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”.
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