Anger is a secondary emotion resulting from the primary emotions of fear, frustration and pain. I was terrified of the monkeys in Mumbai and applied the fight or flight mechanism (my choice was hasty flight). My ego was impaired while doing the biometric survey at the Rajendra Nagar Slum due to collective disappointment, so I became detached) which is my usual first, second, third, forth mechanism response to stress). In neither of these cases did I reach a level equal or approximate to ‘anger’; however, this evening, take the frustration number, escalate it with exhaustion, poor weather, delayed flights, a broken ATM, unknowledgeable/mistaken airline personnel, pesky taxi drivers, panic of missing an international flight. . . and well, my pulse might get racy, my cheeks might burn scarlet, my jaw might be clamped tight, fiery smoke might come out of my ears, and I might even raise my voice.
In the evening of the seventeenth of August in the year twenty-ten, I was scheduled to fly out of Bangalore to Mumbai. In the wee hours of the eighteenth, I was to fly from Mumbai to London and then onwards to San Francisco.As I was checking my one bag, if occurred to me that my flight from Bangalore to Mumbai was not considered a connecting flight within the whole scheme of getting back to SFO. I had booked it separately, so this brought about the issue of determining where this particular checked bag would end up. The answer was in Mumbai, not SF. I would have to pick up the bag in the domestic airport in Mumbai, somehow find transpiration to Mumbai’s InternationalAirport, re-check in, go through customs, got through security, etc.
I embarrassingly admit that this situation didn’t cross my mind until I was there at the check-in counter in Bangalore’s airport. Although I flight often enough, my trips are usually much shorter and multiple connections are rare. I just didn’t have the experience or required foresight until it was too late.
I talked to the lady behind the baggage counter and explained the situation of claiming my baggage, getting to the other airport in Mumbai, and jumping through all of the hoops to get to my plane’s gate in time for the departure. She assured me that I would have more than enough time and not to worry about getting to the InternationalAirport because JetAirways had a shuttle, etc.
For several hours I was relieved and at ease.
My flight out of Bangalore was delayed due to bad weather in Mumbai. I still had time to make it. No problem. I waited for my bag to come through the claim belt. Nothing. More nothing. I spoke to some officials. They found the bag. Thank goodness, but the clock was ticking. I inquired about a shuttle to the International terminal. Due to some logistics that I didn’t quite understand nor believe, I was not qualified to take the shuttle. Okay, fine. I could take a pre-paid taxi, but I was trying to be really careful not to be stuck with a bunch of Indian currency when I came back to the US, so I didn’t have enough cash. I was becoming a little nervous at this point because it was pouring rain and everything seemed to be taking too much time, but in reality, there was still no problem. I found the only ATM in the area. Another man and I shared a few curses (binding mutual frustration isn’t healthy, but we had planes to catch!) because the ATM machine was not functioning properly and would not deliver cash. With my baggage, I dove out of the airport and into the pouring monsoon rains (take Bangalore showers and add a mighty exponential factor and this will model approximate Mumbai weather).
Being white, female and obviously desperate, as I knew would happen, I immediately caught the attention of the private taxi scammers. I wasn’t too worried because I didn’t even have cash, and quite frankly, whatever price they demanded would be less than rebooking a plane ticket to America. My most worthy trump card was that fact that I had been staying in India for 11 weeks and had learned that because I was female and because Indian males are raised to treat all women as mothers and sisters, after accepting me into his vehicle, this taxi driver was obliged to drop me off at the International Airport in a timely fashion and without harm, no matter if I paid or not.
I explained my zero-cash except a US $20 bill (approx 1000 rupees) to the guy trying to yank me to his cab. We agreed on the price of 10 (still completely over priced, but desperate was my situation). The battle began when I was fully loaded into the taxi and we were charging into the crowded, water-logged streets. The driver then changed his mind and wanted 2100 rupees, which was completely over priced (pre-paid taxi is 180 rupees). I have been in India long enough to understand the rules of this game; more so, I was cantankerous and trapped enough to play with a competitive spirit.
We argued. We shouted at one another. We swapped bills back and forth, back and forth. He shoved a printed document under my nose with displayed fairs to various locations throughout the city including my destination. He cried that I was not paying fairly and that I was a cheat. I cried that he wasn’t charging fairly and that I was no fool. I claimed quite honestly that I had no other cash because the ATM at the airport was not in service. He stopped at an ATM. I refused to budge out of my seat to collect his 2100 rupees. He continued to drive. At some point I demanded that he stop the vehicle to let me walk the 12 kilometers to the airport in the pouring rain with two bags because clearly I could not pay. He slowed. I collected my things and tried to open the door. Just in time, he managed to lock me in and reach a speed that would be suicide for me to exit the vehicle.
This is when we reached a stalemate, which is the state of bargaining that is most favorable. The merchant feels that the buyer will pay no more, and the purchaser feels that the seller would sell for no less. 500 rupees was the price. Despite the heat and displays of resentment that had existed just moments prior, the energy in the vehicle mellowed and casual conversation pursued. I was dropped off at the terminal that I requested. He was paid. I received my change. I was feeling pretty good.
There was a guard at the doorway to the airport. He was checking boarding tickets and identification. Due to a power outage, I was unable to print my e-ticket so only had my passport. Usually such a situation is of little concern because the information is saved in the airport database when one checks his or her luggage; however, this guard wasn’t sure what to do with me. Instead of letting me pass through, he put me in a corner in the pouring rain to wait. This was nearly more than I could handle. I was one a wild rollercoaster that oscillated between peaks of relief and hope and gullies of heightened stress and anxiety. Time was passing and I was going to miss my flight.
Just when my nerves were beginning to get the best of me and tears were on the verge of falling, one of the flight staff came over to ask me if I needed help. Trembling with tension, I explained my situation. She told me that she could help and immediately led me to the beginning of the check-baggage line. I was rushed through customs. I was dashed through security. After sprinting passed 14 gates, I arrived just in time for the last boarding call.
As I write, I am seated safely on an airplane headed from Mumbai to London. I am liberated. The best fortune for which one can optimize while traveling via massive houses with silver wings and ports that connect the heavens to the earth is uneventful and travels plagued with ennui. . . but if all works out well, then I’ll laugh about the whole thing and have a good story to tell. I pray that all else goes smoothly.
Today was my last day at the Office. Tonight is my last night in Bangalroe. Tomorrow is my last ‘morrow in India.
Last week proved to be a fairly mellow work week. Our office is simply trying to regain its bearings after all of the construction that had relentlessly been taking place for the previous three and a half weeks Originally, I was scheduled to leave Bangalore two days ago; however, I decided to extend my stay here by a couple of days. I am glad I did.
I continued my minor food preparation roll through this afternoon. While I was in the kitchen minding some business, I had the surprise of a lifetime. None other than Miss Rejeshawari and her mother, Chandra, entered with luminous eyes, beaming smiles, and firm embraces.
On July 5, 2010, Rejeshawari’s father pass away. I was devastated to learn of her loss. At the time, she was my closest acquaintance in the Office. She was the one who first greeted me when I arrived and from that point onward she was my shadow. I felt as if she was my little sister. One of my sourest regrets is that I cancelled a visit to her home on the weekend of her father’s death in order to make that second trip to Mumbai to meet with SPARC. Traditionally in India, when a close relative dies, a period of 41 days is observed during which time the family grieves and does not leave the house or engage is social activities. I had assumed that our paths would never cross again, but chance works in mysterious ways.
Today seemed to pass by with a single bat of the eye. I spent this time savoring all of the faces, expressions, mannerisms, smiles, laughs, and voices of the Mahila Milan and the Federation members, now my colleagues and friends.
Last days and final good-byes are always tough.
In the late afternoon, the ladies decided to make me a “True Indian”. Chandra braided my hair. Some one supplied a string of jasmine flowers. Aunty Malayamma fastened bangles around my wrists. My face was made into the Indian version of ‘pin the tail on the donkey’ as each girl applied, adjusted, and reapplied stick-on Bindis to my forehead.
Photos were taken by the hundreds. Songs were sung. Gifts were exchanged. Tears fell in showers. Goodbyes were said. Wishes of health and happiness were expressed. Hugs and handshakes were exchanged. Departures are too personal and too emotional to describe properly, so suffice this description to include the deepest heart-throbs known to the human soul.
On the way back to the Convent, I swung by a lavish bakery and picked up the most attractive cake on display, for this was also my last evening with the Hostel girls. . .All I can say is that I am glad that Sister Florin, the warden, was off on personal business for the night. The party that my five closest friends and I had was shrill and maybe a little unruly.
I arrived with the fancy little cake. They sprung about in panic and mentioned that they had just ordered a cake from the same French bakery. A rushed, anxious call was placed to cancel the order.Goofy and fun snaps were taken. Laughter was had. Pleadings for my not to leave. Huge hugs. Tears. More hugs. Another laugh. A shadow of me sneaking out the back door because I was out past curfew. . .
That is it.
As I sit here in my room that is disheveled due to abandoned packing efforts, the end of this experience that awaits me tomorrow doesn’t seem real. I cannot grasp that in a couple of hours I will be on an airplane back to America. It doesn’t seem real. It doesn’t seem possible. It doesn’t seem fair.
About six weeks ago, I made a choice. Prageeja, the other intern had gone. John was spending the majority of his time away from the office. The ladies and men were still treating me like royalty. It was vexing. I wanted to be of help and to become a functioning asset to the basic operations of the Office, not exclusively used for my education. I wanted my image of “White American” to at least be softened so that I posed more like a friend. I wanted to dissolve my status. In small ways, I began to try to help out. This is more of a challenge than it seems.
Every attempt I made to pick up a broom or wash a dish was met with, “Madame, Madame. Sit, Sit. Take rest, take rest”. This was down right frustrating and maybe even annoying, but I also did not wish to cause offense or to display disrespect. I took baby steps. I’d begin sweeping the driveway. When prompted to disengage in the task, I would obey and take a short break. After a few minutes, I would find something else that needed attention but would not return to the particular chore that I had been performing previously until the following day. I also arranged ideal circumstances in which my assistance would be needed, i.e. I began arriving at the office a little earlier in the mornings so that there were no others available to unfold rugs and tarps, shuffle desks around, or organize stacks of miscellaneous books.
In America, the kitchen is my favorite place to be. Preparing complicated meals, whipping up the quick snacks, or simply doing the dishes, I purely enjoy myself. When a day came when we were short kitchen hands, I was ecstatic. Without hesitation (and with secret eagerness), I stepped in and took over whichever duties were unfulfilled. Soon everyone realized that I can unsheathe roses and petals of garlic at lightening speeds, so everyday since it has been my job. I also regularly snap green beans, chop the onions (my eyes don’t water), shred fresh coconut, and de-stem greens. These are all easy undertakings, but the sense of ease that I gain personally and the bonding that occurs between the ladies and I is irreplaceable.
That being said, I remember the first time that John Sir caught me participating in the kitchen duties: It was mid-morning, and Aunty Malayamma and I were sitting out in front of the office on news papers. She was chopping onions, and I was picking at some garlic. John pulled up in the Scorpio. Stepped out. Walked towards our work area. Put his hands on his hips. Raised both eyebrows. Began to speak. Stopped. Sighed. Continued walking past us into the office. I followed a few seconds behind to inquire about the appropriateness of my activity. John replied, “No, No. That’s fine. Continue”. Nothing else was ever suggested about the matter.
This was the best choice that I made while working in Bangalore. By offering to help out with such fundamental aspects, I truly am a part of their community. I am a small part of the invisible hand that makes this office run, and by taking such an integral role in the quiet and humble doings, and the ladies and gents and I have developed a sweet mutual respect. I feel that they have accepted me as close to one of their own as possible for my short time here.
The sky is beautifully clear and blue with not a shadow of peril. Within the span of five seconds a drop or two of precipitation may patter one’s head. He or she may take two seconds to glance up and process the stimulus of a light gray cloud that surly materialized the instant that eyes captured the dreary wisps.Count it: one-one-thousand, two-one-thousand, three-one-thousand. What was previously faint drizzle becomes a full throttle faucet with a seemingly endless reservoir. The time elapsed from tranquil conditions to thoroughly drenched existence is no more than 10 seconds. This defines the rainfall temper of Bangalore.
There was a week on zero rain, which was welcomed by all. Even at present, the weather has been favorable during the days with sunshine and warmth; however, for three consecutive days, the moment I have stepped off the bus at the stop nearest to the Hostel, showers have plagued my short trek. They come about instantly and are staggeringly forceful. For three days, I have forgotten my umbrella and have suffered the consequences. Tomorrow, perhaps, I’ll be wiser and remember to grab it.
Today was a perfectly unproductive day at the office, but it was also relaxing and comfortable. It was one of those days where although nothing grand was being accomplished, I was wholly content being right where I was and doing what little I was doing.
I read the Sunday and Monday newspapers. I washed and snapped a pound of green beans. I unsheathed three roses of garlic. I shuffled around some computer equipment. I browsed through some savings records. I read a few chapters in my fictional novel. I sat. I walked. I twiddled my thumbs, etc. This was the common meter for everyone in the office today. The ground floor is still under construction. Men were mounting conduit and running electrical wire. The girls were text messaging each other via their cell phones. Someone was humming a popular Hindi tune. The weather was pleasant .
John was also present. Usually when he is at the office, he is engrossed in his laptop or talking on three cell phones at once in a multitude of six languages (an impressive-yet confusing-demonstration); however, today, he too seemed unoccupied. With only one week left in India, questions seeking to escape my skull, and a number of unfinished conversations that accumulated over the last several weeks, I took advantage of the day’s idleness to have a meeting with John. It proved to be an informative discussion.
Our conversation that was left incomplete on Saturday dealt with the issues of gender roles and the fact that all of the newly constructed houses for Indian urban poor are in the names of the head woman of the household. This is polar opposite of tradition. The primary reason for not allowing the men of the household possess the rights to the accommodation is that they have a tendency to mortgage them to indulge their addictions to drugs, alcohol, etc. Also they are notorious for evicting their wives and children to the streets and permitting their other relatives to occupy the space. Women see their new homes as a haven and are significantly less willing to surrender or sell them. Instead, they are inclined to unify with other women in their colony to make responsible, utilitarian decisions.
During John’s meeting with the Austin Town colony leaders on Saturday, it was apparent that all of the leaders were female, minus on man (who I learned later was only used for his literacy skills). John explained that he promotes female leadership in the colonies with which he is associated for the same reasons that the Indian Government and Housing Ministry require women to be registered as head of household. He admits that women’s gossip can destroy a community, but having individuals that are motivated and passionate about improving their lives so that their children can grow up in safety and comfort and become functional members of society is favorable. The biggest obstacle is establishing community and convincing the colonists that SPARC is not trying to cheat them or take advantage of their desperate situation but rather are honestly offering them the opportunity to escape their fates as paupers with very little expense to them.
John and I also spoke about how the Bangalore office maintains its financial stability and where it gets its money. For most of the 72 field offices in India associated the Federation and Mahila Milan, the funding comes through SPARC via grants from major donors such as the Rockefeller Foundation, the Ford Foundation, World Bank, the Bill Gates Fund, etc; however, such is not the preferred system here. John’s goal is for the Bangalore branch to be self-sustainable and have the ability to expand without taking away from other programs.
The primary income of our office is earned through the production of the biometric identification cards. A fee per card is charged to the Karnataka Slum Clearance Board. We take the effort to register all of the individuals and even print up these identification cards. It is a very timely and labor intensive process, and we sell our time, labor and product to the Slum Board.
More so, the office building in which we are situated is considered a government property, so no rent is required. Our space is free of charge. John also has a revolving account with 150, 000-200,000 rupees in it. The interest collected annually goes towards maintenance on the building. Mponey is the ‘biggest headache’ and is always a hot topic of concern, but the Office is surviving and even growing.
Last Sunday was Friendship Day, and the ladies at the Hostel and I celebrated with post-supper sweets and a few laughs. After shopping for some fabric, we also all went to the tailors where we requested various traditional garments to fabricated (it was my very first time, but it was fa rare occurrence for them also because of their preference for western styles). This is how traditional clothing is handled in India: one buys the desired fabric, a tailor takes measurements of the intended wearer, and a seamstress (usually male) produces the garments in less than one week for a nominal fee of 130-180 Rupees (approx $3 USD).
For most of last week, the Office was still uninhabitable due to construction, and work seemed to be halted in a purgatory state of sitting and waiting.Finally on Friday, we lugged all of the notebooks, computer equipment and other sundry records up to the second floor. We still have zero power, but the ladies have been diligently sifting through and organizing all of the piles of paperwork.
The mapping project that I was working on for John, which entailed smoothing out operations and responsibilities between three various organizations, is more or less complete. As an alternative, I have been going out and being apart of the biometric data collection team, which visits various slums and sets up a temporary office with a laptop computer, webcam and fingerprint scanner. Here members of the colony gather with their spouses and children to be added to our database which is also linked to the state and national information centers for urban poor development. Within weeks after we document the necessary information and register them, each household is issued nationally accepted identification cards. This process and proof of identification is mandatory for households being sanctioned new housing.
This week, we were sent to Rajendra Nagar, a large slum of 500+ households. It took three full days to enter all of the residents. On the first day, mistakenly nearly 4000 persons from the colony congregated at our station situated in a small elementary school. It was a madhouse. There was shouting, shoving, and unruly impatience.
The first step in the indexing procedure entails each household submitting their previously issued demand drafts (proof of housing) and some form of formal identification. Usually, these names are already entered into our database by records supplied by the Karnataka Slum Clearance Board, but nearly half of those dwelling in the Rajendra Nagar area are considered ‘new residents’ and are electronically non-existent.
For these particular days, my jobs were to collect the papers from these individuals, verify their authenticity, and then manually write the names of both wife and husband in a notebook in which they then signed as proof of their presence and participation at our station, implying that we had taken their photos and fingerprints.
Under ordinary circumstances, I would have been able to easily peer over the computer screen and copy the names down with ease; however, because most were not accounted for, my task became infinitely more difficult. To American/English ears, Indian names are an obscure conjuncture of miscellaneous noises entwined around impressively numerous, compounded syllables. Try as I might I could not audibly decipher or effectively translate these peculiar names into English lettering. My incompetence in this assignment infuriated the slum leaders. There was yelling, a distribution of accusations, and general frustration. I don’t speak a word of Hindi or Tamil, and not a soul within several kilometers could communicate in English.
With the hollering of coarse men crushing my ears, the aggravated crowding of infinite bodies bearing insistently at my side, and the pointing of frustrated fingers thrusting between my notebook and blurred silhouettes of those whose names I could not spell correctly, I quickly became anxious. Gowri, who was carrying out the laptop duties, knows English letters and possessed the ability to provide some guidance but didn’t. Instead she exhibited equal contempt, which was disheartening to me
.
Eventually, Krisnappa, one ofour office leaders, returned from his smoke-break and noticed immediately the level of my discomfort and that the energy from the crowd was not hospitable. He positioned himself between my chair and the crowd and consoled the slum leaders and to the best of his ability. Although he does not speak English and is not literate, Krisnappa kindly proceeded to clearly and slowly repeat the foreign names to me. I was much obliged.
It was a belittling experience to be reprimanded by a whole colony for not being able to simply write letters into a book. I was certain that after causing such a hindrance in the data collection process, such a task would not be granted to me again; however, the very next day, we returned to the same Rajendra Nagar slum to collect additional names. I tried to politely refuse the task, but Krisnappa insisted that there was “no problem”. In the end, after trying in vain to explain my discomfort to uncomprehending ears, I surrendered and prepared myself for a second day of scornful gestures and remarks. The proceedings began in a similar manner as they had the day before. I knew that I couldn’t endure another seven hours of such bewilderment, so I found a solution.
The key lay within the context of their current forms of identification. Often, their names were printed in English letters somewhere on the copies. When I began requesting to see these papers, the colony leaders were disgruntled and assumed that I was confused and couldn’t decipher the difference between these documents and the demand drafts. After a brief battle of head shaking and head nodding and finger pointing and finger waggling and vocal barking of “yes” and “no”, Gowri, bless her heart, curtly explained to them that all I needed was a glimpse of their identification sheets to accurately spell their names. Once I was granted access to these papers, the dilemma associated to semantic unfamiliarity and language differences was eliminated. The remainder of day two and the whole of day three were without hitches, but I must admit that this was the most challenging experience that I have had since being in India. Trying to function and produce in a business/professional situation, where common language and communication mannerisms are sparse, tests one’s seemingly most ingrained abilities.
Today proved to be another highlight in my brief participation in the movement to provide suitable living conditions for the urban poor in India. The morning consisted of John conducting various meetings in Tamil and Hindi. I knew not of their nature, but multiple groups of people came and went from our office. Around noon, all of the men and several of the ladies loaded up into our auto rickshaw and the Scorpio vehicle. They were in a rush, but no one cared to inform me the reason for their hustle or their destination. Assuming that I had already been enough of a burden for the week, I remained a quiet spectator. --That is until John snapped from the passenger seat, “What are you doing?”--My puzzlement and surprise was genuine and obvious, and he signaled for me to come along. Once I was tucked into the congested backseat of his vehicle and we were diving into traffic, John first apologized for forgetting that I only understood English and therefore had no notion on which to base my required attendance for this outing. Next he tersely told me that we were going to the inauguration of a new housing complex for the Laggere Colony where the Minster of Housing, Minister Kumari Selja, would be presenting 65 residential quarters (the first of 2000 houses).
When we arrived I was awed by the spectacle: There were orange, green and white streamers dangling from posts, massive billboards with stately-block lettering and portraits of politicians, broad isles constructed from wooden sheets and draped with colorful silks, colossal golden arches with Tamil and Hindi letters, innumerable police officers, men dressed in their finest tailored white tops and crisped trousers, slum dwellers of all ages and genders, blue and red carpet that served as a walkway all around the area, an expansive canopy capable of seating 1000+ persons, booming speakers mounted on every corner, and an army of photographers and media personnel.
Under the canopy, there was a stage that featured several of the driving members of the Karnataka Slum Clearance Board, the State Government, and Central Government. We were ushered to seats in the audience where we listened to various speeches being given in English about goals for a slum-free India, rights to proper infrastructure and health care for the urban poor, women empowerment, and the projects that have already been sanctioned by the government to alleviate poverty in India. This event was primarily for publicity, but the ambitions of the individuals presenting were something to be admired and congratulated.
One of the instances that struck me most powerful is that it these newly constructed houses are in the names of
the women of the household rather then their husbands. This shift of power and control will drastically change thedynamic of gender roles within the whole of Indian society. After we returned to the office, I jumped into questioning John about what impact this female-empowerment will have. Instantly, his eyes illuminated with child-like gaiety, but before a proper answer could be delivered, our conversation was disrupted by the arrival of 20 slum leaders from the Austin Town colony. Regrettably, our discussion must wait
