresh’s sisters and mother smiled when they saw me. They sat me on a cot, and gave me some water and then tea. When I finished, I went on a short walk with Suresh. It was late in the day, around five-thirty, and it was really just beautiful, very much the picture of Indian village life that you might imagine. Balanced on their heads, women were carrying jugs of water or fodder for the buffalos. Old men, whose smiles displayed only half the number of teeth there should have been, were coming back home from the fields.
In a clearing surrounded by houses, some kids were playing cricket. The houses there were fairly large (by village standards), concrete, and together formed a “U”, with the interior left open for hay, buffalos, and a tractor or two. The boys playing cricket invited me to join them, so I picked up the bat. I hit a few good balls, but they were pitching (or “bowling” in cricket terms) slowly for me. Everyone cheered when I had a good hit.
Suresh’s mother cooked dinner on a small wood fire just outside the house. Suresh and I were served first, so we ate sitting on a rug on the floor. The food was really good; there were several dishes, including a vegetable stew, lentils, rice, and Indian flatbread (roti). The rest of the family didn’t start to eat until Suresh and I had finished.
After dinner, the Diwali celebrations continued. People carried torches (crowned with buffalo dung, and soaked in coconut oil) to the banks of the pond, and stuck them in the ground there. It’s supposed to symbolize something, though I’m not sure what. Kids were lighting firecrackers and fireworks the whole time, and actually they didn’t stop until well into the next day.
When it was time to sleep, Suresh’s sisters lined up some wooden cots outside the house, and everyone slept in a row. I was too tall for the cot, and my legs stuck out, so it wasn’t the best night of sleep in my life. But that could also have been because of the nonstop firecrackers. At one point, I woke up to see a boy lighting a firecracker fifteen feet from my cot. I checked my watch; it was 4:30.
People were up and moving well before sunrise, and soon we had tea and crackers for breakfast. Suresh and I took another walk around the Dalit locality. I was offered tea by probably a dozen different households, and I accepted from a few. Oddly, the custom here is to pour the tea from the cup onto the saucer, and then sip directly from the saucer. I think the point is that it cools down more quickly that way. As is typical in Gujarat, the tea was made from boiled buffalo milk and black tea leaves. It’s a bit sweet for my taste, but still very good.
Suresh wanted to take a bath, so I continued my walk by the houses where I had played cricket the day before. I learned that the reason those houses were so big was that they had been built under a government plan implemented by Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, India’s foremost Dalit leader, now deceased and revered by many Dalits as something of a god. Ambedkar dedicated his life to the breaking of caste barriers, and was the main author of India’s constitution. As a result, Dalits receive legal protection and are given reserved spots for government jobs, called “positive discrimination”, the Indian version of affirmative action. The caste system is deeply ingrained in Indian society, however, and laws are often not enforced. Sadly, the condition of the Dalits in many places is not so different today than it was a hundred years ago; many are landless, uneducated, and relegated to the most menial, laborious work.
Anyway, I walked from house to house, and had tea with a few different people. Most had framed portraits of Dr. Ambedkar on their walls, usually next to a picture of a Hindu deity. Some homes had handlooms on the front porch; these probably belonged to Vankars—the Dalit sub-caste dedicated to weaving.
I spent the rest of the morning lounging around Suresh’s house with his extended family. They served us lunch, and afterwards we headed outside the village to see some other of his family members.
Near the village entrance was a temple compound, with one larger building and one smaller. It looked harmless to me, but Suresh pointed out that Dalits are forbidden from entering the larger temple, and have to be content with the smaller one. This is typical in India, as untouchability—the practice of treating Dalits as polluting by their very presence—is common in rural areas. Suresh also told me that though relations were good between the “upper” castes of the village and the Dalits, and the “upper” castes sometimes came into the Dalit locality, they wouldn’t drink tea or water from Dalit homes. Doing so would, in their minds, cause them to become “polluted”. “They come to my home, sit on the cots and talk to my family,” Suresh said, “but they don’t drink our tea. Never.” Some elderly Dalits are used to this discrimination and rarely complain, but the youth seem to assert themselves more actively.
So we spent the afternoon at the houses of some of Suresh’s relatives, drinking tea, eating sweets, and chatting. I spent the next night in a town called Dholka at the home of the manager of the vocational training school here. It was very pleasant, but lacked Ranoda’s charm. I’m planning on developing the pictures I took at Ranoda and giving them to Suresh’s family as a thank-you gift for treating me so well. Everyone loved my camera, and basically lined up to have a picture taken. Despite my poor Gujarati, I understood when one man told a neighbor, “Come on! Have him take your photo. Then people in America will see you!”
I have open invitations to come to many different villages here, but I’m going to make sure I go back to Ranoda at least once before I leave.
Suresh’s mother cooked dinner on a small wood fire just outside the house. Suresh and I were served first, so we ate sitting on a rug on the floor. The food was really good; there were several dishes, including a vegetable stew, lentils, rice, and Indian flatbread (roti). The rest of the family didn’t start to eat until Suresh and I had finished.
After dinner, the Diwali celebrations continued. People carried torches (crowned with buffalo dung, and soaked in coconut oil) to the banks of the pond, and stuck them in the ground there. It’s supposed to symbolize something, though I’m not sure what. Kids were lighting firecrackers and fireworks the whole time, and actually they didn’t stop until well into the next day.
When it was time to sleep, Suresh’s sisters lined up some wooden cots outside the house, and everyone slept in a row. I was too tall for the cot, and my legs stuck out, so it wasn’t the best night of sleep in my life. But that could also have been because of the nonstop firecrackers. At one point, I woke up to see a boy lighting a firecracker fifteen feet from my cot. I checked my watch; it was 4:30.
People were up and moving well before sunrise, and soon we had tea and crackers for breakfast. Suresh and I took another walk around the Dalit locality. I was offered tea by probably a dozen different households, and I accepted from a few. Oddly, the custom here is to pour the tea from the cup onto the saucer, and then sip directly from the saucer. I think the point is that it cools down more quickly that way. As is typical in Gujarat, the tea was made from boiled buffalo milk and black tea leaves. It’s a bit sweet for my taste, but still very good.
Suresh wanted to take a bath, so I continued my walk by the houses where I had played cricket the day before. I learned that the reason those houses were so big was that they had been built under a government plan implemented by Dr. B. R. Ambedkar, India’s foremost Dalit leader, now deceased and revered by many Dalits as something of a god. Ambedkar dedicated his life to the breaking of caste barriers, and was the main author of India’s constitution. As a result, Dalits receive legal protection and are given reserved spots for government jobs, called “positive discrimination”, the Indian version of affirmative action. The caste system is deeply ingrained in Indian society, however, and laws are often not enforced. Sadly, the condition of the Dalits in many places is not so different today than it was a hundred years ago; many are landless, uneducated, and relegated to the most menial, laborious work.
Anyway, I walked from house to house, and had tea with a few different people. Most had framed portraits of Dr. Ambedkar on their walls, usually next to a picture of a Hindu deity. Some homes had handlooms on the front porch; these probably belonged to Vankars—the Dalit sub-caste dedicated to weaving.
I spent the rest of the morning lounging around Suresh’s house with his extended family. They served us lunch, and afterwards we headed outside the village to see some other of his family members.
Near the village entrance was a temple compound, with one larger building and one smaller. It looked harmless to me, but Suresh pointed out that Dalits are forbidden from entering the larger temple, and have to be content with the smaller one. This is typical in India, as untouchability—the practice of treating Dalits as polluting by their very presence—is common in rural areas. Suresh also told me that though relations were good between the “upper” castes of the village and the Dalits, and the “upper” castes sometimes came into the Dalit locality, they wouldn’t drink tea or water from Dalit homes. Doing so would, in their minds, cause them to become “polluted”. “They come to my home, sit on the cots and talk to my family,” Suresh said, “but they don’t drink our tea. Never.” Some elderly Dalits are used to this discrimination and rarely complain, but the youth seem to assert themselves more actively.
So we spent the afternoon at the houses of some of Suresh’s relatives, drinking tea, eating sweets, and chatting. I spent the next night in a town called Dholka at the home of the manager of the vocational training school here. It was very pleasant, but lacked Ranoda’s charm. I’m planning on developing the pictures I took at Ranoda and giving them to Suresh’s family as a thank-you gift for treating me so well. Everyone loved my camera, and basically lined up to have a picture taken. Despite my poor Gujarati, I understood when one man told a neighbor, “Come on! Have him take your photo. Then people in America will see you!”
I have open invitations to come to many different villages here, but I’m going to make sure I go back to Ranoda at least once before I leave.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Untouched
For the last few weeks, I've been working in an office with two other people. AJWS says we shouldn't use the names of our coworkers in our blogs, so I asked one of them what name I could use for her. She chose Annie, which is short for Angela, her baptismal name (she's a Christian). Her real name is much more Indian-sounding, though. You'll have to take my word on that.
I can’t think of a day since I’ve been here when she didn’t announce her arrival in the morning by bursting through the door singing and dancing. She constantly has a smile on her face, even though she is busy doing work everyday for which she is terribly overqualified. For the past several months, she’s been scanning surveys on untouchability [the practice of treating Dalits--"untouchables"--as pariahs]. The work is basically mindless, but requires careful attention to minute details on the forms. Annie is a college graduate in mechanical engineering, speaks fluent English, has been in charge of a bunch of machines in a factory, has taught Computer Assisted Design and Videography/Photography, and could no doubt be making much more money working somewhere else.
She’s always joking with me, teaching me things about Gujarati culture or about this organization, and spends time helping me with something or other nearly every day.
Yesterday, she told me that she’d been the victim of an act of untouchability the day before. Annie lives in a building on the edge of campus with her husband, the organization’s chief engineer. Some of the married staff live in this building. Anyway, I’ll tell the story in her voice.
“Yesterday I was outside doing some laundry, hanging it up on the lines. The weather was cool and I was feeling good. Three women from the village were walking by and went to take some water from the faucet. I had a jug of water already out, and I told them to just take the water from the jug, so they could use cups. But they didn’t want it. I asked them why, and they said, ‘If you drink out of the well of a Valmiki [a sewage worker], then we will take water from your jug.’ I couldn’t believe it, these three women who were too good to drink from my cups but still wanted my water, talking to me like they were so much better than me! Oh, it made me so angry. So I told them, ‘If you don’t want to drink from my jug, then you can’t have water from my tap!’ They said, ‘Did you put the water in the ground? It’s not your water!’ But it was my tap, right by the building! I told them they had no right to talk to me like that, I’ve a BA, they can’t act like they’re such goddesses. They spent their whole lives in this little village, but because of their caste they’re too good for my water. They said, ‘If you have so much money, why are you living in this building, not even in your own house or apartment!’ They were Patels [a higher caste], these three. These Patels are always practicing untouchability. They’re the worst. I told them to leave and never come back, and never take water from the tap ever again.”
I was surprised that right by the campus of the organization, the village women still practiced untouchability. Annie told me about another experience she had in Sanand, the closest town. She’d gone with her husband to find a house to rent so they could have their own place and still live near the organization. They were having an interview with a landlord, and it was going fine until the landlord asked their caste. They said they were Dalits, and the landlord told them that, sorry, he only rents to Darbars [a dominant caste] and Patels. They tried a few other places, and it was the same. That is why they’re currently living in the building at the edge of campus.
In many ways, this vocational training center is a kind of oasis. Everyone treats each other equally, regardless of subcaste or gender. Annie’s stories served to remind me of the reality outside.
I can’t think of a day since I’ve been here when she didn’t announce her arrival in the morning by bursting through the door singing and dancing. She constantly has a smile on her face, even though she is busy doing work everyday for which she is terribly overqualified. For the past several months, she’s been scanning surveys on untouchability [the practice of treating Dalits--"untouchables"--as pariahs]. The work is basically mindless, but requires careful attention to minute details on the forms. Annie is a college graduate in mechanical engineering, speaks fluent English, has been in charge of a bunch of machines in a factory, has taught Computer Assisted Design and Videography/Photography, and could no doubt be making much more money working somewhere else.
She’s always joking with me, teaching me things about Gujarati culture or about this organization, and spends time helping me with something or other nearly every day.
Yesterday, she told me that she’d been the victim of an act of untouchability the day before. Annie lives in a building on the edge of campus with her husband, the organization’s chief engineer. Some of the married staff live in this building. Anyway, I’ll tell the story in her voice.
“Yesterday I was outside doing some laundry, hanging it up on the lines. The weather was cool and I was feeling good. Three women from the village were walking by and went to take some water from the faucet. I had a jug of water already out, and I told them to just take the water from the jug, so they could use cups. But they didn’t want it. I asked them why, and they said, ‘If you drink out of the well of a Valmiki [a sewage worker], then we will take water from your jug.’ I couldn’t believe it, these three women who were too good to drink from my cups but still wanted my water, talking to me like they were so much better than me! Oh, it made me so angry. So I told them, ‘If you don’t want to drink from my jug, then you can’t have water from my tap!’ They said, ‘Did you put the water in the ground? It’s not your water!’ But it was my tap, right by the building! I told them they had no right to talk to me like that, I’ve a BA, they can’t act like they’re such goddesses. They spent their whole lives in this little village, but because of their caste they’re too good for my water. They said, ‘If you have so much money, why are you living in this building, not even in your own house or apartment!’ They were Patels [a higher caste], these three. These Patels are always practicing untouchability. They’re the worst. I told them to leave and never come back, and never take water from the tap ever again.”
I was surprised that right by the campus of the organization, the village women still practiced untouchability. Annie told me about another experience she had in Sanand, the closest town. She’d gone with her husband to find a house to rent so they could have their own place and still live near the organization. They were having an interview with a landlord, and it was going fine until the landlord asked their caste. They said they were Dalits, and the landlord told them that, sorry, he only rents to Darbars [a dominant caste] and Patels. They tried a few other places, and it was the same. That is why they’re currently living in the building at the edge of campus.
In many ways, this vocational training center is a kind of oasis. Everyone treats each other equally, regardless of subcaste or gender. Annie’s stories served to remind me of the reality outside.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Garba till you can't Garba no more
"David-brother! You play Garba with me! You know Garba? You dance with me! Garba, Garba, hahaha!"
We're currently in the midst of Navaratri, a very popular festival that literally translates to "nine nights". There is some confusing religious significance to it, but it seems like what most people like about it is the Garba dancing. People have been talking about it for weeks. Two weeks ago after dinner, five or six guys were practicing, sans music, out behind the furniture workshop. They stepped in unison and clapped their hands, and eventually the night watchman, a skinny sixty-something man with a mustache and a scrunched up face, joined and started moving around too.
Three nights ago was the first night of Navaratri, and all the students here were excited. After dinner a stereo system was set up, and everyone began to gather around. Then the music started, and for one and a half hours, it was Garba and only Garba.
The dance is pretty simple, and only four steps. I eventually got it, but I'm sure I looked like a goofball compared to everyone who's been doing it since they were four years old. Everyone made a huge circle--probably more than a hundred people all in one circle--and did the dance in unison with the drum beat. The music sounded like all the other Indian music I've been hearing, but I'm sure my untrained ear was missing something.
Everyone got a kick out of me dancing, and the Videography and Photography students took enough pictures and movies of me to fill a hard drive.
It's pretty fun, but doing the same dance for an hour and a half gets a bit tedious. They're at it again tonight, but I'm taking some time off from Garba for now. Nine days of Garba is more Garba than I can handle.
We're currently in the midst of Navaratri, a very popular festival that literally translates to "nine nights". There is some confusing religious significance to it, but it seems like what most people like about it is the Garba dancing. People have been talking about it for weeks. Two weeks ago after dinner, five or six guys were practicing, sans music, out behind the furniture workshop. They stepped in unison and clapped their hands, and eventually the night watchman, a skinny sixty-something man with a mustache and a scrunched up face, joined and started moving around too.
Three nights ago was the first night of Navaratri, and all the students here were excited. After dinner a stereo system was set up, and everyone began to gather around. Then the music started, and for one and a half hours, it was Garba and only Garba.
The dance is pretty simple, and only four steps. I eventually got it, but I'm sure I looked like a goofball compared to everyone who's been doing it since they were four years old. Everyone made a huge circle--probably more than a hundred people all in one circle--and did the dance in unison with the drum beat. The music sounded like all the other Indian music I've been hearing, but I'm sure my untrained ear was missing something.
Everyone got a kick out of me dancing, and the Videography and Photography students took enough pictures and movies of me to fill a hard drive.
It's pretty fun, but doing the same dance for an hour and a half gets a bit tedious. They're at it again tonight, but I'm taking some time off from Garba for now. Nine days of Garba is more Garba than I can handle.
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