Benign Customs Or Outrageous Violence

I was invited to the coming-of-age ceremony of a thirteen year old girl in the neighbourhood. These ceremonies have made me queasy while growing up. But as it is mostly obligatory in the village to show up at such social occasions, I decided to go. I didn’t know what exactly this occasion would entail since each community and caste has different customs.

This was an old ancestral house. The old-style houses are wall-to-wall, narrow and long with pitched and tiled roofs. The weavers’ lifestyle and machines have determined the layout of these houses. Each house has a sheltered sitting area facing the street. Behind the sitting area are rooms on either side of a corridor that opens into a courtyard. Beyond the courtyard are the kitchen and a large space for the looms. 

When I entered the house I noticed that this was a married-women-only party. After a short while, at the auspicious hour, the girl was asked to sit in the centre of the courtyard. There was a worried, nervous look on her face. Just as she was about to sit down a few women asked her to get rid of her clothes. The girl clearly didn’t like this and tried hard to negotiate her way out. She finally gave up and sat down unhappily in her underwear. She had thick, long hair that she used to cover her front.

A barrel containing warm water infused with jasmine flowers and turmeric was kept ready. The grandma of the girl dipped a mug into the barrel and poured it on her head and inaugurated the ceremony. Opinion was divided among the women if girls these days were as obedient as they once were. Some women obviously didn’t like the fact that she wasn’t in the nude. Slowly the rest of women started lining up to pour more water on her.

Suddenly a young lady, authoritative and aggressive, started undressing the girl further. She protested, crying and begging but to no avail. Her protestations were regarded mostly with much hilarity and the undressing took place without further ado. Now desperately trying to hide her modesty, the girl changed her position to a squat. As if to intensify the effect, another woman jumped into the scene and tied up the girl’s hair, exposing her further. The ritual bathing continued and they applied turmeric powder on her. By this time I had had enough and decided to step away into the kitchen to help out with serving food to the guests.

I asked a lady why the girl had to be naked. She said that that was how they had always done it. A few minutes later when I took a peek into the courtyard, the girl was all clad in a beautiful pink silk saree. Her relatives were helping her with gold jewellery. I served tea and snacks and left as soon as I could with a heavy heart.

-- Hema

Unacknowledged Privileges

It was a very hot afternoon (34 deg C) and it was not even Summer yet. One of our labourers’ daughter, Kausalya (20), was going to see an OBGYN doctor. She was expecting her second baby any day and a junior doctor had got her worried in the morning by saying that there was “too much water in the sac”. When I came to know about the absurdity of this remark, I decided to go with her to see the OBGYN.

The nearby Government Hospital was situated in a brand new building. The waiting room had over thirty people when we got there. There were two ceiling fans spinning at full speed. The moment I stepped into that area, I felt hotter than when I was outside. That was bizarre. I looked around to find four glass windows, spanning 5’, all tightly shut. I rushed there, struggled a bit (since they were not the usual kind) and opened all the windows. There was a sudden perceptible drop in the temperature inside and I noticed people turning their heads toward the windows. I just couldn’t believe that it didn’t occur to even one of those waiting women to open the windows earlier.

Later when I came home and shared this with Dev, he surprised me with his insight: “Hema! You are not acknowledging your privileges that have enabled you to open those windows.” That got me thinking. 

Going back to the waiting room:

As I was waiting, I couldn’t help but watch a young girl who seemed to be ready to deliver any minute. She certainly was very poor, malnourished and nervous about being there. I was getting curious to know more about her and so approached her:

I: “My name is Hema. What’s your name?”

She: “Kanniamma” (means ‘virgin lady’)

I: “How old are you?”

She: “15”

I: “You are very young! What’s your due date?”

She: “April 4^th”

I: “When did you get married?”

She: “Two days ago”

I: “Really? Just two days ago??”

She: “No! Two years ago”

I realized at this point that I had got her nervous. So to ease her into further conversation, I started telling her about myself – my age, my family, my kids, my natural childbirth experience etc. I could see that she was getting a wee bit comfortable talking to me. I decided to grab the opportunity and asked her, “Kanniamma! Can you ask the doctor how you can postpone having your second baby?”

Her perplexed look told me that there were so many things fundamentally wrong with my question. May be, babies were Godsend in her village! And even if they were not, how can SHE, an illiterate poor kid, pose a question to the DOCTOR!!

Most of the women waiting there for their second deliveries had a 12-18 month older toddler. During the half hour wait, I saw that these little toddlers were constantly getting yelled at, spanked and mistreated by the exhausted pregnant moms. So I didn’t want to give up. I wanted to try again and talk to Kanniamma about why she should not have another baby right away. I went very slow and kept it interactive. Once I thought that she had got it, I tried role play. I asked her to consider me as the doctor and requested her to ask me that question (about the second pregnancy). She just froze there and couldn’t say a word.

I didn’t have enough time to pursue this conversation because I had to accompany the girl I came with. I know that she would not have asked the doctor that important question and also that she is very likely to visit the same office soon for her second one.

-- Hema

Organized team work or just fun?

The recent cyclonic rains brought a lot of sand into local creeks from the surrounding hills. As soon as the rains stop, local people line up to “steal” this sand to use for their own construction purposes or sell it, illegally of course. Our landlord jumped into the fray and had a load of sand hauled last week, and got it piled up in front of the house. He had brought a sieve too. A day later his daughter L got interested in the sieve and started scooping the sand and sifting it, all on her own. She worked, with tremendous focus, for several hours.  Mind you this is heavy work.

She is 13, a rich village girl, who goes to an English medium private school.  Usually most of her time is spent at school or tuition classes. Thus I have never seen her “doing” anything in the last two years that we have been here.  

Thanks to the rains, the schools have been closed for a month now.  While L was at work, the other kids at first just hung around and then slowly started joining her one by one until all six were busy. They have been working together for a day now. As I was observing this from my upstairs balcony, these were the words that came to my mind – harmonious, productive, efficient, self-organizing, co-operative and seamless.

Their assembly-line operation had the following steps:

• Spread the wet sand on the road because dry sand can be sifted more efficiently. Make sure there is a constant supply of dry sand for pick up.
• Scoop the dried sand with a hoe and dump it into a receptacle
• Dump the contents of the receptacle onto the sieve. Maximize the sieving efficiency by constantly bringing the non-sieved portion to the top of the inclined sieve with a curved broken tile 
• Collect the sieved sand and dump into separate pile

I got to hear some snippets of their conversations:

•  “It will be difficult for them to work without us. We need to get back soon” (during their lunch break)
• “We can’t afford to take long breaks. We have a lot of work to do.”
• “It is 2 p.m. now. Can we stop at 6? What do you think?”
• “Hey, you take up my job now. I will do yours for some time”

They were working independently and also as a team, rotating their jobs, maximizing efficiency, minimizing wastage, planning the next stage, getting good exercise and most important of all having fun. 

Now to contrast this with what I have typically seen here, when the schools are in session:

School lasts for approximately 7 hours, mostly six days a week. Most of the kids have a one hour before-school tuition and one hour after-school tuition class. Evenings are devoted to homework and a bit of TV. Sometimes, on Sundays, the six kids in our street get together to play. Mostly their games would end abruptly, in an unpleasant manner. The reasons being  -- lying, bickering, cheating and hitting.  It was as if they needed more time and continuity to be able to even play amicably.

Had I not seen what happened today, I would have never believed that this set of kids could work together. If our society can offer children the luxury of time, won’t there be more opportunities for them to do meaningful work, participate in and contribute to what is happening around them?

-- Hema

Only In India (most probably)

I was on a bus to the nearby town of Sholingur. The bus was approaching a  busy T-junction. The road was wide enough to accommodate two buses going side by side, with just a few inches between them. Drivers here are quite adept at calculating their safe margin.

As we were getting closer to the T, our bus had to pass another one waiting on the other side. The observant driver spotted an arm jutting out from the other bus that would hinder his manoeuvres. This was the right arm of a young girl, probably in her mid-teens, who had fallen sleep during the bus ride.

My anxiety was growing as our bus was getting closer.  But the driver, maintaining a  “safe distance”, applied the brake, extended his arm out the window and casually tapped that protruding arm. That must have scared the girl out of her wits. She reflexively pulled her arm in letting our bus pass comfortably. Releasing the brake, our bus driver moved on as if this was nothing to write home about!

***

 

We were in Dev’s hometown Agra, visiting his relatives. Agra is a small town that is full of people and traffic jams. The ever-crowded bazaars have pedestrians, cycles, horse-drawn carts, manual- rickshaws, auto-rickshaws, flat-bed-rickshaws, small trucks and of course cars. Sometimes, one can find a herd of buffaloes too! 

Typically men in this town chew tobacco when they are not eating or sleeping. So, invariably they can be seen spitting out a red liquid every once in a while. I have always been nervous of the moment when someone would accidentally spit on me, since the probability of that happening seemed high.

On a busy market day, I was walking the bazaar street and was about to pass a person who had already initiated the process of spitting. It is easy guess that by the way their bodies bend a little forward, ready to launch with a full mouth. I had no way of stepping back or forward or sideways without getting spat on. There I was, facing my nightmare! I shrieked, “bhaiya! Stop!” The interrupted spitter was taken aback and he looked up. I grabbed the opportunity and quickly went ahead by just a few steps gesturing to him to wait till I go past him. With his mouth still full, he gestured to me saying that I can go. Once I was at a safe distance I saw him spat. I thanked him for having waited for me and asked him to look before he leaps the next time. His smile was priceless.

-- Hema