As of 2001 more that 70% of Indians resided in rural areas. They are, however usually ignored. When foreigners think of India they think of Bollywood, the Taj Mahal, and big bustling Bombay. Very rarely will a foreigner’s mind venture into rural India and even more rarely will their bodies venture that far. When I was introduced to a small town near Aurangabad, of 450 people, they were told that there exists another country far away that is called Australia and that there guest has come from there to meet them. In this post I just want to describe how most Indian’s live, it may change the way you view this country.
Every morning the family wakes up with the sunrise. They have a calendar so that they know when to celebrate culturally significant days but most of the time they don’t know what the day or date is because it’s irrelevant. All houses are built with a small front porch, so after waking up the women sweep the porch clean and then spread cow dung along the floor. When it dries they put on a pot of tea. Meanwhile they take their set of brightly colored powders and draw a colorful design on the street outside the front door. This design is called a rangoli, and a woman of every house draws a different one every day in the morning. They can often all be seen doing it at the same time. Once the tea is ready the family will sit and have their morning cup on the front porch and then the men will head off to the farms to work. The women sometimes head off with the men or they stay back to do some cooking and join the men later. In any case they make sure that lunch is cooked and ready before the men come back. In the village where I went, Pofrla, there is a school and every child goes to school six days a week. However, this facility is not available everywhere.
They usually have baths in the morning before work but in the winter months an afternoon bath is preferred. The method is simple. You jump in a well, or if you’re a kid, or if you’re scared you get thrown into a well by someone bigger. There are usually several wells in each town, at least one for each landowner and each one is at least 7 meters in diameter so their big enough for more than one family at the same time.
The morning poo presents with an interesting problem. The government of India has tried to build a toilet in every village. Sometimes it doesn’t work, but when it does it means that there is one toilet for 450 people. I was told that in many villages the morning dump is traditionally done on the street outside your front door, not far from the rangoli. The rangoli, by the way is meant to welcome guests, what is the poo supposed to do? But thankfully in Pofrla there’s a hill close by so all the men and some of the women climb the hill and do their business n a secluded spot.
Work is hard. There are no machines to help out on the farm so all the work has to be done by hand or by bullock. When I visited it was winter and I was having trouble tolerating the heat. I find it difficult to imagine what summer must be like.
In Pofrla the main crop is cotton, but all the vegetables used for cooking are also grown. The village is almost completely self-sufficient, what little income they get from selling their cotton is saved and later spent on clothes or technology or healthcare. There is one TV in the village. It has two channels, one of which most villages will not understand because it’s in Hindi. Each farm has its own farm and the size of the farm often reflects the financial position of the family. However, anyone from within the town can take the vegetables from another’s farm, and when the cotton is to be sold it is all heaped together and sold as one lot. Everything important is shared, and ownership although individual in theory almost becomes collective as a result of sharing.
However, despite the apparent abundance of vegetables, their diet is poor. It usually consists of dhal, rice and bread, with some chilies for taste. As a result a very large proportion of the women are anemic and many of the children are malnourished. Note that this is a consequence of their lack of education and not of their poverty.
When the men come home in the evening dinner is waiting for them and the whole family eats together. Following dinner, the women wash up and then there is free time. The family often sits and talks, and people venture into each other’s porches to shoot the breeze. They compare their gains from the harvest, they talk about cotton prices, they gossip about new marriages or births and they talk politics. Every Indian no matter how poor or how divorced from a big city seems interested in politics. It is the antithesis of the apathetic public of most western countries.
Electricity exists but only flows for about 12 hours a day, and it comes and goes at will. If there are electric lights they may stay up and tell stories, if there aren’t then its bed time. They wake up the next morning to do it all again.
Their life is simple. Its hard work but at the same time with such a tight knit community I reckon it would be fun as well. The villagers told me that even when they go to the next village they feel uncomfortable, they are away from their families and friends and everyone they know and suddenly their strong and warm safety net does not exist. Bu at the same time, for a youth, the whole town can be explored in half an hour, there is not much new to learn, and if you don’t like farming, well… you have to be a farmer anyway.
Monday, December 7, 2009
The poorest of the poor
Last week while working in our urban slum clinic the social worker suggested that we visit the poorer side of the slum district.
There are two broad types of slums, authorized and unauthorized. The slum that I work in is authorized. It‘s been there for more than 25 years and is a well established community with permanent brick houses etc. But it began its life as an unauthorized slum. I’m not sure of its history exactly, but it usually goes something like this. On some patch of unused land, usually government land, but sometimes private, somebody puts a statue of a respected person or a flag representing something of cultural significance. An example is a statue of B. Ambedker; he crafted India’s constitution and is almost worshiped like a god here. Once the statue is there people will not move it or take it away without incurring the wroth of the masses who will conveniently be outraged by such sacrilege and may go so far as to riot. In order to avoid this, the statue remains. A few weeks later a tent arrives and then another. They get cleared by the police but the next day instead of two there are five. As it grows some people closest to the statue build a house with bricks. It gets knocked down. Where there was one, now there are five. Someone dies. Their land, still unauthorized, goes up for sale on the black market. The mafia is often in charge and they control the buying and selling of property. In order to make some extra cash they sell the same plot of land to three poor families. When it’s time to move in the family realizes that someone else is already living there. A fight breaks out. The strongest family gets the house, the others get the street, their life savings already handed over to the mob.
Eventually the number of people living in the slum grows large enough to create some political gravity. Politicians are forced to accept the slum, or risk being voted out at the next election. The slum becomes authorized.
On the poorer side of mukundwadi the slum is authorized but the people mostly live in tents. I met a woman who was hanging her clothes out to dry. I wanted to talk to her about her health. I asked her ‘with regards to healthcare, what do you feel you are in need of? How are the available services falling short? And what do you think can be done to improve them?’ Being completely naive and inexperienced in the poverty department I naturally expected a long drawn out answer full of complaints and suggestions. I wanted her to tell me about all the problems they had with their health and how difficult it was to get to a hospital or see a doctor. But that wasn’t her answer. Her answer was that she didn’t know and she didn’t know because she didn’t understand the question.
There was nothing wrong with my Marathi, my questions all made perfect sense. So what was the problem?
The woman I talked to has lived her entire life in the now. Her only concern ever, was that she had two rupees in her pocket for food. She told me that she wakes up every morning hungry. If she has money she goes and buys food, if she doesn’t, she goes and finds some way to make money, usually by begging. If she is able to make two rupees she eats, if she doesn’t she starves. She never went to school, she has no idea how old she is, she has four sons and two daughters but she doesn’t know where they are. So ultimately the problem was that after a lifetime of brutal reality, she was never able to develop the ability to think in the hypothetical. She literally cannot suggest improvements in health-care because she does not have the mental capacity to imagine them. This is a perspective of poverty that I had not realized, and it means that the consequences of poverty are far more insidious that I had previously thought. Poverty does not only diminish your physical and material well-being, but a lack of education and a lack of varied life experience starves your mind.
There are two broad types of slums, authorized and unauthorized. The slum that I work in is authorized. It‘s been there for more than 25 years and is a well established community with permanent brick houses etc. But it began its life as an unauthorized slum. I’m not sure of its history exactly, but it usually goes something like this. On some patch of unused land, usually government land, but sometimes private, somebody puts a statue of a respected person or a flag representing something of cultural significance. An example is a statue of B. Ambedker; he crafted India’s constitution and is almost worshiped like a god here. Once the statue is there people will not move it or take it away without incurring the wroth of the masses who will conveniently be outraged by such sacrilege and may go so far as to riot. In order to avoid this, the statue remains. A few weeks later a tent arrives and then another. They get cleared by the police but the next day instead of two there are five. As it grows some people closest to the statue build a house with bricks. It gets knocked down. Where there was one, now there are five. Someone dies. Their land, still unauthorized, goes up for sale on the black market. The mafia is often in charge and they control the buying and selling of property. In order to make some extra cash they sell the same plot of land to three poor families. When it’s time to move in the family realizes that someone else is already living there. A fight breaks out. The strongest family gets the house, the others get the street, their life savings already handed over to the mob.
Eventually the number of people living in the slum grows large enough to create some political gravity. Politicians are forced to accept the slum, or risk being voted out at the next election. The slum becomes authorized.
On the poorer side of mukundwadi the slum is authorized but the people mostly live in tents. I met a woman who was hanging her clothes out to dry. I wanted to talk to her about her health. I asked her ‘with regards to healthcare, what do you feel you are in need of? How are the available services falling short? And what do you think can be done to improve them?’ Being completely naive and inexperienced in the poverty department I naturally expected a long drawn out answer full of complaints and suggestions. I wanted her to tell me about all the problems they had with their health and how difficult it was to get to a hospital or see a doctor. But that wasn’t her answer. Her answer was that she didn’t know and she didn’t know because she didn’t understand the question.
There was nothing wrong with my Marathi, my questions all made perfect sense. So what was the problem?
The woman I talked to has lived her entire life in the now. Her only concern ever, was that she had two rupees in her pocket for food. She told me that she wakes up every morning hungry. If she has money she goes and buys food, if she doesn’t, she goes and finds some way to make money, usually by begging. If she is able to make two rupees she eats, if she doesn’t she starves. She never went to school, she has no idea how old she is, she has four sons and two daughters but she doesn’t know where they are. So ultimately the problem was that after a lifetime of brutal reality, she was never able to develop the ability to think in the hypothetical. She literally cannot suggest improvements in health-care because she does not have the mental capacity to imagine them. This is a perspective of poverty that I had not realized, and it means that the consequences of poverty are far more insidious that I had previously thought. Poverty does not only diminish your physical and material well-being, but a lack of education and a lack of varied life experience starves your mind.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Ajanta
The security guard at my hospital, a nurse, a ward boy, two doctors and a friend of a friend had all offered on separate occasions to take me to the Ajanta caves. Even people I barely knew or met for the first time would say “Wait till Wednesday, I have a day off, we can go together”. I wasn’t sure whether it was because they were being super kind or I was extra charming, but I wanted to go on my own. So I did.
The Ajanta caves were built between around 200 BC and 450AD by many successive generations of Buddhist monks under the patronage of both Buddhist and Hindu kings. Around 450AD the caves began to fall into disrepair and were slowly forgotten. For 1300 years they remained lost, the jungle slowly grew over them until they were eventually completely submerged under forest, mud and water. In 1819 a British hunter, hot on the trail of a tiger, stumbled across the very top of Cave Ten. He carved his name on its wall and began to slowly unveil the work of a lost civilization.
When I think of how he must have felt I am reminded of Leonardo da Vinci. In the early 1500’s he noticed that the fossils of sea creatures could be found where there was definitely no sea; on mountains, and far inland. Conventional wisdom held that the creatures must have somehow made their way there or that they were brought there. Maybe they were put there by god in order to test our faith in him (This, by the way, is the argument that the intelligent design museum in Kentucky gives for the existence of dinosaur fossils). However, none of these explanations satisfied him. So he pondered. Maybe at different stages in history, sea levels were at different levels. Maybe they rise and fell, and each time they did they delineated the beginning of a new age. Maybe the civilization of man prospered in each age but was wiped out every time sea levels rose. Could it be that in a previous age someone had made this exact same discovery and reached the same conclusion? That we are part of an infinite cycle? A wheel of time?
Unfortunately, even though it would be way cool, none of this is true; but Leonardo or the guy that discovered the caves didn’t know that. When he stumbled across cave ten he was looking into a lost age. The immense scale and beauty of the caves far surpassed anything the British had constructed at the time, so how could such an opulent and prosperous civilization die, and on top of that how could it be forgotten?
When I visited there was some restoration work in progress but unfortunately since their rediscovery they have lost much of their original luster. Ajanta is famous not for its rock carvings, which are themselves impressive, but rather for its mural paintings which cover the walls and columns of every cave. They reflect the culture of the day and the dreams of the monks that painted them. When trying to understand the paintings I thought it was amazing how little has changed in 2500 years. We still wear the same style of thongs in India, we still drink alcohol, we still marvel at the beauty of women, some of us still believe in an afterlife, and we still every day are confronted by the problem or whether to take the difficult but good path or the easy expedient one.
After about 4 hours of looking at them on my own I decided to hire a guide for about 100 rupees and I asked him back to back questions for about 3 hours. We were disturbed only by the pesky sunset which forced me to head back home. I’m glad I went but I can’t help but feel that it conflicted somehow with my goal to not be a tourist.
I’ve been taking the state transport bus everywhere but on the way home it was crowded Indian style. Three to a seat with people sitting on top of each other everywhere except for on the driver. I had an urge to take out my camera and take a photo. Nowhere had I ever seen a bus that full, especially a long distance one (I had to stand for 100 km= 3hours). But I suppressed the urge. I didn’t want everyone to think that I was an outsider. I was by that stage growing tired of the looks and stares associated with that label. I can only imagine how the white guy sitting near the front must have felt.
The Ajanta caves were built between around 200 BC and 450AD by many successive generations of Buddhist monks under the patronage of both Buddhist and Hindu kings. Around 450AD the caves began to fall into disrepair and were slowly forgotten. For 1300 years they remained lost, the jungle slowly grew over them until they were eventually completely submerged under forest, mud and water. In 1819 a British hunter, hot on the trail of a tiger, stumbled across the very top of Cave Ten. He carved his name on its wall and began to slowly unveil the work of a lost civilization.
When I think of how he must have felt I am reminded of Leonardo da Vinci. In the early 1500’s he noticed that the fossils of sea creatures could be found where there was definitely no sea; on mountains, and far inland. Conventional wisdom held that the creatures must have somehow made their way there or that they were brought there. Maybe they were put there by god in order to test our faith in him (This, by the way, is the argument that the intelligent design museum in Kentucky gives for the existence of dinosaur fossils). However, none of these explanations satisfied him. So he pondered. Maybe at different stages in history, sea levels were at different levels. Maybe they rise and fell, and each time they did they delineated the beginning of a new age. Maybe the civilization of man prospered in each age but was wiped out every time sea levels rose. Could it be that in a previous age someone had made this exact same discovery and reached the same conclusion? That we are part of an infinite cycle? A wheel of time?
Unfortunately, even though it would be way cool, none of this is true; but Leonardo or the guy that discovered the caves didn’t know that. When he stumbled across cave ten he was looking into a lost age. The immense scale and beauty of the caves far surpassed anything the British had constructed at the time, so how could such an opulent and prosperous civilization die, and on top of that how could it be forgotten?
When I visited there was some restoration work in progress but unfortunately since their rediscovery they have lost much of their original luster. Ajanta is famous not for its rock carvings, which are themselves impressive, but rather for its mural paintings which cover the walls and columns of every cave. They reflect the culture of the day and the dreams of the monks that painted them. When trying to understand the paintings I thought it was amazing how little has changed in 2500 years. We still wear the same style of thongs in India, we still drink alcohol, we still marvel at the beauty of women, some of us still believe in an afterlife, and we still every day are confronted by the problem or whether to take the difficult but good path or the easy expedient one.
After about 4 hours of looking at them on my own I decided to hire a guide for about 100 rupees and I asked him back to back questions for about 3 hours. We were disturbed only by the pesky sunset which forced me to head back home. I’m glad I went but I can’t help but feel that it conflicted somehow with my goal to not be a tourist.
I’ve been taking the state transport bus everywhere but on the way home it was crowded Indian style. Three to a seat with people sitting on top of each other everywhere except for on the driver. I had an urge to take out my camera and take a photo. Nowhere had I ever seen a bus that full, especially a long distance one (I had to stand for 100 km= 3hours). But I suppressed the urge. I didn’t want everyone to think that I was an outsider. I was by that stage growing tired of the looks and stares associated with that label. I can only imagine how the white guy sitting near the front must have felt.
Meeting Foreigners in Aurangabad
I came to India with the explicit intention of becoming Indian. When one travels we’re obviously exposed to a culture and a society that differs from the one that we’re used to. During that exposure we have two choices, view the culture through a closed window, site see, take pictures, and be a tourist; or absorb the culture, become the culture and learn far more than otherwise possible. The second method takes longer and is harder work but in the end is far more rewarding.
When I lived in Canada, about three months after staying near Vancouver I was walking down the main street when a tourist stopped me and asked me for directions. He wanted to know where the Orpheum theatre was. I put on the best Canadian accent I could muster and told him it was on the corner of Smithe and Seymour. Then I told him exactly how to get there, which bus number to catch and where to get off. I had become Canadian. Sure I hadn’t grown up watching Hockey Night in Canada, I hadn’t ever listened to the tragically hip and deep down inside I didn’t wish I was American (=-p), but I was no longer a visitor. I felt like a resident.
The same moment occurred last week when I met two Australian friends of mine in Aurangabad. They were on elective as well in a nearby town and had stopped by the city on their way to see the Ajunta caves. When I met them for dinner I was with two doctor friends of mine; we turned up late on our motor bikes Indian style and went to a tandoori restaurant for dinner. Compared to me, they were now the outsiders, and compared to them I was an insider. I was probably showing off a bit but I was happy to showcase my Marathi when speaking to the waiter, I told them about Indian culture and complained that the food was no where near spicy enough. I had become Indian. I mean, I was always Indian but now I had become Indian Indian.
An unfortunate consequence of becoming a local however, is that I have taken almost zero photos. I never take photos in Sydney because it’s my home. I can see it whenever I want and plus I don’t want to be mistaken for a pesky tourist. So why should I take photo’s in Maharashtra, after all I am Marathi. Plus I’ve been spending most of my time in the hospital and it doesn’t really seem ethical to take pictures there. “Your CT scan indicates that you probably have tuberculosis. Say CHEEEEESE”.
When I lived in Canada, about three months after staying near Vancouver I was walking down the main street when a tourist stopped me and asked me for directions. He wanted to know where the Orpheum theatre was. I put on the best Canadian accent I could muster and told him it was on the corner of Smithe and Seymour. Then I told him exactly how to get there, which bus number to catch and where to get off. I had become Canadian. Sure I hadn’t grown up watching Hockey Night in Canada, I hadn’t ever listened to the tragically hip and deep down inside I didn’t wish I was American (=-p), but I was no longer a visitor. I felt like a resident.
The same moment occurred last week when I met two Australian friends of mine in Aurangabad. They were on elective as well in a nearby town and had stopped by the city on their way to see the Ajunta caves. When I met them for dinner I was with two doctor friends of mine; we turned up late on our motor bikes Indian style and went to a tandoori restaurant for dinner. Compared to me, they were now the outsiders, and compared to them I was an insider. I was probably showing off a bit but I was happy to showcase my Marathi when speaking to the waiter, I told them about Indian culture and complained that the food was no where near spicy enough. I had become Indian. I mean, I was always Indian but now I had become Indian Indian.
An unfortunate consequence of becoming a local however, is that I have taken almost zero photos. I never take photos in Sydney because it’s my home. I can see it whenever I want and plus I don’t want to be mistaken for a pesky tourist. So why should I take photo’s in Maharashtra, after all I am Marathi. Plus I’ve been spending most of my time in the hospital and it doesn’t really seem ethical to take pictures there. “Your CT scan indicates that you probably have tuberculosis. Say CHEEEEESE”.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Anita
In the state of Maharashrta in the country India there is a town called Aurangabad. In the town of Aurangabad there’s a community called Mukundwadi and within Mukundwadi lives a woman called Anita.
Anita is different. She doesn’t conform to an outsider’s expectations of an Indian. Yet she is Indian. She doesn’t conform to the norms of her community, yet she is respected by it. And most importantly she does not live within the four walls identified with womanhood, yet she is still a woman.
Anita comes from a poor cobbler family that belongs to what is sometimes callously referred to as the untouchable cast. She started her education at five like any other child, but at the age of 14 she hit a roadblock. She had her first epileptic fit. She fell down and hurt herself badly on the way to school.
Epilepsy has an incredible social stigma in India, especially amongst the uneducated, and perhaps for her safety or for some other reason that we can not relate to, she was kept home from school. For two years she languished, un-stimulated, growing physically but not mentally. Waiting, like most other women her age to be married off to a husband that would take her off her parents’ hands for whatever meager dowry they could afford. But she knew her education was important; it remained in the back of her mind.
She approached a local social worker and started some drawing and tailoring classes. I spoke to the social worker and he said that the first time she came to see him she could barely bring herself to look up from the floor into his eyes or even to bare her face. After showing some promise she was asked to teach a class to younger girls. She refused. How could an uneducated epileptic untouchable girl ever teach anything? But her parents encouraged her and with the social workers support she taught. And she taught well.
Girls’ education is not a priority for most parents in the community. In fact a girl leaving their four walls after school hours is an uncommon event, but she knew its importance, and with her insistence, with her zeal, the students came. The taught tailoring and drawing to city girls and rural girls; and along with their new skills she taught them confidence. With boys on every street corner, most girls and their parents are fearful. What will they do? What will they say?
Anita now works a short bus ride and walk away from home. She sometimes walks with other women, sometimes alone. Every day she sees boys hanging around and on one occasion they started harassing her and her friends. She stayed quiet to see where it would lead. The boys kept teasing. The girls said nothing. She stepped up.
“Are you talking to me?” They boy was caught off guard. “Are you talking to me?” She hadn’t seen Taxi Driver. I asked. The boy stepped off. “Next time, make sure you know who you’re talking to” She told me she was prepared to slap him in the face if he talked back.
The transformation was complete. Anita has knocked down all four walls and has become free. She is seen and respected by all and is an example to all aspiring independent woman. That she exists is impressive, but that she exists despite being an unschooled epileptic untouchable is astonishing.
Anita is different. She doesn’t conform to an outsider’s expectations of an Indian. Yet she is Indian. She doesn’t conform to the norms of her community, yet she is respected by it. And most importantly she does not live within the four walls identified with womanhood, yet she is still a woman.
Anita comes from a poor cobbler family that belongs to what is sometimes callously referred to as the untouchable cast. She started her education at five like any other child, but at the age of 14 she hit a roadblock. She had her first epileptic fit. She fell down and hurt herself badly on the way to school.
Epilepsy has an incredible social stigma in India, especially amongst the uneducated, and perhaps for her safety or for some other reason that we can not relate to, she was kept home from school. For two years she languished, un-stimulated, growing physically but not mentally. Waiting, like most other women her age to be married off to a husband that would take her off her parents’ hands for whatever meager dowry they could afford. But she knew her education was important; it remained in the back of her mind.
She approached a local social worker and started some drawing and tailoring classes. I spoke to the social worker and he said that the first time she came to see him she could barely bring herself to look up from the floor into his eyes or even to bare her face. After showing some promise she was asked to teach a class to younger girls. She refused. How could an uneducated epileptic untouchable girl ever teach anything? But her parents encouraged her and with the social workers support she taught. And she taught well.
Girls’ education is not a priority for most parents in the community. In fact a girl leaving their four walls after school hours is an uncommon event, but she knew its importance, and with her insistence, with her zeal, the students came. The taught tailoring and drawing to city girls and rural girls; and along with their new skills she taught them confidence. With boys on every street corner, most girls and their parents are fearful. What will they do? What will they say?
Anita now works a short bus ride and walk away from home. She sometimes walks with other women, sometimes alone. Every day she sees boys hanging around and on one occasion they started harassing her and her friends. She stayed quiet to see where it would lead. The boys kept teasing. The girls said nothing. She stepped up.
“Are you talking to me?” They boy was caught off guard. “Are you talking to me?” She hadn’t seen Taxi Driver. I asked. The boy stepped off. “Next time, make sure you know who you’re talking to” She told me she was prepared to slap him in the face if he talked back.
The transformation was complete. Anita has knocked down all four walls and has become free. She is seen and respected by all and is an example to all aspiring independent woman. That she exists is impressive, but that she exists despite being an unschooled epileptic untouchable is astonishing.
Unbalanced.
I’ve come to India with an open mind. Having grown up in an Indian family there are many things about the country and the culture that I already knew, but India is so entirely different that only now am I realizing how little that was. The country and the culture, like any, has its successes and failures but curiously Indians seem only to acknowledge one side.
Any one who feels the need to mount a vigorous defense or to loudly sing their own praises only does so because they feel threatened in some way. Unless threatened, no matter how strong or intelligent or rich or powerful you may be, flaunting it is a waste of time. Almost all Indians I’ve met both here and abroad love their country, but here that love takes on a very unusual character.
When George Bush went to war with Saddam Hussein, John Howard said that we had to support America because they are our friend. But if someone is making a mistake, a real friend does not just go along with it; they point it out.
There are a few issues in which most Indians will admit fault. Corruption is a key example. People have such little faith in anything government related here because they just assume that it’s been corrupted; be it hospitals, schools, the bureaucracy, police etc. The population is another pet complaint. But beyond this, a criticism of anything Indian is very easily taken in offence.
It’s very likely that by reading this, my Indian friends will be offended too. But if they are, then they’re in a bit of a jam aren’t they? Because if they admit that they’re offended then they will be proving my very point; that Indians are not sufficiently self critical, and that their views are unbalanced. Muhahaha
A key part of Indian culture is respect for your elders. It is unfortunate that many Australians do not share this value and as a result some elderly people languish unvisited and uncared for in homes across the country. But in India, you find the other extreme. Respect for elders and for authority has created an extremely hierarchical society in which you must call everyone sir or madam. The younger doctors in the hospital where I work are all literally scared of the consultants. If they want to ask a question they do it with so much apology, that every time they do, I’m reminded of Oliver asking “Please sir, may I have some more?” and the consultant replies “MOORRREEE!?!?!?”.
A similar situation exists between children and their parents, where a child will treat their parent’s instructions like the word of god, without question or argument. That’s not to say that the children are unhappy, most feel that their parents know best so it is wise to do as they say. Keep in mind that most parents here will choose their children’s spouses when they are of marrying age.
So? You ask. If both children and parents are happy with the arrangement then what’s the problem? I’ll tell you. This relationship creates an extremely stagnant (Indians would call it stable) social environment. You would be hard pressed to find a culture less open to change and growth. Children do what their parents tell them, and then they get married to who their parents choose, and then instruct their kids the only way they know how, the way their parents taught them.
When talking about arranged marriage, a balanced person would admit that there are many advantages. Some would say that they are more stable and thus, are better for the children. I was part of an interesting conversation yesterday with a girl whose marriage had recently been decided, and her parents. Not long into the conversation however, it became more of a lecture about the faults of western morals and ideals in relation to family values and the far more superior Indian ideals. The high divorce rate was cited as a clear point of evidence, and it was followed by the ridiculous assertion that divorce is just as available to an unhappy Indian spouse as it is to a western spouse. Its disadvantages were glossed over or ignored. Following a tradition blindly and not seeing both its costs and benefits is the very archaic mindset that this country will have to overcome if it wants to improve the standard of living of its people.
Some other unwelcome criticisms that I have are regarding the treatment of women. Tradition and what I consider the extremist social conservative views of many Indians are again to blame. My hospital does a fantastic job of empowering women, but even within it I see sexism. I get my lunch and dinner provided and delivered every day for a minimal fee. Most single people here do the same. When I ask the male married doctors however they say, “Why would I get my meals delivered? I’m married”. It is implied that their wife will cook for them. Many women will not leave the house on their own because they are genuinely scared about what boys will do to them. When confronted about these issues most brush it off. Some have the gall to suggest that thousands of years of tradition have created this culture and so it must be right. Others have the belief that all of these ills are related to the invasion of outsiders and their exploitative ways. Capitalism. OWN YOUR MISTAKES.
India has done so many things in its past to be proud of, but until its people adopt a more balanced view India’s rise will always remain firmly in its future.
Any one who feels the need to mount a vigorous defense or to loudly sing their own praises only does so because they feel threatened in some way. Unless threatened, no matter how strong or intelligent or rich or powerful you may be, flaunting it is a waste of time. Almost all Indians I’ve met both here and abroad love their country, but here that love takes on a very unusual character.
When George Bush went to war with Saddam Hussein, John Howard said that we had to support America because they are our friend. But if someone is making a mistake, a real friend does not just go along with it; they point it out.
There are a few issues in which most Indians will admit fault. Corruption is a key example. People have such little faith in anything government related here because they just assume that it’s been corrupted; be it hospitals, schools, the bureaucracy, police etc. The population is another pet complaint. But beyond this, a criticism of anything Indian is very easily taken in offence.
It’s very likely that by reading this, my Indian friends will be offended too. But if they are, then they’re in a bit of a jam aren’t they? Because if they admit that they’re offended then they will be proving my very point; that Indians are not sufficiently self critical, and that their views are unbalanced. Muhahaha
A key part of Indian culture is respect for your elders. It is unfortunate that many Australians do not share this value and as a result some elderly people languish unvisited and uncared for in homes across the country. But in India, you find the other extreme. Respect for elders and for authority has created an extremely hierarchical society in which you must call everyone sir or madam. The younger doctors in the hospital where I work are all literally scared of the consultants. If they want to ask a question they do it with so much apology, that every time they do, I’m reminded of Oliver asking “Please sir, may I have some more?” and the consultant replies “MOORRREEE!?!?!?”.
A similar situation exists between children and their parents, where a child will treat their parent’s instructions like the word of god, without question or argument. That’s not to say that the children are unhappy, most feel that their parents know best so it is wise to do as they say. Keep in mind that most parents here will choose their children’s spouses when they are of marrying age.
So? You ask. If both children and parents are happy with the arrangement then what’s the problem? I’ll tell you. This relationship creates an extremely stagnant (Indians would call it stable) social environment. You would be hard pressed to find a culture less open to change and growth. Children do what their parents tell them, and then they get married to who their parents choose, and then instruct their kids the only way they know how, the way their parents taught them.
When talking about arranged marriage, a balanced person would admit that there are many advantages. Some would say that they are more stable and thus, are better for the children. I was part of an interesting conversation yesterday with a girl whose marriage had recently been decided, and her parents. Not long into the conversation however, it became more of a lecture about the faults of western morals and ideals in relation to family values and the far more superior Indian ideals. The high divorce rate was cited as a clear point of evidence, and it was followed by the ridiculous assertion that divorce is just as available to an unhappy Indian spouse as it is to a western spouse. Its disadvantages were glossed over or ignored. Following a tradition blindly and not seeing both its costs and benefits is the very archaic mindset that this country will have to overcome if it wants to improve the standard of living of its people.
Some other unwelcome criticisms that I have are regarding the treatment of women. Tradition and what I consider the extremist social conservative views of many Indians are again to blame. My hospital does a fantastic job of empowering women, but even within it I see sexism. I get my lunch and dinner provided and delivered every day for a minimal fee. Most single people here do the same. When I ask the male married doctors however they say, “Why would I get my meals delivered? I’m married”. It is implied that their wife will cook for them. Many women will not leave the house on their own because they are genuinely scared about what boys will do to them. When confronted about these issues most brush it off. Some have the gall to suggest that thousands of years of tradition have created this culture and so it must be right. Others have the belief that all of these ills are related to the invasion of outsiders and their exploitative ways. Capitalism. OWN YOUR MISTAKES.
India has done so many things in its past to be proud of, but until its people adopt a more balanced view India’s rise will always remain firmly in its future.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
community
Every night at 5pm a group of about 25 boys of school age get together at the center where I am based. They play for a while and then do their homework. These boys play together, study together, if they are studying late, sometimes sleep together, sometimes eat together and if history is any guide, will remain friends long after they finish school. Some will go on to college, others to jobs straight out of high school, but almost all of them will complete their schooling, and all of them will avoid the perils of drug and alcohol addiction.
I visited a boy’s family yesterday. On the way there, my volunteer friend and I started walking down a very narrow street. It was paved with bricks an on one side was a sewer drain that carried out all the waste from each house. Each house shared at least two of its walls with another and was connected to the street by a small bridge over the sewer. Although there were no street lamps the houses all had electricity and the light from each house was bright enough to make it seem like morning. As we were walking and talking two boys who were playing on the corner started following us. Seeing them, another few boys started to follow, and then another few. My friend put his arm around one of them and whispered something in his ear. The boy then turned around and spread this little bit of juicy gossip, obviously about me, to the rest of the boys who then went from looking and following with mild curiosity to looking with wide eyes and amazement. They were too shy to talk to me straight away but in their whispering amongst themselves I swear the only thing I could understand was “Ricky Ponting…. Ricky Ponting … Ricky Ponting” repeated several times.
When we reached the house we wanted to visit, my friend and I stopped and our entourage stopped behind us. They looked disappointed. It was an anti climax. A large group of marching boys need to be marching for a purpose; a protest or a parade maybe. Their original purpose was gone, but I think there’s something innate within us that loves a good march, so they kept going, about twenty of them, now with a new leader, heading nowhere in particular, but loving the journey anyway.
My friend knew our hosts very well, in fact he also new just about every kid that we came across by name and also their family. Our hosts were the boy, his father, his sister and her friend. The boy, lets call him Ralph, also had another sister and a mother, and all five of them slept and lived and cooked and ate in a house that was about 4m X 4m. I told them that although in my country we all have much bigger houses and cars and T.V.’s I literally don’t know the names of all my neighbors, and unless we need to build a new fence or cut down a tree, we never talk. I told them that I envied the kind of community that they had, and that they were actually rich, because they had all these things that no amount of money could buy.
I visited a boy’s family yesterday. On the way there, my volunteer friend and I started walking down a very narrow street. It was paved with bricks an on one side was a sewer drain that carried out all the waste from each house. Each house shared at least two of its walls with another and was connected to the street by a small bridge over the sewer. Although there were no street lamps the houses all had electricity and the light from each house was bright enough to make it seem like morning. As we were walking and talking two boys who were playing on the corner started following us. Seeing them, another few boys started to follow, and then another few. My friend put his arm around one of them and whispered something in his ear. The boy then turned around and spread this little bit of juicy gossip, obviously about me, to the rest of the boys who then went from looking and following with mild curiosity to looking with wide eyes and amazement. They were too shy to talk to me straight away but in their whispering amongst themselves I swear the only thing I could understand was “Ricky Ponting…. Ricky Ponting … Ricky Ponting” repeated several times.
When we reached the house we wanted to visit, my friend and I stopped and our entourage stopped behind us. They looked disappointed. It was an anti climax. A large group of marching boys need to be marching for a purpose; a protest or a parade maybe. Their original purpose was gone, but I think there’s something innate within us that loves a good march, so they kept going, about twenty of them, now with a new leader, heading nowhere in particular, but loving the journey anyway.
My friend knew our hosts very well, in fact he also new just about every kid that we came across by name and also their family. Our hosts were the boy, his father, his sister and her friend. The boy, lets call him Ralph, also had another sister and a mother, and all five of them slept and lived and cooked and ate in a house that was about 4m X 4m. I told them that although in my country we all have much bigger houses and cars and T.V.’s I literally don’t know the names of all my neighbors, and unless we need to build a new fence or cut down a tree, we never talk. I told them that I envied the kind of community that they had, and that they were actually rich, because they had all these things that no amount of money could buy.
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