India: scientific approach to a mystery

I am already at home in Russia, yet there is so much more to write about India. I'll continue posting here, so keep an eye on this blog. I set up my old-and-new blog about Russia HERE - you may also check out that one now and then. Also, slowly but surely I am uploading the pics from the travels on which I haven't posted yet at the upgraded (hurra!) Yahoo.

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Location: Russia

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Zero-sum game

In the morning I’ve learnt that I can travel by bus even when all-western dressed and high-healed; firmly say “Piche, piche, baisab” to the dirty men standing way too close behind me and watch him immediately vanishing from the scene; claim my 5 rupees back from an auto-wala whom I requested to go for 30, who quoted 35 back, with whom I went anyway and whom I did not intend to pay more than 30. It’s a zero-sum logic that I have learnt throughout my daily routines on the streets of Delhi: there is not harm in using my elbows, being persistent and firm if not rude, talking and looking haughtily if talking and looking at all, walking away if someone does not agree on your terms – no harm for me, and about the rest I do not care as much as they do not care a button for me.

So sad, zero-sum principle does not work in relationship with dear people where you cannot protect your comfort, your space, your very being with the same level of confidence that you apply to the situations with people you do not know. As there is something to care for – the comfort, the space, the very being of the other person - and your relationship with him or her. Something precious to care for and something irreplaceable to lose… how can you elbow if you can hurt, how can you be rude if someone would suffer, how can you perk away after your terms were not accepted if you cannot be sure you’ll hear a hail back.

Tuesday, August 29, 2006

Water

Last night Ioana solemnly announced that our water pump had got fixed and from now on we do not need to steal overflowing water from the neighbours’ tank. I commented that 6 moths of precarious water supply were enough for me to start considering 3 litters of water for a complete shower and opportunity to flash the toilet a luxurious state of affairs. Just this Sunday I spend an hour fetching water from the neighbours’ tank to do the laundry amassed for 1 month. I never thought the sense of accomplishment can be so primitively grounded.

Utpal tells me I am destined to stay in India and his arguments are difficult to oppose: I look good in saree, I am tough enough to go by bus, I am good in bargaining auto-wallas, I like the food, I’ve got a good profile for a good job, and there are quite a few Indian men who I can choose my husband from. Well… reasonable… But putting aside clothes, food and an Indian husband – if I’ve learnt to survive at margins without virtually any water – I can do anything!!!!

Monday, August 28, 2006

Translation to Russian

It happened at an awkwardly appropriate moment. Exactly when discussing the abundance of professional choices with Klaus I encountered one more direction to enlarge my collection. Through the mailing list of Delhi trainees I got to know about an urgent translation into Russian to be done by the day after and within next 10 minutes I got the job. And as often happens to me what appears as a pass-by love for the others come into my life to shake its fundamentals.

Next fine morning an a/c cab came to pick me up and deliver to CII’s office in Gurgaon. I was not the rush of a bus or the desperation of getting an auto which non–presence made me realize the difference, but rather my hair that has got in the habit of being curled by the sultry air outside, sweat-prone bus situation or the wind swift and reckless as an Indian motorcyclist. I was looking at my reflection at the height-long mirror at the bathroom of the office and realizing that my straight-today hair share the confusion.

The CII office is located in the very business heart of the city as befits such an institution: the surroundings consist of formidable glass-and-concrete buildings of futuristic shapes with well-recognizable names of international and national grands haughtily inscribed on them. Well-maintained flowerbeds and neat shrubbery are framing the pathway to the doors of the sanctuary. After passing a number of security posts we entered a seemingly endless room with numerous boxes separated by partitions – full of looking alike in their emptiness desks, chairs, computers, and piles of folders. Saturday appeared to be a day off.

The huge clean and well-isolated windows of the office overlooked a seemingly dust-and-nose free area around. The tables at the box I was sitting at were full of books on sexy business topics and glossy business magazines which money-smelling pages have not yet profaned by the fingerprints and a marker’s traces. By the very air in the office one could sense the spirit of tangibility and hard-core achievements. A sudden burst of nostalgia stroke me as I recalled the time spent at Nestle and PointPassat, my much anticipated and then so easily abandoned bright corporate future.

The day passed by like one moment: I was getting home by night, again in an a/c cab –still playing a role of a corporate employee. The one-day assignment made me feel miserable as much as happy: how else is anyone who just earned 1,5 month salary within one day supposed to feel? Everything about business domain that I again encountered that Saturday: language and working style, sort of objectives and activities - appeared so familiar and comfortable to get back to. Shall I, a lost sheep, get back indeed? Yet, as I am realizing now the lure appeared to be very misleading. The new wave of the identity crisis was very short-lived... I remember, when I was discussing my tentative ideas on the master thesis with Paul Gooderham he expressed his position very nicely, yet very clearly, “You know, I would be rather interested in reading your thesis, rather than writing it with you”. So, I can say that I’d rather remain a reader or a user of economic and business reports, than author those. Yet, the paid translation now and then can be discussed separately ;o)

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Thrown in socializing

I noticed a theme that cuts across many of my writings be them diary entries I used to make at the age of 12 and the posts I am uploading here. The theme can be titled “Dilemma of private and social”. Wherever I stay I live with a mixed notion of transition and permanence that makes me balance between having a full-fledged life so to say at spot, staying in touch with the previous lives and yet taking small steps to ensure next life is an option too. Social-wise, it means I have to ration myself between people present at various locations including the current one. Moreover, it happens so that in addition to my core activities (studies or job) I tend to pursue many other aspirations that assume solo performance. I write, I make photography sallies, I read on various issues of interest. Therefore, I face the moments of self-isolation when I feel I have got so much to think and write about and then moments when socializing gets so intense that I hardly have any time for myself. These two spells come in turns, else they would hardly manage to co-exist peacefully in my life.

The recent social burst was very much anticipated. The other day I finished a major piece of writing for the project at CSR and therefore vacated my mind from the troubling thoughts on the impact that globalization of international trade had on women (trust me, if you soak in the topic… I mean properly soak… for half a month you’ll have very little mental space for anything else). Anyway with the unburdened mind I headed to Dharamsala that appeared to be an amazingly social traveling experience. Once back to Delhi, it was turn of some more social events to occur.

One good thing has recently happened to our flat: it got densely populated. And as often happens with places of this kind you get to socialize with people whether you want or not. On a regular basis. So, I am getting very fond of small talks on big issues with my Romanian roommate Ioana whose background from social anthropology ensures the flow of puzzling questions and interesting comments.

The social weekend started on Friday with a party at Kalkaji trainee-house. Hugging Kate after four long days of no-see was very much needed. A portion of tender hugs and kisses from Juan-Mi filled in started-bothering-me gap of physical intimacy with men, yet made me a little bit more hated be Helena (sorry, I did not mean to). Also, I meet Piush who looked great, but not particularly recognizable with his bristle. Along with the mutual interest that makes you go high because of the very fact of talking to each other we expressed mutual regret about losing the contact of each other after the great salsa improvisation at Tapas and the amazing jam session with Carol and Kanak on our roof. This time Piush was all excited about his soon departure to Paris where he would be studying music. Austrian Stephanie and him had a little conversation in French and Piush became the first Indian speaking French I got to hear.

On Saturday there was a major outing to Calypso with a bunch of excited trainees. The clubbing was not bad, but the true landmark of the night was the desert session at 5* Grand Hotel at 3 o’clock in the morning that for me looked like a frisky alternative to the traditional for such cases paranthas at some roadside dhaba. Ladies attended: Danny, Karo and me. Gents attended: Karan, one of those who make me admire Indian men as such, his friend and Amit, who updates us on the recent and upcoming parties in Indian fashion community (looking at his height and appearance one easily makes out why – he is a model). The guys again made me adore the concept of Indian masculinity. I realized, in fact, that it has been a while without outings with Indian guys and I’ve been missing all those really small yet very powerful details. For instance, quite many of them sound way more masculine when they switch to Hindi …. and oh my God, let me just listen to those and gradually melt – not much more I need. After a night ride through the desert Delhi, we got off the car and filled in the quiet all-marble and spacious lobby of the hotel with the sounds of our heals. At the restaurant we picked up gorgeous deserts (for 100 Rs. each only) that we all shared. I opted for a cup of cappuccino: 90 Rs (against 35-40 bucks at a very good coffee-shop in Delhi) is not a high price for such an ambience. We all seemed at ease with the place. Amit asked for water for all, but not too cold with the intonations appropriate when you order a main course from the 5* menu. Karan did not hesitate to request more of the particular cake available at the midnight buffet. We all did not think twice before using all the cutlery available on the table and wiping our all—in-chocolate-fingers with snow-white napkins. Were leaving the place with a terrific sense of fulfillment. Got to bed at about 5 am to wake up in some hours.

On Sunday morning Ioana and me visited Lajpat Nagar to perform there a long neglected yet before traditional breakfast ritual. Well-planned shopping trip – eggs, butter, bread, yogurt, milk, tea bags, fruits. Team-work at the kitchen, nice few hours in the company of Roel and 10 beautiful ladies were as rewarding as they used to be. For the rest of Sunday I had much of unspent shopping aspirations. So, after might-have-been shopping at CP, depressing visit to the deserted on Sundays Khan market Ioana and me voted for vibrant Sarojini – and the choice proved right, as usual. First, I got two pairs of shoes – incredibly comfy walking sandals that took about an hour to select and fairytale high-heal sandals with pale golden small straps that I fell for from the first sight. Second, the tour continued in the pursuit of funky skirts and two gorgeous samples were obtained – one in white with hand made embroidery in Ukrainian style and one in a marsh-colored velvet. Third, very-much-dreamt-about-since-Dharamsala metal earrings with Tibetan motives were found– one pair shaped like prayer wheels in Tibetan temples and the other one being tiny version of prayer wheel shaped as a stick. On the top Ioana got attracted by the plants sold at the market and that is how Malvia Nagar got enriched by a palm tree and some other plant that are now waiting its turn to be planted in huge pot and get dusty on the balcony as all the decent pot-plants in India do.

After all this it hardly felt like going anywhere but home, yet Roel had initiated a dinner at the yummy Chinese place in Defense colony and to miss that would equal to pass for not only unsocial, but also indifferent. Iona said, “Let’s go” and we did. And did not regret after. Sometime you just have to let people bring you to places and make you socialize if you are blind enough not to see the need yourself. After all, how much of you life can be devoted to the thoughts on the fates of women affected by globalization?!

Friday, August 18, 2006

Anonymous lines

My lines get born as a relief from a pain. The pain caused by the thoughts busily following me, making me think them, making me write them down, making me make sense of them. It is when I cannot tolerate my anxiously paining mind any more I open a blank word-document and my finger tips start dancing on the keyboard.

And how should I feel when knowing that another batch of carefully composed lines seasoned with a couple of my teardrops and blessed by my frowning eyebrows comes into this world – anonymous? On the name of what can anyone do that to me? How on earth can I do that to myself?

So devastated and done I feel after writing a piece on gender and international trade, so inspired I am by the mountainous and peaceful air of Dharamsala .. that there is no way to produce a piece on WTO now….. One more anonymous piece on a very exciting, yet irrelevant to the self-fulfilment issue..

Thursday, August 17, 2006

Delhi welcomes...

I think that a painful attachment has developed between me and the city I am living in. Absolute love gradually grew into the painful attachment as we have been getting too much of each other. Being together became as hurting as inevitable. And today the city was as if taking revenge on me for my 5-day mind-blowing adultery with Dharamsala. On the way to the office I got stuck in the most massive (1,5 hours) traffic jam I have ever had in Delhi. “Welcome, sweetheart!”, - I could hear the voice of my mocking and wounded lover in the peal of the horns.

Monday, August 14, 2006

Dharamsala 2: Food and conversations

This time trip to Dharamsala was marked with conversations and chats over elaborate meals and short tea drop-ins. Freshly made-with-lots-of-care-and-concern food at the Tibetan eateries firmly conquered our hearts and we ventured in exploring the specialties and places in McLeod Ganj.

A morning glass of hot ginger lemon tea warmed up throat and ensured stamina sufficient to cope with any amount of the rainfall to come. Omelets and pancakes, such Western treats in principle, however not only fitted into the concept of cozy Tibetan food, but also had a special charm when served in the typically Tibetan cafes looking akin to simple dining rooms in very basic houses. Brown bread or white flat cakes have been purchased from a bakery that consisted of nothing but walls, breads and an aristocratic lady in an elegant dark-blue dress. Bread was carefully packed and taken away to share during the day.

The break between the happenings of the first and the second half of the day had to accommodate talks about the experiences amassed by far and food intake to further sustain the flow of the experiences. A café with green painted walls, two Hindu waiters and a Tibetan lady as a boss was our favorite as it allowed both – lengthy discussions and yummy food. Our lunch sessions were held there until we found another place – a second-floor café with an odd stone staircase without peril, without menu, yet with the most spectacular cooking process at the kitchen involving at least 7 people, rows of bowls with raised in cones spices, plates with fresh noodles and chopped tomatoes and resulting in the greatest (and cheapest) food in town. Before-noon happening was typically discussed over a gigantic plate with all-sort-stuffed momos and chowmein served with sticks.

Cafes on the roof-terraces were strongly preferred for the evening meals as giving sufficient space and perspective on the day passed. Funny-shaped steamed bread (thimo) shared by the whole table let us frame the discussion of the major impressions encountered by far. Further evening conversations were fired up by the soup with squire noodles (thanthuk). Mint tea and butter tea concluding the dinners were bringing the ultimate peace in our stomachs and hearts, helped us better understand and digest the peculiarities of Tibetan culture and largely influenced the content of the dreams for the coming night.

Sunday, August 13, 2006

Dharamsala 2: I am a tourist!!!

Weekend travelling brings a feeling of an absolute liberation. Liberation in many senses. From work responsibilities and daily routines, from sticking to people and places you know… But even more importantly for the case of living in a foreign country, weekend travelling liberates you from the necessity to strive for the identity of the local, the necessity that your whole expatriate life is revolving around otherwise. There is a indescribable pleasure in associating with the crowd of tourists besieging a hottest destination. This simple act becomes a denial or a rebellion for you: “That’s what I am – A FOREIGNER in this country, a foreigner like many who come for some time and do not bother to comply with the rules defining social dynamics here”… However illusive the thought is, let me indulge it in the few coming days.

I carry my camera and do not hesitate to take pictures of the strangers sitting right next to me. I wear a carefree top on the thin shoulder-straps and walk by the countryside road without much concern for the stares and comments. Without thinking twice I am asking for the directions to a tourist sight: I do not know where it is – I have just arrived. I am discussing the peculiarities of Indian culture in a bus full of (Indian) people. I go easy on two rupees that I am getting ripped off for anytime I am getting some chai from a dhaba. I am shopping for beautiful presents at a government shop and take the word of the shopkeeper that he cannot give me any discount. I am spending half of my monthly food expenditures on the crafts made by mentally handicapped children and I do not regret a single peso.

Please, please, please, let me feel rich, clueless, and strange in this country.
Please, please, please, let me feel like a tourist.
Please, please, please…
…this is so rare I get a chance to.

Saturday, August 12, 2006

Dharamsala 2: Road-trip. Movie script for sale.

I do not like Hollywood comedies about unlucky fellows: as if threading beads the scriptwriter comes up with one accident after another to make us unnecessarily pity the hero (heroine) who is put through such a hassle. I remember the last one – “Just my luck” (2006): the girl comes home to find out that her flat is flooded and invaded by the rescuers; a smiling man gives her a small carton box with some of her saved belongings and the bottom of the box drops when she receives it; later when sheltering at her friend’s, she looks in a mirror and finds a pimple, she is trying to squeeze it out and she breaks the mirror; hair dryer sucks in her hair, the plug goes off, the short circuit destroys the bathroom; and the next day the girl shows up at a date with a band on her eye. All because of the weird imagination of the scriptwriter who is desperately trying to impress us!

Yet, even in real life now and then you feel THE SCRIPTWRITER gets too creative.

The night before the trip to Dharamsala a cheerful a cappella of the ringtone I assigned to Kate’s number on my phone announced that the girl had got something to tell me. My friend has recently been desperate to finish some work in order to travel light-hearted – she planned to see her friend in Mumbai on the long weekend. Yet, it so happened so that once the trip had been decided upon Kate got to know that her friend was emergently hospitalized. Moreover, for a few days in a row Kate had been struggling with the computers at CSR: none of them wanted to save pages of her work that she had to retype every single day. The night Kate thought she would say bye to her miseries and just jump in the train to Mumbai she called me to tell that all the trains to Mumbai got cancelled due to the flood in Gujrat and if in the morning of the day after she did not have better luck, she would join us for Dharamsala. “If you are not scared of my luck,” she shouted with laugher. We were not, so she came along.

Next day we both left the office a bit earlier to make it to the bus station on time. Yet, all the last-minute preparations, extra packing and bye-bye to the colleagues delayed us by some half and hour. We rushed to the motorway to get an auto. Needless to say, it took a while to realize we would not get one on “good price” and therefore should agree on the approximation of the same. A Sikh driver was picked among the rest for no reason. Actually, by a huge mistake as it appeared very soon. He already turned to the gas station when both Kate and me yielded, “No gas!” The driver got taken aback by our determination and immediately got back on the highway. It cost us another wrong turn and a lasting debate about the shortest way to get to CP to actually get on the right track. Yet, even following the right track didn’t bring satisfaction as soon we stopped: a tyre got flat and we got frustrated. While Kate was clarifying with the driver how long it would take to change the tyre, I was waiving down in the desperation that was sensed by the auto-walas who stopped and quoted sky-high prices for a very short ride. Our Sikh driver was very efficient and the tyre got fixed surprisingly quickly to relieve our strained-to-the-limit nerves.

Very soon we unloaded at the Central Secretariat metro station to take an underground shortcut instead of making it through the congested Central Delhi and hectic Old City. Security system in Delhi metro is a small-scale version of that at an airport: when entering a station you go through the security gate and then big bags get checked. However, before I used to pass all the cordons without even stopping, yet this time I rather heedlessly forgot about the recent terror threats in London and stringent security measures all over. Both Kate and me had really huge backpacks. Checking those would take time that we did not practically had being so delayed by our auto-adventures. I already passed a policeman when I get to hear a loud and hard, “Mam”. Kate was behind; I did not want to look back and hoped she would pass through without a hassle. I rushed to the turnstile and already passed it when another policeman blocked my way. “Please, show your bag”. I saw Kate behind, stopped by a policeman too and opening her backpack. She was equality irritated, but way more polite than me. Indignant and red-hot, I blurted out “I do not have time, I am missing my train”. Yet, the matter looked pretty hopeless. The policeman repeated hard that he intended to inspect my bag. To ultimately convince me in the seriousness of the intentions, a Sikh guard with a rifle came up pointing his weapon at me. Humiliated and ultimately helpless, annoyed and angry, feeling tiny-little and deprived of any rights, I replied they could open my backpack and see for themselves, but I would not take it off from my shoulders… Providing the backpack was pretty tall they opened it and felt it only on the top. And that annoyed me even more. Why all this lip-service to the greater security, why to rattle the sabre in front of taken aback civilians if you do not even intend or do not have sufficient means to carry out a proper check??!! Soon we cached a train to ISBT: modern ambiance and a/c comfort of the metro cooled us down, giving a small break between our miseries.

Once at ISBT, a moment of truth came: by running between three ticket counters, two busses departing to Dharamsala and five of them on the platforms nearby trying to identify the one we would take, assaulting of the ticket counter for the tickets - we eventually got to meet all the trainees who happened to be coming to Dharamsala for that long weekend... Uf!!! In the bus… Quite troubled by my rebellious mind I shouted to Kate, “Let’s take the seats behind the driver”. I had an idea that actually they wrote numbers of the seats on the tickets, but I suggested we tried our chances. Best seats in the bus where you can stretch your legs were worth the try. The rest of our sojourners appeared to be more respectful to the rules and took the seats as assigned at the ticket counter.

When the bus got almost full two young men came up to us. One of them asked with a challenge:

“What are your seats’ numbers? Show me your tickets!”
“Show me yours! Are you a conductor?”
“These are not your seats!”
“Are these yours?”
“Yes, they are ours. We’ll talk to conductor”

And he showed me a 500-ruppies bill with “5” and “6” written on it. Astonished by the very concept, I exclaimed, “Is that how you get your seats?!” Immediately I felt like shrinking so that less of me had to face this unfair world. “This is a bribe!”, I loudly whispered to Kate. If they were determined to execute their plan then Kate and me would get pretty much screwed with fitting in the luggage now comfortably placed under our feet in the already packed space at the back of the bus. I suggested we stayed where we were and waited till the conductor came and then if the men dared to get the seats in the planned way we would kick up a fuss. I childishly put my chin on Kate’s shoulder, knitted my eye-brows, threw out my lower lip and sad almost crying, “I wanna go home”… Kate raised her eye-brows, “You want to stay in Delhi?” I came to my senses. Of course not… But, how miserable it is to know that you are alone in your misery, you are there to stand for yourself… Taking the seats different from assigned is not such an uncommon practice and not a cheeky prank by any means. In India you learn to make yourself comfortable and increase your utility if a chance comes. Because if you do not someone else would use the chance at your expense – and seat on your knees, step on your foot, get your auto, take your seat in the bus, take your turn in the queue…

The conductor came up soon and shook my shoulder with undue familiarity.
“Show me your tickets”
I did.
“Go and take your seats”
“I will when the one who has the tickets for this ones shows up. In that case we’ll surely vacate the seats”
He took our tickets and went to the back to check the rest of our batch. Kate and me were left to tremble. In a few minutes he got back, gave me the tickets and left. Me and Kate exchanged glances and smiled.. Worked out!...

The fresh breeze mixed with the Delhi dirt had a definite calming effect, but proved misleading. After a few hours of the discussion on international terrorism we had with Kate the bus stopped in some urban yet without much signs of human presence area. A flat tyre accident repated - this time at the larger scale. Gradually most of the passengers flew off the bus. We were effectively left wondering as for what exactly had happened and how long it would take to repair it. Eight of us were standing on the road, looking at the funky-painted trucks slowing down and looking at us and at the bus and passing by. After three hours (three hours!) of such a routine the bus started off. We loaded, get into our seats and soon fell asleep.

As it often happens during overnight bus journeys I was waking up now and then and at one of those awakenings I realized we stopped again. The picture that I saw out of the window deserved being painted with oil on a huge canvas and exhibited in the National Museum. About 30-40 policemen in sand-colored uniform, with read and black turbans (a! we are in Punjab) with wooden sticks and wattled shields were alertly roaming around the area lightened by the headlight of the vehicles. The traffic got blocked from both sides and the sojourner sitting on my left-hand side commented that someone threw stones on a bus. We could see the bus with the broken front window on the roadside. The situation of alertness and confusion did not last long – our bus started off and for ten minutes we were passing by numerous trucks, busses, cars and other vehicles in the reverse row until we saw a turned upside down burnt frame of a jeep on the middle of the road. Silent mode and open mouths…

The morning was long as the bus got delayed by some two hours. We were driving on the hills. Some were trying to sleep while dangling from one side to another and others were freezing before every turn at the serpentine. We almost felt happy to have it all behind and be about to reach Dharamsala. 10 minutes away from the bus station steam started belching from the panel nearby the driver and light-green liquid started flooding the bus. The steam made it hardly possible to breath and see and we had to urgently evacuate our bags and ourselves from the disaster… Walking towards the bus station, indulging the silence an clearness of the air…we thought it was great we got so flat tire-security checks-uncertainty-and-disaster-proof and eventually made it… Irrespective... The end.

Friday, August 11, 2006

Bergen tribute

Very briefly spoke to Ira last night. Discussed how far away, close-to-irrelevant and therefore - unreal the places you are not at may appear. A few months back, when shifted to a new room, I made sure I shifted my picture wall too – some 100 odd pictures from all periods of my life remind me of places, people and events that seemed to constitute the only possible reality for me at some point of time. Now when the notion of space has got far too expended, it is those pictures that make me believe I lived some other lives before this one.

Is that possible to combine lives? Is it worth bringing a bit of past in your present and maybe – in your future? I closed my eyes tight and the images came with ease. From long time back or long time ahead?

…..smoke a pipe in the roof with the view on the endless fjord…..

…..peel a huge tender-rose salmon, marinade it with herbs and let your guests anticipate by inhaling divine aroma from the stove…..

…..listen to the whispers of trolls hiding in the darkness of Fjellveien…..

…..join the crowd of summerly dressed people lazing around at Bryggen…..

…..indulge the hugest ever existing cup of capuchino in the smallest ever existing coffee shop Det Lille Kaffe Kompaniet…..

…..stop your car by a strawberry field and buy a small basket of sweet-from-inside berries…..

…..find a quite beach, sit on the wooden plank fixed on the stone, dangle your legs almost tiptoeing the water, close your eyes and let the caressing afternoon sun give you millions of tender kisses…..

…..look into the deep blue eyes of a blond man and freeze in the slight cool of his gaze…..

…..have a nap on the top of a mounted after an exhausting hike up…..

….. find out that the place you live at is nothing but a thin lace of fjords and mountains when your plane looses height…..

…..regret that you cannot revisit these impressions, yet dream that in some time you revisit the place - with two pairs of eyes and two hearts.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

Rakhi Day

Even an unaware and clueless outsider could have noticed the fuss going around these days. Namkeen and sweet shops make extensive outside stands decorated with draped curtains and ribbons. The stands offer an abundance of boxed chocolates, exclusive cookies and other types of packaged sweets. The rest of the shops, irrespective to their profile otherwise, also put outside stands where one finds an array of dominantly red colored threads with all sort of fancy nods, beeds, flowers and more. And people… people are virtually rushing those places.

The occasion for the arrangements appeared to be Raksha Bandhan, celebrated every year on 'Shravan Purnima' (Full Moon Day of the Hindu month of Shravan). On the holy day of Rakhi sisters tie a sacred piece of thread (Known as Rakhi or 'Raksha-Sutra') on the wrist of their brothers and they feed each other with sweets. Essentially, Rakhi is the day when brothers and sisters get an opportunity to express their tender love and feelings towards each other.

It really takes to be here in India where you get captivated by the excitement of the preparations for the holiday, masses of the rakhi and sweets stands, pudjas (prayers and offerings) performed at the tiny and huge temples …. to regret you do not have a family here and you cannot be a part of this important festival….. Who said so?

Last night I was arriving to Malvia Nagar and in fact had to go to the internet café. Yet.. once approaching the market swarming with people



the bus got stuck on the congested road and I jumped off in the realization I cannot miss this festive madness. I bought a few rakhies.. and then some more… and some more… keeping in mind all my male friends and even close female ones…. After a short hesitation I entered Moti, where people were fighting for sweets: in the bakery they removed the cash counter, totally changed the facing, and put packing to a separate counter so to streamline the process of selling sweets which people were getting in bulks these days.





The morning of Rakhi day was blessed by the pure light blue sky and sunshine. I put on my new kurta (good Hindu habit of getting new clothes for the occasions ;o), tied the bands and gave sweets to all my five flatmates (all girls) half of whom I had to brutally wake up for that. I left house to find the empty streets frozen in the anticipation, in this very special way so typical for the days of family festivals. On the way to work every now and then my auto got overtaken by motorbikes with women in glittering festive salwar suits and sarees sitting on the back. Obviously, heading to their brothers’ houses. And I impatiently anticipate seeing the boys tonight - rakhi, sweets and my sisterly love are made ready for them ;o)

Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Women's day

Piyali softly entered the room where Kate and me are sitting. When fed up with the tensed silence of the room upstairs she comes down to visit us: to chat about some heartening issues, to open the upper drawing of my desk and find there a precious pack of cashewnut cookies or at times to slightly reproach me for hardly showing my face upstairs. Piyali gave Kate a pink sheet of paper with text on both sides. The leaflet was devoted to the three-day political rally for 33% reservation for women in the Parliament. The other day Kate, at present writing a paper on political participation, mentioned to me that she would like to go to the demonstration at one of these days. My immediate response was a sort of indifference: not a single time I joined any social protect act and all in all has been skeptical towards such initiatives. Yet, Kate and Piyali started excitedly tell, vying with each other, how demonstrating has been an integral part of their student live once they both studied social sciences. Kate enthusiastically recalled how she used to join demonstrations in London now and then. Piyali explained that there is hardly any issue in the national and international politics that goes unnoticed by social activists in JNU and they go demonstrating for Israel, and later for Palestine, and then for Iraq and then against it. Shaken by the girls’ stories, my curiosity outweighed my skepticisms and I promised Kate to join.

The next day we left soon after lunch, therefore we had to explain to virtually everyone where we were leaving to and why. That was the third and the last day of the rally and therefore it had already got a decent coverage on the news channels. Therefore, people in the office knew. Yet, our willingness to go encountered different degrees of surprise. Hello!.. Is not that a gender institution we are working at? Is not the issue that our organization (personified in the director) has picked on and being lobbying for?

The whole way to the place Kate and me were discussing what it takes to work for a cause and actually support it, how to combine working for cause and making career, much hope is left for the development sector, etc. But the rest, I recalled how couple of months ago at a national convention of women NGOs we all raised our hands when a speaker proclaimed, “We’ve been demanding for 33% reservation for so long but our voice has not been heard. Enough! In the coming monsoon session of the parliament we all have to go to seat in front of the parliament and demand for 50% reservation” The whole conference room of a 5-star hotel got filled with the hands raised in the striking unity. Where are those women now? Where is the speaker? The question remains: what is more important - to make it happen and be there when it does or that it happens at all – no matter how and by whose agency…

It took us a while to find the place – we were misled by the anticipated scope of the gathering. Rather naively I thought that demonstration happens nearby the parliament indeed. Yet, all the forms of social protest in Delhi are doomed to be manifested at Jantra Mantra, a specially allocated venue. How convenient in fact: without being formally forbidden the constitutional right of freedom of association is effectively restricted. Imagine how powerful the image of women sitting in front of the very parliament and demonstrating could have been! Yet, we are left with a picture of women demonstrating in some quiet street in the city centre. Some 20 meters of fenced pavement with about 60-70 women sitting cross-legged on the podium and a handful of men staying aloof. Posters, agitating speeches and songs …



At pause as for how to approach the gathering we walked in the fenced area. Kate suggested we asked if we could sit with them. Women on the periphery of the crowd willingly agreed. We removed our shoes and took a seat at the podium. We looked around at the stands with pictures and information on the previous gathering on the same issue, at the women in the middle of the crowd singing agitation songs, at the women immediately around us who were also looking at us with a lot of interest. It did not take long to get approached by a lady who appeared to be the Secretary of the organization initiated the demonstration. She was very nice to answer all the questions that Kate had. (Later on just like that we met the General Secretary of the same organization who was also present at the venue). We got to know that women from different state rotate every day. Today in particular, these were women from Maharashtra and Assam who came. After some time the lady left us, excusing herself for some duties. Some men distributed cookies and tea among the delegates – small India routines that are invariably present in any settings. While waiting for our tea we got met a few women Maharashtra: a tiny old lady that was really keen on making contacts with us, a younger one who was constantly laughing, another one who was rather silently staring at us than participating. I had a good time observing how Kate was struggling with her non-existent Hindi vocabulary.



This is not to say mine exist, but rather I reconciled with the fact I do not get a word neither able to convey any a bit earlier. A habit of compassionate listening came after long practice of communicating with people speaking languages I have just a little clue about. Yet, two of us managed to establish some sort of rapport with the women and communication somehow carried on. We took some pictures, women wrote their names in Hindi and their postal address in Kate’s notepad.



We gave our address too, promising to send the pictures. We took a leave. The granny walked us to the entrance. Almost on the way she introduced us to the lady who appeared to be General Secretary of the organization. She carried herself in a profoundly regal fashion. But still she was nice enough to exchange couple of words w us. “Ram-ram” - “bye-bye” and we left the venue.

he next destination of the night was IHC. From the masses of the captivating events the centre announces we picked one - a series of held conversations with women writers, "Words of Women". This month event was timed to the launch of the book by Maya Sharma. The lady is a feminist and an activist in the Indian Women's Movement. Being a lesbian herself she wrote a book “Loving women. Being lesbian in unprivileged India”. That much we knew when we entered a lobby of a cozy size and ambience nearby Casurina auditorium. The lobby was already fairly filled with people greeting each other, hugging, updating each other on the recent news, and helping themselves at the tea buffet. After all, the community associated with any sort of women cause is a small one – you ultimately get to meet with the same people at every new event. Even I spotted a girl I saw twice at the CSR arrangements. The notion of the small community got just reinforced when this morning Kate was sharing that she was struck by an article on political reservation she just came across and that talking to the author would not be such a bad idea. The lady in question, the author of the article, Nivedita Menon happened to facilitate the talk with Maya Sharma that evening. We could hardly believe the coincidence. After the introduction given by the excited publisher and editor, we got to see the author. Maya Sharma appeared to be a humble gray-haired elderly lady in a salwar-kameez. An appearance that one would hardly relate to the media-created prototype of a lesbian. Insightfully enough, Sharma was more confident with the written word than the spoken one. The language of her book is just beautiful which I can say after reading it. She actually confessed she dreamed the book could be done in Hindi and that the way the text is organized is partly a result of her thinking in Hindi and only then putting it down in English. Again, an amazing coincidence.. as just before the talk Kate and me were discussing the special flavor writings by non-native speakers have. Also, when answering the questions Sharma was largely using the material of her book hardly giving any information beyond that as if saying, as Lev Tolstoy did once about his “The war and the peace”, that to explain what the book is about she should write it again. Yet, from the scrappy comments in the conversation and later from the book itself as I read it I realized that the discussion of female homosexuality has relevance for virtually every women as it refers to the topic of control over your sexuality and freedom to express it, an issue of vital importance in India (as far as this is the country question) where many women, for instance, simply do not have control over their bodies, they cannot freely decide when to give birth, to whom give birth and how frequently. Placing the discussion of same sex relationship, as Sharma does, in the context of working women (this is what “unprivileged India” in the title of the book stands for) the author encourages us to rethink alternative sexuality as a urban westernized phenomenon with a huge political statement for a natural identity women from any strata may have. I guess the fact that people were nearly fighting to buy the book after the presentation just confirms that topics touched are relevant and intriguing for many.

Got home and found it full of girls – but the 6 of us leaving there we had 2 visitors. Discussed demonstration, lesbianism, gender relations in India... Perfect women’s day – no men seemingly needed.. Yet, think if none existed what happens to the concept of gender and what would fuel our discussions, creative outputs and lives?!

Friday, August 04, 2006

The lizard

Tribute to “The Pigeion” by Patrick Süskind

That night I got home pretty late. Girls were out, I had quite a day and the only wish cherished for the time being was to put my head on the pillow and escape from this vain world of which I had enough for that day. I walked in the bathroom and for some hard-to-explain reason glanced on the ceiling. I spotted a pair of eyes looking at me from there. I yelled!.... I found myself face-to-face with a big frustration of my life – a lizard, about 20 centimeters long. Without lengthy explanations I would just say: I am panicly afraid of reptiles and particularly disguised by snakes. Therefore, while lizards are not at the extreme end on the continuum of my fears, yet they hit some critical point way beyond my tolerance threshold. If I really stick to the facts though, I had already seen quite a few lizards that stay up on the walls of the buildings and at times get inside. Yet, they tended to be small and the meets occurred at the places that I could easily leave without being unnecessarily throwing up. This time a lizard invaded my habitat!!! I got ultimately scared, irritated and…numb. When I realized I cannot simply ignore the creature and I have to initiate some sort of interaction to eventfully scare it away, tears came to my eyes. For a minute I visualized myself as a focal point of the all-universe sufferings: the moment you feel that all the miseries of the world got accumulated in you, in poor, helpless you…and you actually feel like indulging in this misery… I ran away from the bathroom and locked the door so that the creature did not escape to my room – then chances of the peaceful sleep would be pretty much illusive.

My mobile rang. It was Rahul, whose “Hi dear, how have you been” got reciprocated with my panic, “Oh, my God, I’ve got a big lizard in my bathroom”. Hi did something that does not belittle his merits as a friend, yet something that was completely inappropriate for the occasion. He burst into laugh. “You are scared of a lizard… Ha-ha-ha..” Instead of the moral support I needed most I got to face a moral challenge which I already had. I just carried on with the explanations how much I am scared of the creature and that I do not know what to do. He was calling from the office and obviously had just some minutes to chat. That’s been a while since we had heard from each other last time and now with my lizard troubles I was clearly wasting his time. He kept laughing, teasing me and I could hear annoyance in his laugher. “I called you at last and you are so preoccupied with the lizard, stupid girl”. He tried to give me some suggestions and behaved just like any men - solution oriented. “Scare it away!” If only I could… He hanged up soon.

I was standing in the middle of my room completely clueless and scared. I could not, totally could not even look at the lizard and its anguine motions. I got into tears. How would I scare it away? And I have to, I have to… Me, poor me, again and again have to handle the situations I would not even need to bother about be I with someone else around. Why there is no someone else around? There are people I know, good buddies, close friends and relatives – all in the varying proximity or actually distance. Yet, no one here with me at the moment when I need this one most. How many more times in my life would I have to go through hurdles myself, getting unnecessarily strong? How much stronger does one have to become so to live happy? Would I still need someone around once I get that strong?…………………

What I really respect myself for is that despite the tears session is almost compulsory, right after I wipe away the last salty drop on my face the action plan is ready and I can mobilize myself.

I opened the door, walked in the bathroom and locked the door. I looked around and could not find the invader. Disappeared? Too good to be true! I glanced on the walls again and saw it down on the wall, almost on the floor – and I yelled again! Stay up on the wall, you miserable thing! It crawled up. I seized a mop and started splashing it on the walls with the cries of a warrior. I hoped to scare the lizard away with the sounds and the danger of being splashed…However, the latter was not intended by any means. The creature was way too big to be killed without me having serious remorse later. Responding to my actions, the lizard started feverishly fussing back and forth hoping to escape. I was getting more and more annoyed with this stupid animal that could not comprehend the commonality of our goals. It just had to leave. It was not safe for it to stay at the place where a mad woman swings a mop in the air and yells. It was not safe for my mental heath to carry on that way either. Yet, the lizard was running back and forth, back and forth without an end in mind. I was getting more and more frustrated and therefore – more and more desperate. At some point I lost any hope when the lizard sneaked behind the gazer as if thinking it might be a good compromise for us. Yet, I was determined to win. I carried on with both mop and my voice and… at some point of time the lizard sneaked out of the ventilation window. I locked the window. Had to tight it with a rope in fact, as the window did not close properly. I could not leave a chance for any prospective visiting creature to get in. I breathed out in the clear realization – done!... I was standing in the middle of my bathroom and tried to comprehend the fact that I had just scared away one of my major fears.

Thursday, August 03, 2006

Gender awareness or paranoia

The other day I was discussing institution of marriage with in-a-dangerously-bridal age Piyali. She shared that after studying social sciences it is virtually impossible to be a wife. “In the family you are not supposed to question, but it is exactly the latter what you learn as a social science student”. I just laughed back and secretly felt glad I would not have to marry in the country where questioning is always perceived as challenging. Yet, later on I raised the issue with Kate and she totally supported Piyali’s stand… Is the concern so universal that equally endorsed in Europe and South Asia?!

Undoubtedly, what we study and what we work in constitutes a major frame of reference for us. Imagine a group of people from diverse walks of life chilling out at a cafe. A one into marketing would think of how professionally the café’s brand is positioned; an economist would come up with tentative estimates of the joint’s profitability; a doctor would name all those diseases one can get by eating from such a place; an engineer would by all means pay attention to the way ventilation system works. Clearly, we all get preoccupied with the concepts we learn through our studies or profession and we tend to apply those to the life situations that we come across.

Then think for a minute…. You are a girl studying social sciences or working with gender issues. Day by day you are learning that society functions to maintain the existing power relations that, as far as gender is concerned, are such that males have been historically dominating the areas related to control over any sort of resources (being it land, money, or social recognition). Find it out for yourself: it is women who take over domestic work that is unpaid and undervalued and it is men who go for paid employment outside their houses; it is women who would be seen sewing clothes and cooking, yet it is men who are well-recognized designers and chefs; it is women who are wanted employees at call centers by the virtue of being considerate and service oriented, yet it is men who take over managerial positions at the same organizations. The trend is clear: women are doomed to the activities meant for in-house consumption and related to the low status, yet men essentially being involved in the same domains tend to take over the tasks related with status, social recognition, and financial success. You also learn that all mentioned universally holds thought varying in manifestations as per specific society. You learnings naturally get empirical support with every article you read, with every discussion you have with colleagues, with every news you get to hear, with every observation of social interactions you get exposed to, with every story your friends tell you …. and…. what is ultimately scary… with your own experience that you are doomed to encounter. Because you are a woman. Virtues circle.

I’ve been into the field of women’s rights for just half a year, but I easily identify all the major deprivations I come across as a women: this is me being harassed by a sexist joke, this is me not being heard, this is me being getting non-equivocal comments on the sustainability of my career plans, this is... Yet, I reckon, the most frustrating is to find out such attitudes in the personal relationship…

I shiver when I picture myself doing dishes while him watching TV (that is how gendered division of labor (or leisure?) is in Russia, for example)…. I have no hassles with doing dishes… I actually find it very stress-reliving. But I am also aware of what the actual situation looks like: regardless the fact you have a nice dual-career family (meaning you both have ambitious career plans) it is you women who is expected to take over domestic chores…. And me, smart, educated, financially independent working women who has a right to choose her partner would feel amazing sense of sisterhood with a backward women from a small village in Bihar married off at the age of 17 with her present full-fledged universe made of kitchen utilities and wishes of her spouse.


How fare is that? Him being fine with having a nice life, you expected to marry and give birth….. Him going for a career and you adjusting your lifestyle to his aspirations….. You love this man anyway, no?! Don’t be stubborn, baby! He decides something for himself and he thinks it would work for both of you. He would definitely ask what ice cream you want, but then he forgets to ask you where on this earth you would like to put down your roots. Hi is not particularly a devil and you are not exactly a saint. That is not the point.
But why do you so often feel victimized on the plea of being vulnerable, being flexible … being women…. Maybe very independent when it comes to your career yet…very submissive and support-seeking with your partner. What if it actually feels divine to find in your partner a shelter protecting you from the aftertaste of lost and won fights in this violent world outside? What if you actually do not mind him dominating and taking decisions for you both? What is that: endorsing gender stereotypes or just being genuine? And what if at some other point of time you can lend your support to him, let him be weak, take decisions for you both? Is he getting less man after? Do you love him less?

We so often talk about gender sensitization for men, yet how much has been done for sensitizing women. How much gender sensitive are we? Gender is not only women – keep repeating we and still fall in the same trap: we blame men. How come that we women are so often brought up with the inferiority complex, rather than with the notion of differences instead. Is it gender inequality or differences actually? If it is only differences we talk about in the personal relationship how come it amounts for the marked social inequality in the broader context?! The whole feministic discourse and activism e.g. related to political participation (hello, Kate ;o) – is it a women’s propensity to articulate sentiments and indulge lengthy discussions? And the ignorance of the mainstream (=male dominated) political discourse to the feminists’ standpoints? Just male tendency not to pay attention to the details or them consciously ignoring the same?

My ramblings seem to be akin to the “third-year-disease” that medical students tend to come across when after amassing a certain amount of knowledge they are able to detect in themselves symptoms of almost any existing disease. Apparently, this is nothing but a transitional stage that is followed by adjustment once you develop some sort of self-preservation mechanism … and then… this is also something they say about doctors… your threshold of tolerance gets so much that it turns in cynicism ….I hope that never happens in my case...

Wednesday, August 02, 2006

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I find it amusing that at the point of time when I have got most to say, when a couple of half-started half-finished posts are pending, when I actually write a lot (yet for work), my blog remains untouched already for days.