India Travels

McLeod Ganj 2006: First Post

This was written on March 7th  2006 and uploaded March 8th as I struggled to learn how to write in Word and then import to the weblog.  Below is what I wrote last night, then formatted over and over again [and again] until Rashid regretfully closed the Internet Shop, as flummoxed as I at the obstinacy of Typepad.  I guess I must write to the Typepad page, without thesaurus, work count and those other dandy options.  I have only one more hour to make this happen tonight - cause I'm off to see Brokeback Mountain at one of the many tiny cinemas.  I refuse to wonder how these movies reach here so quickly . . . but there is a full range of Oscar nominees and, I guess, Oscar winners.

So to last night:

This is my first weblog since arriving in India on December 29, 2005. 

I so appreciated the emails that asked where my cyber voice had gone.  In truth, I’ve been really busy since I got here and only now can write at leisure.  Over the next couple of weeks I hope to send some notes that go back and forth in time, recalling the highlights of the first two months, plus the fabulous time I had with my daughter Pam in Turkiye.

Of course ‘leisure time’ means I am in McLeod Ganj now, waiting for His Holiness the Dalai Lama to begin his teachings on March 14th.  This year he will speak for two and one-half hours each morning and the same in the afternoon – in 2004 he spoke for three hours each afternoon.  I’m pleased there will be more time, with a break for reflection.  I’ve purchased the two texts His Holiness plans to use, and am reading Shantideva’s The Bodhisattva’s Way of Life.  For those of you who may remember my impatience with The 100,000 Songs of Milarepa – it is no longer on the reading list.  One of the books is formidable – translated in the early 1900’s using Olde English. The one I am reading is in four line prose and I often wonder if I miss the point. 

To begin to build on my small understanding of Buddhist philosophy I signed up for an eight day course at the Tushita Meditation Centre, about a 20 minute walk into the hills above McLeod Ganj.  There are 58 persons enrolled - from Europe, North and South America, Japan, Israel, Australia and

Today at lunch I do believe I saw a nun named Pauline, from England, who was very kind to me over a breakfast two years ago. I was struggling with Milarepa and a host of other confusions; she gave me both clarity and hope that I would learn something in time.  Participants keep silence at Tushita except for discussion and question periods so I did not go up to her table, but I smiled for the rest of the lunch hour, and after lunch as I did my chores.  Everyone does ‘karma yoga’ after lunch – washing dishes, sweeping, picking up garbage, cleaning toilets and so on.  My job is cleaning windows and I smiled as I cleaned, just recalling that brief conversation and Pauline’s generous nature. All in all Tushita is quite the place and if you are interested there is a good website at www.tushita.info 

The teacher is Lama Namgyal, an Australian monk living in northern Goa for the past twenty years.  He is warm, clear, keenly aware of the varying levels of understanding in the room - and has a great sense of humour. He says he will cover the first eight chapters of Shantideva's prose writing, and I hope to be somewhat prepared for the teachings after his explanation of the text.

The day begins at 8:5 AM with a 5 minute guided meditation. To be washed, fed and in place by this time I am up at 6 bells. Feels like home.  After the meditation there is a tea break, then one and one-half hours of teaching until lunch.  The afternoon takes us to discussion groups - we will stay with these groups for the remaining 7 days.  The discussion group lasts and hour, followed by another half-hour break for tea.  When we reassemble in the Meditation Hall the Lama asks questions on the discussion group findings, and then general questions for the Lama take us to 5:00 PM . . .when we break again, just for 15 minutes.  At this point I can't face one more cup of tea, even with ginger and lime.  The day ends with another meditation and we are on the road back down a little after 6:00.  It is a full day that leaves little time for anything else.

 

The first discussion group is a challenge. . . Impatience overcomes me as two young men – one a journalist with an admitted 24 hours experience with Buddhism and another who has meditated for 20 years but never attended a course – take over the discussion question, and talk with one another.  The third man in the group, from Denmark, says not a word, nor do the three young women from Israel or the young woman from Austria.  Hard to break in at the best of times, but for these women English is their second or third language.  Connie from Quesnel is in my group and we exchange eyes of exasperation.  Eventually the teacher in me takes over and I begin to solicit the opinions of the others – not quite through my teeth.  Everywhere I am reminded of my need to practice more compassionately.

Question period is more of the same as five or so people - all but one of them male - speak their questions out into the air, vying for the Lama’s attention and response. I’m sitting at the back – on a chair – and I watch as one young woman after another raises, then eventually lowers her hand.  I have a flashback to the international human rights class I taught in Chennai last month, when ten men and one woman either cheered or felt oppressed by my focus on women, equality, discrimination, empowerment and so forth.  I do not have a quiet mind for the final meditation of the day.  As I write I wonder if this week will be the time I find new ways to deal with my equality-impatience?

Sleep overcomes me, although I have so much more to write.  I want to put up a note on International Women’s Day, but that will have to wait for tomorrow, the 8^th of March.  Good nigh for now, and do feel free to send me ideas on curbing impatience . . .

So that was yesterday.  Today I skipped out on the after-lunch discussion group and question period - to register and get my pass for the teachings at the Security Office, write some postcards and sit here, hoping for a published blog.  There is a walk around the Temple that people tell me offers some gorgeous scenery, so I am off.  My thoughts on Int'l Women's Day will go up in time.  I'm thinking about all of you as I sit here and write, and if I could  - I would transport you to this lovely place high in the Himalayas where people trek, camp, walk, browse, learn, eat, sleep and socialise.  I am so contented to be right here - it is a good moment.

Globalization and Goodbye

Here I sit, back in Canada. Amazing. It all happened so fast. Jet lag renders me alternately sleepy and sleepless for several days. I play with my boys early and late; hit the Internet with Shawn at 3:00 AM one morning, eat midnight snacks with Dan. These grown children are the lovely parts of returning home. Alone, my thoughts drift back to India, my plans for return. As I anticipated, culture shock is not an issue. Westernized Bangalore has me well prepared for Vancouver and Regina, except we have more oversized folks in Canada. A lot more.

My last three weeks in India I solidly connect with the social justice community. Workshops fill my weekends; I meet astonishing academics, community workers and NGO staff. Days and nights are hectic, jammed with more opportunities, more learning, more new thoughts to share. I’ll miss my writing; words traveling alone on the web, winging me emails from home.

Sitting at Dan’s lightening-fast computer, I think about my final post. What to write? If someone asked me to define India’s most pressing problem, I know I’d say vehicular traffic. Speed. Horns. Thoughtless, careless drivers. Accidents and death. Indeed, my life was never more at risk than when crossing a street.

But that was my problem, not India’s. In a partial list of poverty, corruption, lack of housing, patriarchy, unemployment and child labour, the topic of water stands out, previously neglected. It fits well with globalization, another topic I neglected. I offer this last note filled with a deep sense of humility and gratitude that you actually take time to read my stories. You helped me connect to home while I was away and I thank you.

One of my last visits in India is to my friend Paul, who supported me when I confronted the human rights abuses at Nineteen Twelve, so long ago. We talk about globalization. He says globalization promises prosperity to everyone, but delivers to a select few. In spite of its promises, it seems unable or unwilling to confront poverty and so exacerbates the inequality between the very rich and the achingly poor. In fact, he says, multi-nationals create poverty. In the case of Coke and Pepsi, the companies drain the bore wells, empty the rivers, siphon off all the groundwater, pollute the land with chemical contaminants, then shift their destructive forces a fresh new location. Farmers, agricultural workers, small business owners and their families must move on, the dispossessed, the displaced, the dislocated.

Protesters in Kerala, some who have stood against Coke in other locations for more than two years, had a recent victory. Early in 2004, after totally depleting the water supply at one site, Coke applied to tap into another water supply. Tribal people, agricultural workers and villagers banded together to stop them; human rights defenders from all over India traveled to assist with the agitation. Eventually the case went to the High Court, who ruled in favour of the tribal and village people. A defeat for Coca-Cola many hope will pave the way for the next defeat, and the next.

For this is a huge victory. Government policy makers and open-handed officials are easy prey for these multi-nationals, who wield awesome political influence and command unlimited resources. In the face of protestors who point to contaminated ground water and parched agricultural land, they lobby for less stringent government policies, increased profits, token taxes. In one case, when a panchayat or village government in Tamil Nadu threatened to cancel Coke's license, the company went to the High Court and ‘demonstrated’ that there was ‘no evidence of over-exploitation of groundwater reserves in the villages’. And won.

Chemical contaminants and effluent pose huge risks for people in villages, who may be poor but are far from stupid. They know the chemical waste pouring out of the Coke or Pepsi plant brings environmental degradation and disease. Villagers claim that wastes entering one canal from a Kerala plant killed two cows and almost two dozen sheep. The foul sludge from the plant spoiled the canal water for any human use.
On the street, not enough people in India seem worried about the impact of globalization. Indeed, many view multi-nationals as creators of employment, not exploiters of cheap labour. People share a certain fatalism, a sense that globalization is not really the answer to poverty, but what is the alternative? There is a vague sense that social security for the really poor will offset the losses faced by agricultural workers and tribal workers. This hope is bolstered by the new Congress government; promises to improve rice distribution, reduce loan interest, streamline access to education, provide 100 days of employment each year.

How about not destroying the employment options currently available, I wonder? And repeat a couple of stories I’ve heard. Near Chennai, in Tamil Nadu, there is a river called the Palar. Palar means ‘milk’, the River of Milk. Nourishing. Natural. A Pepsi plant set up beside the Palar River, drained it, then sucked out all the groundwater. Pepsi destroyed the ecosystem and the agricultural base. No wonder, it gobbled 2 million litres of water every day. But it employed 300 people.

And sent thousands upon thousands of agricultural workers and their families to the slums in Chennai, clutching their meager possessions, leaving behind homes and one-time work. Pepsi, of course, denies responsibility for their pain and loss. And, these companies are supported by many local authorities, who still argue for the job creation possibilities of Coke and Pepsi.

Here is another story, this time from my travels in Kerala. Five years ago a Coke plant set up and drew 1.5 million liters of water everyday, using dozens of bore wells. Bore wells use electricity to pull the water out - imagine the electrical needs of a Coke or Pepsi plant. So the village, and thousands like it across India, suffers prolonged blackouts when people cannot draw water for irrigation or household use. The lights stay on at the plant, of course. Drawing 1.5 million litres of water every day parched the lands of more than 2000 people who lived within two kilometers of the factory. They no longer farm.

On my Backwater Tour, I heard of another village that regularly produced more than fifty bags of rice and around 1,500 coconuts a year. Dozens of agricultural workers were employed. Then Coke came in and set up a bottling plant. Now the harvest yields almost five sacks of rice and about 200 coconuts. Irrigation wells have run dry. Dried up farms have closed. The estimated number of unemployed agricultural workers in the area is ten thousand people.

And the macabre turn in this tale? The plant bottles mineral water for tourists and foreigners. The local people certainly can’t afford Rs.12 for a bottle of mineral water, and under normal circumstances they wouldn’t need bottled water. Now, it would be useful. With all the water gone from the wells, women walk as far as ten kilometers a day - every day – sometimes twice a day – for drinking and household water. Water is women’s work. The men lost their jobs, families lost their water and everyone lost their way of life. But somewhere there’s another plant setting up, promising jobs, denying responsibility.

Not surprisingly, it’s been brought to my attention that the last few posts are a bit bleak. Indeed, this is true. It doesn’t mean I was having less fun in India, it only means I was learning more. I can find no superlatives adequate to describe my travels, friends, experiences, insights, and those great jazz gigs in India. Recently, I was asked to sing with a band. Wisely, I declined. My life during the last six months was filled with opportunity, and I look forward to picking up those threads of possibility when I return to travel the northern states of India. Maybe you'll journey with me? Jane

Burning Brides

Vimochana: A Women's Forum is one of the dynamite agencies I was privileged to volunteer with during my time in Bangalore. Below is a brochure I did up for their fundraising campaign in the work against violence, with information and some sad humour. The humour would be almost funny if it was not such a faithful representation of what husbands and in-law families do say to explain away the deaths of young brides.

Burning Brides - Expendable Women
Dowry deaths and other violence against women.

Every month, in Bangalore alone, 100 young married women die violent deaths. Are their deaths accidents, outright murder, abetted suicide, desperate suicide to escape intolerable harassment by a husband or his family? The suicide-murder lines blur in deadly violence against women.

More than 70% of these young women die by burning. The police register 40% of their deaths as suicide, another 45% as cooking accidents or stove bursts. Is it possible that there are so many despondent, accident-prone brides in Bangalore?

What the husbands say:

• The stove burst, what a shame – her saree was aflame.
• Her stomach was panging – she cured it by hanging.
• Reaching for sugar – she fell into the cooker.
• Hanging clothes on the top – she fell . . . a long drop.
• She tripped and fell – and drowned in the well.

What the police say:

All too often the police accept these “reasons” offered by husbands and their family members. Unnatural deaths are recorded as natural, or casually cast aside as accidental. Patriarchal, woman-blaming attitudes, that bestow low worth on a woman during her life, further denigrate her burned, mutilated body in death.

What hospital staff on the Burn Unit say:

• 1 in 4 women admitted has deep burns on 80 to 100% of her body.
• 3 out of every 4 women admitted to the Burn Unit will die.
• Burning is the routine method of murder in dowry deaths and other acts of violence; it serves to
destroy signs of earlier brutality.
• 3 women in 4 are under 29 years.
• Dying statements are difficult to obtain, so perpetrators routinely escape punishment. Husbands
go free, to collect an added dowry as they arrange yet another marriage. How can this happen?
Easily.
• Riding with the burned woman to the hospital, the husband or in-law family tutors her - they
construct her story, convince her she will recover, promise that her husband or in-law is sorry
and will change.
• Or the in-law family may tell her that no one will believe that he, his mother, sister or brother
burned her, so she better lie, or be charged with attempted suicide later.
• Some women stick to that first story, and die refusing to talk to the police. They pretend to
hospital staff as well; why make trouble if they must return home?
• Others get support from mothers, sisters, aunties; they talk to medical staff and social workers,
and decide to expose the violence.

What the burned women say:

Most burned women are discharged dead. In hospital, frightened and alone, some repeat the tutored story provided by their in-law family until they die. Others make a Dying Declaration to the police. This account tells of one woman who broke the silence:

A rural homemaker is admitted to the Burn Unit at 11:30 PM on a weekday. She is 18 years old, 4 months pregnant, and burns cover 90% of her young body. Medical staff gently remove her clothes, treat her wounds and place her on a bed, naked, under a tented sheet.

The next morning staff encourage her to talk about her burns. She tells them her husband often talks tenderly to a divorced woman in her village. When he came home late last night, she felt sad and poured kerosene on her body.

On the second day this dying woman decides to speak her truth to the unit social worker. Her husband is a farmer. Yes, he came home late; he was out drinking. On the day he burned her, he sent her to her family for more dowry money. This time it was Rs. 2000 to buy potato seeds. Dutifully she went. Dutifully they paid.

When he came home that night, late and reeking of alcohol, she asked him if he intended to sow potatoes or just drink away the Rs. 2000? Enraged that she would question him, he poured kerosene over her and set her on fire.

With support from the Burn Unit social worker, this young woman gave a Dying Declaration to the Police. The social worker will follow up, ensure that charges are filed, stand by the dead woman’s family in Court. This fulfills one mission of Vimochana; to expose the medical-legal aspects of dowry violence, burning brides.

What the women of Vimochana say:

You do not have to die.
Your life is precious.
If you need help, reach out to a friend, a neighbour,
a relative, an organization that can help.

Vimochana, one of the oldest NGO’s in Bangalore, Southern India, opened in 1979. It speaks for the rights and empowerment of women and recognizes that, in its praxis, this voice for women’s empowerment is as essential for men as it is for women.

They listen to women speak of their pain and their trauma. Listening often leads to registering complaints at police stations, as in the cases of dowry deaths, harassments, sexual violence, wife beatings … and then following up the complaints in the Courts.

They campaign and engage in public protests to bring about changes in social structures such as the law, media, religions, the family and the community, to make them more responsive to women’s realities.

They facilitate discussions on the complex nature of gender issues, provide safe spaces for women who are victims of violence, run the first feminist bookplace in India, and work closely with the Asian Women’s Human Rights Council. Vimochana began the Women in Black movement to speak out against communal violence in India and all forms of violence against women. Twenty years ago, to assist battered women become economically independent, and to contest gender stereotypes, they initiated a programme to train young girls and women in motorbike auto mechanics.

In 1997 they began the Campaign to Safeguard a Woman’s Right to Live. Investigation lead to their effective work on the Burn Unit, in public education, and their interventions to defend the safety of women in law, order and justice.

Vimochana
Forum for Women’s Rights

God's Role

A guide in Kerala tells me that four factors account for the high rate of violence against women in his state: God, alcoholism, the lottery and the nuclear family. It’s easy to fill in the blanks on three: after one day in Kerala I know that when I see twenty or more men gathered on a sidewalk, they are inevitably in front of a liquor store or a gaming shop. I am astonished at their visibility; alcohol and gaming must be more socially acceptable here than in any other state I’ve visited. The guide doesn’t have to tell me that both correlate highly with violence against women. And the third factor, the nuclear family, generates hidden violence inside those four walls everywhere in the world, be they brick, straw, wood, tarp or concrete. But what about God’s role? I neglect to ask, and get my answer when I least expect it . . .

I meet with Santosh Voz, executive director of the Janodaya Public Trust, an NGO she launched in 1987. India’s Elizabeth Fry, Santosh is famous for her outstanding work in the complex arena of women and justice – even more complex in patriarchal, male-dominant India. Janodaya offers a Women’s Helpline; a short-term Women’s Shelter for women experiencing dowry harassment; a long-term Women’s Hostel for battered women and their children; training programs in herbal beauty, city taxi driving, tailoring and child care for women who must leave their marriages; an on-call legal aid lawyer; a needle exchange; a HIV/AIDS intervention program; the only counseling program in the State for women in prison, and a residential school for these prisoners’ children. Oh yes, and a social worker on a motorbike who does rural outreach to fifty villages, five days a week. All services are free and government money only augments continuous fundraising.

Santosh is a supercharged dynamo, unequivocal and decisive with her staff, credible and convincing in her rapid-fire speech, totally focused on the work. I listen closely, ask few questions, write quickly. She wants to take another crack at a radical new program – would I like to hear? You bet. And so I learn about God’s role.

Santosh tells me about girl children who are forced into prostitution immediately following their first menses. These babies belong to a specific Hindu sect, the Devidasis, whose members live together in closed communities. There are no fathers in these communities, only lone-parent mothers. Most of the women support themselves and their families through the sex trade. In the course of their work they may give birth to eight or more children. Unlike many other mothers in India, they are not plagued by worry about finding a husband, amassing dowry or covering wedding expenses for their daughters. These girl children will be dedicated to the temple.

A daughter’s entry into puberty is a huge public affair; the entire village turns out to celebrate her first menses. How horrible that must that be for a young girl. The girl-child, dressed in wedding finery, is taken to the temple for her ‘marriage’ celebration, complete with flower garland and wedding ceremony. But instead of a husband, she gains a priest; instead of the black beads that would be tied around her neck by her husband, silver tinkles are tied around her ankles by temple workers. And so she is ‘married’. Dedicated to the temple.

News of her impending ‘marriage’ travels, and men external to the community come from all over the area to watch the celebrations, and later bid for her virginity. She is sold for sex to the highest bidder. The money goes to her mother, who makes a temple donation. During the time the girl-child is still ‘fresh’ other men come to pay and use her; more money for the mother, more temple donations. When she is no longer an almost-virginal child, other men come – businessmen from Hyderabad, from Mumbai, from the large cities of India; she is purchased once more and leaves her home forever. To a life of forced prostitution.

Aghast, I blurt out, ‘Why do the mothers allow this practice?’ Because it is sanctioned and sanctified by temple priests. It is culturally and religiously ingrained in a small portion of the Hindu population.

How, I wonder, can the wives sit mute at home while their husbands engage in such brutality and exploitation of girl children? There are various reasons, all equally awful. First, only the very rich can participate in the purchase of these girl children. Such evidence of wealth actually raises the status of the man and his family within their caste. And speaking of status, a man must be an especially virile husband if one sexual partner is not enough, yes? Second, the men are not marrying these children, so there is no fear of those nasty court proceedings brought on by a love match, no spectre of near-poverty post divorce. And as far as a mother’s fear goes, it’s not their girl-children being used so cruelly, now is it?

Santosh moves on to tell me her plan: She will approach mothers in the Devidasis communities close to Bangalore, discuss education for their girl children, and offer high-quality schooling. She will obtain permission to bring 5 girl-children, 8 years and above, out of each of the10 closed communities. Teachers will educate all 50 girl children in a Bangalore residential school, and eventually send informed young women back to live with their families. Empowered through the regular curriculum and a critical analysis of the practice of temple dedication, these young women will become catalysts for change in the community. As well, the children will act as agents of transformation for their mothers each time they go home for visits. Santosh tells me this transformational change happens all the time when prisoners’ kids are taken to the jails to visit their mothers.

At the same time community workers already established in these villages, assisting with self-help groups, micro economic financing, health care education and various employment training programs, will gradually begin to sensitize the community to the evils of temple dedication.

And, in the end, parents will refuse to dedicate their girl children. They will refuse to perpetuate the existing social norms. Other parents in other communities will hear and begin to question the practice. Eventually temple dedication will be a historical fact, not a current evil.

What will be the roadblocks, I wonder? Santosh tells me about her first attempt to end the dedication of girl children. She decided to work directly in several adjacent villages. First, she went to the police, requested a Police Outpost. Nonsense, they replied, why should the police provide an Outpost just for Janodaya? She persevered, and without police protection she and other Janodaya workers went into the villages, directly contesting temple dedications. Their lives were threatened; they were told to vanish or risk kidnapping, physical attacks, death by shooting. Santosh went back to the police - they refused to act. This happens in all too many cases: child prostitution, dowry harassment, other forms of violence against women, suspicious deaths – homicide disguised as suicide. Feminism has yet to make a stand in India’s police precincts. Naturally Santosh withdrew the workers, but she didn’t stop planning, and now she is ready to intervene again. I am so incredibly impressed with this woman.

As I walk away from the office, I wonder if any of my Canadian friends would want to help with this innovative social justice project? Santosh told me she has no specific money to move her plan forward, but knows she will manage one way or another. I realize I’m stunned by the enormity of the problem, the intransigence of the police, the risks involved for staff. Maybe I’m just overwhelmed, thinking with my heart. Or maybe not. In any event . . .

If you want to support a brand new intervention in India; if you want help in the eventual end of a centuries-old practice; if you want to direct some money to a process that will create a safe space for some girl-children headed for temple dedication, this is Janodaya’s email address: janodaya@bgl.vsnl.net.in

I didn’t tell Santosh that I might make this website pitch. I didn’t tell her, of course, because I don’t want to raise any expectations, nor do I want to put my friends on the spot. And since you would email her directly, I’ll never know if you decided to help. Or decided you couldn’t right now. But if you do email her for information on how to transfer money to the Janodaya Trust a/c in India, Santosh will want some context, so maybe mention this story.

Just know that a bit of money goes on forever over here. For example, Rs. 2800 dresses two little girls in school uniforms with one full change of clothes, buys all their books, and sends them to the government school for one year. Rs. 2800 is $70 Canadian when the rupee is low; $80 when it is high.

That’s it. I promise I’ll never pitch you again; this one hit me hard.

Political Renunciation

In the end Sonia graciously, gracefully declines, but not before the President invites her to don the mantle of India’s Prime Minister. You can’t renounce what you don’t have, now can you? She resigns with tact, and dignity, and clarity of purpose. She speaks only of her ‘inner voice’, makes no allusion to the vicious opposition forces arrayed against her. She does not renounce power, just the power that rests in the PM’s position. Instead she remains Party Chief of the Congress Party, becomes Chairperson of the party’s parliamentary wing, and, with a lightening quick change to the Congress’ constitution, she becomes Leader of the Congress in the Lok Sabha. This one carries the power to nominate the Prime Minister. In the days to come, she will take on leadership of the governing coalition, the United Progressive Alliance. Down the road she will achieve the status of a cabinet minister as Chairperson of the National Advisory Council.

On the day the ballots are counted I stay home, glued to the Hindi TV news. I read the numbers, catch the odd English word. It’s been quite a four-phase process, with about 165 million people eligible to vote in each of the four rounds; a total of 660 million eligible voters. Average turnout seems to be about 55%. In poorer states like Bihar people boycot the polls, and turnout is as low as 24%. Early results show surprising strength for the Congress, and unexpected losses for the BJP, the right-wing party that governed India for the past eight years. Voter dissatisfaction in the rural areas is immediately evident. The urban economic focus of the BJP appears to be their undoing. Pundits postulate about the anti-incumbency factor. I grin.

That night I realise I have only one paper, and hit the streets in search of other editorial opinions. There are no papers to be had, but a young man hearing my request takes me to his house. I wait outside as he runs in, emerging with a freshly creased Times of India, the paper of the right. I suggest his dad might want to read it; he assures me dad is away. He eagerly shows me a message on his cellphone. It decrys the Congress win and ends, “Now we will be ruled by another foreigner”. It takes me a minute to put it together: the message refers to the Raj. I ask this young man to tell me more about the fears regarding a Congress win. He replies, “They like the Muslims”. No kidding, those are his very words. Taking in the caste mark on his forehead, I suggest there is not much for Hindus to worry about. After all, I remind him, Hindus make up 75% of India’s population, while Muslims account for only 12%. His eyes register that this is new information, probably untrue. Our brief conversation is over. I walk home reflecting on the immense power of Hindutva. Militant Hinduism. “Cultural nationalism”, as it was softly peddled by the BJP in the dying days of the election.

Top of the news the next morning is the suicide of a 26-year-old man, whose note repeats that inaccurate cellphone message, “Now we will be ruled by another foreigner”. The voices of the right, in the home where I live, point to this news item as living proof of the Congress horror. I share my impressions on reading the cellphone message last night. I cannot speculate on why the young man choose to kill himself, but Sonia seems too convenient.

The post-results day brings new excitement. The BJP is out in force, flogging the foreign origin issue. Uma Bharati, Chief Minister of Madhya Pradesh, [synonomous with the Premier of a Canadian province], hands in her resignation and energetically plans to lead a nation-wide “agitation” against Italian-born Sonia, whose impending role as PM is “an insult to the country and a threat to national security”. A senior BJP leader, Sushma Swaraj, threatens to tonsure her head, sleep on the ground, eat only roasted grams [lentils] and wear white sarees. This last refers the traditional Hindu practice of sati, where a widow would don a white saree before immolating herself on her husband's funeral pyre.

And in the midst of the furor and the frenzy, Sonia declines. With such quiet elegance. Not so her adherents. Congress party women activists stage a demonstration; they don white sarees and lay in the street to in front of Sonia’s home. Rowdy young party workers protest at her home and her office. The police are out in force. Elected MP’s threaten to commit suicide. Yup. So do a few young men. The BJP calls her ‘fickle-minded’ for not taking the PM post. I laugh out loud. The National TV station runs three full hours, live, of Congress MP’s responding to Sonia’s decision, some weeping, all pleading with her to reconsider. You gotta love Indian politics, and I do.

The smoke settles and Sonia chooses Manmohan Singh, an enormously respected politician, brilliant economist, quiet pragmatist, experienced cabinet minister and highly principled man to be the Prime Minister of India. Great choice. There is not much for the BJP to complain about, so they remain quiet. The papers, reaching for copy, trumpet that a Muslim President just swore in the first-ever Sikh Prime Minister; who was chosen by an Italian immigrant. They mindlessly herald a new era of communal harmony.

This is pure silliness, of course. Communal harmony will move slowly through India with hard work at the community level, honest dialogue, tons of education, and the political will to create change. It will not be the result of a series of coincidences. At the same time, it is true that the spectre of Hindutva, or the militant wing of Hinduism, has lost a little of its power. A review of state-by-state election results shows where pockets of Muslims and Christians joined with secular Hindus to unseat the BJP. Great!

I’m surprised that the Congress party makes only occasional references to the role of communalism in securing their win. I’m a little sad when the first party-name choice for the Congress and allies coalition changes from the Secular Progressive Alliance to the United Progressive Alliance. I thought the ‘Secular’ part would help keep them focused. And honest. They choose instead to focus on the rural-urban split and economic reforms. This shows in the Common Minimum Program [CMP] agreed to by the Congress and its allies.

The CMP identifies three major problems in rural areas: under and unemployment, poor irrigation to cope with the drought, and chronic malnutrition. They talk about the importance of rebuilding the agricultural sector through interest relief on current debts, low cost loans and irrigation. They promise to tackle malnutrition with food-for-work strategies and food security strategies. They say every adult in India will have at least 100 working days each year, at a wage better than the bottom. They promise economic reforms to help small-scale industries, and a stop to the sell-off of public service units like power projects. It sounds like it might be a tax and spend budget, most especially in the area of education. A national program will provide primary and secondary students with noon-day meals, and there’s a promise of steps to reverse the communalism currently present in school curriculums. More children will enter school under the CMP, and there will be an effort to retrieve the school drop-outs.

These are not the only post-election changes. The news changes. One day I hear that 40,000 women in India died last year in maternity-related deaths. It appears that health care for pregnant women is abysmal. In the rural news I read that over the last twenty-four months 3,000 farmers killed themselves in Andhra Pradesh alone. They died burdened by farm debt loads they would never repay, facing another drought, another loan, and another year with political promises of irrigation that never bring water. I hear about current suicides in states affected by the drought - three, or five, or more, reported from one state or another every day. In early June the CM of Andhra Pradesh is at the top of the TV news; he begs farmers to stop committing suicide and seek out relief programs recently put in place.

Back at the ‘Centre’, in Delhi, it’s not just a matter of the Congress assuming power; they only hold 145 seats to the BJP’s 138. Their 217-seat Coalition, the UPA, comprises over a dozen left-linked parties they must work with, and appease, in order to govern. In Parliament, the BJP and allies will hold 185 seats, while a combine of ‘Others’ sit in 136 seats, all of whom are supporting one or the other of the main parties “from the outside”. I hold faint hope for a five-year government, but I hope deeply for at least two years.

Incidentally, of those 538 seats in the Lok Sabha, 44 are held by women. For several years there’s been a Women’s Reservation Bill lurching from session to session, never making it to the front of the house. This Bill would provide a Constitutional guarantee that each party would reserve 33% of its seats for female candidates during an election. In 2004 the Congress fielded 43 women out of a total of 417 candidates, or 10.3%; the BJP ran 30 women out of 363 candidates, for a total of 8.1%. Men see women as missing the ‘winnability’ factor, although when they run, an average of 33% of women candidates win. During the election I met almost a dozen women contesting as Independents; denied a party ticket. And I don’t even speak Kannada!

A friend recently observed that women enter politics through widowhood. Party leaders believe that women who walk in their dead husband’s footsteps will win - the ‘sympathy’ vote. This is yet another glaring problem with the patriarchy in India, whose depths I still have not begun to plumb. But the new government promises to make the Reservation Bill a reality early into their mandate. And I hope they deliver.

Before any laws can be passed, coalition politics must play themselves out. The process of forming the Congress Coalition took nearly a week, and was not without problems. As I watched highly placed men in Coalition parties vie for position, I marvelled at the naked power and ego issues as they played out in the press. And the justice issues. In the end seven members of cabinet, chosen from the various Coalition parties, were awarded minister’s posts although they are currently charge-sheeted. To be charge-sheeted is to have charges pending against one – some for allegations of murder, rape and kidnapping, others for fraud and racketeering, still others for unreported alleged crimes. To be fair, some of the charges date back more than six years, and have yet to come to trial. At the same time, it gives the BJP a huge cat o’ seven tails and they are using it to flay the government. In the news there is much rhetoric about how men in prison cannot vote, but the Constitution allows them to run their election campaigns from well-appointed cell blocks, and sit in Parliament, even cabinet, tho’ they are “tainted” by allegations of serious crimes. I am baffled by this tainted minister’s fiasco. How did it happen? Oh to be a fly on the wall . . .

In days that follow the election the Sensex, monitor of India’s stock exchange, falls through the floor. Actually, it falls way more than merely through the floor. The Times of India runs a graph over their banner on page 1; the bleeding red trail ends well into the text above the fold. Seriously graphic. Economic columnists write dire predictions, drafted in blood I’ll bet. Socialists respond that the Sexsex affects only 6.9 million people in this country of 1 billion souls. I take comfort in the fact that PM Singh is an economist. Interestingly, I also take comfort in the fact I am not. It’s great fun to sit on the sidelines and comment when one knows ‘a little bit about a lot of things, but . . .’

God's Own Country

National Geographic characterizes Kerala, the far south-western state of

India

, as God’s Own Country; one of the fifty places on earth you must see before you die. I heed this advice, and head for Kerala the last week of May. The monsoon always comes the first week of June, but it’s early this year. I buy an umbrella after two days of drenching. The rains stop.

As promised, Kerala has a remarkable natural beauty. Lush green plants mantle the earth below tall coconut and spreading mango trees, wide waterways curve off into tiny man-made canals, traditional canoes pole up and down the backwaters as two and three bedroom houseboats drift past in lazy promenade. I buy a ticket for the daylong backwater tour and spend my day on a houseboat with six Indian families. It’s the last week of the school break; everyone here is on holiday from some state or another. In the morning we load onto a houseboat, and flow gently past all that succulent lushness.

There is no privacy on these narrow waterways; we spy the intimate moments of peoples’ lives. Small concrete houses dot the shores, a few with bath stalls constructed on the riverbank. In front of other homes people do their laundry in the river. Women beat the clothes on stones; their babies sit naked by the river’s edge. The kids are fishing with a pole and string. My mind turns to drinking water, and I learn it is piped in from a water source 60 kilometres away.

We dock, and walk through the trees to a tiny market garden that specializes in spices. As we walk, our guide points out so many different trees: rubber, mango, jackfruit, coffee, cotton, neem oil, papaya, tapioca, clove, nutmeg and vellum. And a pineapple bush whose vines yield one fruit every six months. For absolute abundance in nature, this is indeed God’s country.

The trees that catch my attention are the coconut and rubber trees. Coconuts not only provide milk; the white centre offers a quick snack or grated pulp for chutney. I learn the centre may be dried for oil collection. I never thought much about where that coconut oil came from, but now I’m intrigued. The white membrane is pretty small; it will take a lot of dried coconut to fill a bottle. The fibre inside the shell is used for rug and rope making, the empty shell for handicrafts. A tourist demo shows how women used to weave rope from coconut fibre. There’s no longer a local hand-made market; worldwide competition decimated the prices. Now three women, working a solid eight-hour day, would earn Rs. 32. 10 cents.

The rubber tree business still operates. Like maple trees at sugaring-off, each rubber tree is tapped and a half-coconut wired in place under the spout. Five trees yield about 300 grams of raw rubber. Once collected, the rubber is rolled between two drums to flatten it, then rolled again to make a 1-kilogram sheet. These sheets are smoked, and finally sold, for Rs. 50. It takes more than 15 trees to make 1 kilogram of rubber at this small farm.

Back on the water we see men clustered around long, full-bellied black canoes; one in the boat, two or three in the water. The men use straw baskets to collect sand from the bottom of the shallow waterway, then dump it into the boat. The sand is sold for construction, but not before it is unloaded from the boats, washed to remove impurities, hauled to a central collection point and loaded onto lorries. Hard work.

Three to four

men, one boat, eight hours on the water, who knows how long for the rest of the work, yields Rs. 1000. About $30 Canadian.  The work is not only hard, it is illegal.  The government has outlawed the collection of river sand but the men continue; they must work to live.

Sharing the waterway are smaller canoes; in each one a farmer/fisherman poling home with a boat bottom filled with oysters. For those of you who love oysters, one kilo of shelled oyster meat nets the farmer Rs. 20.

As we drift along the river the guide points out the poisonous mangoa fruit, so named because it looks like a mango. Indeed, it is so poisonous the farmers use it for pesticide. The parents give him brief attention, then return to play with the children. Our guide sits beside me and quietly adds that mangoa is also used for suicides – 2000 every year in Kerala. The majority of the suicides are in the agricultural sector, precipitated by impossible debt loads, minimal returns on products, no industry, no jobs, and a pervasive hopelessness. Given what I’ve learned this morning, I understand the hopelessness.

But I am still shocked at the high number of deaths. Tiny Kerala boasts a population of only 32 million. In Andhra Pradesh, a much larger state, 3000 farmers are reported to have killed themselves over the past two years. The Andhra men were grain farmers, battling the drought, waiting for promised but undelivered irrigation projects, and in the end, labouring under the same crushing debt load as the farmers and fishermen in Kerala. Drinking pesticide is also the suicide method of choice in Andhra.

We return to the dock, tables spring up, and lunch is served. It is a great lunch, replete with platters of smoked fish. For once I don’t have to confess to hating fish, I just say I’m vegetarian. The table is about even, vegetarian and non- vegetarian; I happily eat my three rices with dal [lentils], Indian breads, carrots, cabbage, sweets – and no one even offers me a spoon. Perhaps my finger dexterity is finally such that I’ve ‘made it’ at the lunch table?

After lunch we split into two groups of ten, and with varying degrees of grace we board long canoes. My grace consists of holding hard to the two hands held up to guide me; the canoe rocks noticeably. Two men, fore and aft, pole us through the tiny man-made channels. As I watch their bare feet move skillfully back and forth on the edge of the boat, their weight bent over the poles, I think of Mahatma Gandhi, who refused to use the cycle rickshaws. His rationale: no man should pull another man’s weight. I am vaguely uncomfortable with this portion of the trip.

We turn into a very narrow channel that leads to more houses buried inside the almost-jungle. Under the steaming greenery, I see huge piles of washed sand, women shelling oysters, canoes tied up at docks, the odd motor boat, and a two-foot glimpse of a water snake – the first snake I’ve nearly seen in India. This afternoon we have a different guide. One benefit of travelling alone is the empty seat that often gapes beside the single traveler. Such is the case today, and the guide joins me. He tells me he was a tutor at the government school for seven years, but when it was privatized his job was one of the ones that went. Questions begin to dance in my head, as they always do when I find a vocal English speaker.

Recalling my recent weblog notes I ask about the social situation in Kerala. Yes, he says, there is dowry, there are dowry deaths, and female foeticide is growing. These are evils of the middle class, according to the guide. He looks at me keenly and adds, “Also, safety of women”. This is a first in all my conversations in

India

. I tell him I’ve heard that violence against women is on the rise in Kerala and I wonder why? He attributes the violence to four factors: God, the lottery, alcoholism, the nuclear family. Foolishly, I don’t ask him elaborate on the God factor. I will have to learn about it another day.

He moves on to the major problems arising from globalization, and its logical outcomes, capitalism, consumerism, and the commodification of women. He points out that mechanization created more poor people in

India

, with terrible job losses affecting both the middle class and the working poor. I think of a workshop I attended in Mandya where I heard such negative comments on the Green Revolution.

I ask about communalism; he calls Kerala a state of high communal harmony. I see the teacher as he raises three fingers and describes those factors that account for harmony among the Hindus and the minority Muslims. He counts the points off. First, in 1968 four million people were granted land by the state government, so today there are few landless people in Kerala. He elaborates: this means anyone who starts problems has something to lose – a house, possessions, a lawsuit – so people tend to seek compromise instead of conflict. Second, Kerala has a 100% literacy rate. Education strengthens cultural knowledge and leads to communal acceptance. Finally, Kerala has a communist government. He does not expand on the role of the communists, but I take it to mean the Communist Party of India [CPI], and its splinter sister, the Communist Party [Marxist], are parties for all the people, including the minorities. I’m becoming quite fond of the communists.

The state is fond of them as well. I travel Kerala by government bus, as opposed to the more expensive, point-to-point tourist bus. We stop in every village and hamlet, and I learn to eagerly watch for the CPI cairn. Sometimes it is just a three-foot square concrete block with a raised hammer and sickle, supporting a flag or two. Sometimes it is an actual cairn, four feet high, painted red, perhaps rounded, topped by a metal hammer and sickle, with flags flying above. Squished by a window on the government bus it becomes a game to find the town that forgot to raise the flag, but this doesn’t happen.

My favourite town is Alleppy, where young Shameer approaches me as I leave the bus. “Where are you going?” he demands. “I thought I’d go to the toilet,” I respond with a smile, “is that okay?” In the distant past I held hope for privacy in this matter of toilets. This hope is long gone. Shameer smiles and steps aside, but he’s there when I emerge, still wanting to know where I am going. I tell him I have a hotel booked, he shows me a B and B brochure. It looks good, but I have a place. Could he help me find out how to get there?

Three inquiries later, as the sun begins to set, we learn my hotel is some 20 km. outside of town. I just can’t believe the travel agent booked me into the back of the back of beyond. It’s true, though. Shameer offers to take me there on his bike, and I, tired and lost, agree. As we start out, the skies open and the monsoon pours down. We head for the bus stand and I plug his cell number into my cell phone book. Handy things, cells. Once on the bus, as rain slashes through the open doorways, my fellow riders argue with one another as to the right stop for my well-hidden resort. They finally settle on one and in unison tell me to get down.

Luck is with me, there’s an autorickshaw to take me the last mile or so. I arrive at the appointed resort soaking wet, too alone and really, really cold. Visions of murder dance in my head, and I call the travel agent as soon as I get to my room. He is so sorry, but I am booked for two nights and that is that. I have a lovely hot shower.

The next morning I ascertain I am the only person staying at this attractive, remote resort. Four young men in and around the dining room hold their collective breath, smiling and hoping I will have a request they can fulfill. I resolve to pay for the two nights and check out right after breakfast.  I call Shameer to book a room at the B and B. This turns out to be a really good decision.

I get off the return bus to find a grinning Shameer standing beside his bike. It is not raining. He takes me to The Nest; I meet the couple who converted the family home into a three room B and B. I love my room, especially the huge circular mosquito net that hangs over the queen sized bed. In Kerala I’m using my Deet for the first time on my

India

travels. I spray on more and head downstairs. I hire Shameer to toddle me around Alleppy for a day on his bike.

I see the coir factory where coconut fibre is turned into rope and thick mats. We bike slowly through the rest of the industrial centre, then go to the beach where we see lines of houseboats tarped and moored until the season starts again next July.  We peruse churches, mosques and temples and walk through the town centre where I see more gold shops in one block than exist in many medium-sized towns.

We have coffee at the Indian Coffee House, a co-operative institution found all over southern

India

. I talk with the patrons and learn that while there’s a lot of poverty and little employment in most of Kerala, Alleppy is the exception. Many men work in the Gulf and send substantial sums home. As well, there is some industry here, and the houseboat/tourist business provides an income for others.

I go to the gold shop that Shameer says just opened, and congratulate the people inside. A man sitting at the counter asks the usual: where am I from and what do I do there? I hedge on the doing part, but finally admit I teach in a university. ‘Oh,’ he says, ‘you must make a lot of money.’ ‘Tons, sir,’ I agree, ‘they bring it to my office in wheelbarrows every month.’ He lifts his eyebrows, I point to my faded salwaar kameez with the tiny tears in the chiffon scarf. ‘Do I look rich?’ ‘No,’ he allows, ‘you look ordinary.’ And I laugh and agree, ‘It’s true, sir, I’m just a tea stall girl.’ And as I say it, I realise it is true. I’ve done some of my best learning not in the gold shops, but in the tea shops of

India

, with ‘ordinary people’ who are always willing to talk with me. I think that’s why I’ve had such a terrific tour.

I like Alleppy so much I stay for another day. In retrospect, I could have skipped the two last stops, and spent the rest of my time here. Thirvandrapuram, capital of Kerala, is a city too large to find the back roads in a single day. And I could certainly skip Kanyakumari, Lands End in Tamil Nadu, where the

Arabian Sea

, the

Indian Ocean

and the

Bay of Bengal

meet. This small, one-street town makes me feel so sad. Tiny shops, many constructed with blue tarps, sell a bewildering array of the same thing – seashells, cheap bangles, plastic beads, ‘gold’ chains, seashell ornaments. Young hawkers on the street sell the same. Outside of the hotels, there is not one mid-size place to eat. I’m still trying to understand why this little town is so impoverished. Thousands of tourists come to Kanyakumari, see the sunrise and sunset, visit the well-organized memorials, stay in the hotels and buy touristy gee-gaws. And yet the poverty is awful. So there goes another myth of mine; tourists are not always the money-makers I like to think we are.

I leave Kanyakumari by mid-morning, on a government bus. The train left at

4:45 AM

, and this is a holiday, yes? I pay less than $2.50 for my seat and ask hopefully, “Two hours?” The ticket taker shakes his head. “Five hours”. Five hours? Why did I not think to ask before I skipped the early morning train??

We finally pull into Maduri and I hire an autorickshaw to show me the sights for an hour. I see the largest Hindu temple in

India

, with four entrances each topped by a huge temple that soars into the air. The guide points out a fifth, tiny entrance. I see a park with food and fairground rides and families, and decide I will go back after my tour. I see the Museum and, beside it, the Gandhi Memorial. This is the finest historical and pictorial retrospection of the Mahatma’s life, and death, that I have yet to see. I spend half of my auto hour just reading and looking at pictures. A glass case displays the khadi dhoti that Gandhi wore the day he was shot. It is impossible to walk though one of these shrines and not emerge vowing to be a better person. What a legacy this amazing man left to the world.

Four hours after arriving in Maduri I’m back on one more government bus, winding my way to a wedding at Coimbature. It’s going to take another five hours, driving through the dark, and as I scan the rows for a seat I begin to wonder why on earth I accepted the wedding invitation. I find a three-across seat occupied by one young man. Great, he’s sitting by the window. I nab the aisle seat and gingerly stretch out my slightly cold legs.

Just as the bus is powering up an absurdly tiny, incredibly old and snowy haired lady, wearing a nine-yard saree with no blouse underneath, springs onto the bus. I have no time to wonder how she managed that feat, as she is at my elbow, motioning me to move over. I think of five hours in the cold and dark, my long legs wedged over the wheel well. I motion to it, and mime that I am long, where she is short, so she could more easily sit in the middle. She points out the inescapable problem: she’ll be sitting by the Man at the window. Too true. Together we peer at him, as the bus grinds into reverse. I mime that he is young, just a harmless baby, really, and look – he’s already asleep. She acquiesces with good grace, clambers over me, and settles firmly on my hip. No risk of physical contact with the

Man.

The hip sitting continues until she falls asleep on my elbow, then slides away.

I become colder and colder. When I nabbed this seat I neglected to take note of the open door just across from my chosen space. I remind myself I’ve neglected other important considerations on this trip.  Petrol fumes billow into my lungs, swept into the bus on the now-frigid air. I will cough for days to clear my chest. Eventually I must get my jacket out of the backpack under my seat. Careful as I am, I cannot avoid waking the little old lady sleeping on me.

She assesses the situation at a glance - me pulling on my coat, the deep coughing, the cold pinched look on my face. So very sweet, she pats her shoulder in warm invitation. And I’d dearly love to cuddle up on that kind shoulder, but its some 10 inches below my head. We share a small laugh, and she scuttles over until the length of her tiny body is pressed against mine. Immediately I feel warmer. We sleep. When I awake we are almost to Coimbature, and my seatmate is engaged in animated conversation with the young man to her right. I smile but keep my eyes closed; wouldn’t want to catch her talking to the

Man.

Female Foeticide

One day last week I head out of station to Mandya, a small town close to Bangalore. In a van with six women from Vimochana, my favorite NGO, I bounce along the two-lane highway, wincing as the van flies around slower vehicles and oncoming traffic rushes towards us. We leave at 7:30 in the morning, intent on arriving at Mandya by 9:30. This is Dona’s show and they want to set up the hall.

Last week Dona invited me to this day-long meeting on female foeticide. In the van they give me the stats: in the 2001 census there were, across India, 899 girl children aged 0 - 6 for every 1000 boys. The rate of female foeticide is increasing and India will soon approach the current crisis China. It falls to the NGO’s to intervene, so today Vimochana is hosting an information session for area community workers and those physicians who may attend. They chose Mandya because it has the highest rate of female foeticide in the state of Karnataka. Higher than Bangalore or any of the large cities.

Ummm, I speculate, Mandya is a poorer area? I base this on a few things I’ve learned: girls are considered to be an economic burden while boys ‘carry on the family name’. Sure, we hear some of this in Canada. The difference in India is the economic burden only ends with marriage. Remember ’way back when I wrote that a girl’s upbringing is specifically geared to her traditional roles of wife and mother? The majority of women in India wed in arranged marriages. It is the norm for them to surrender their marriage decisions to their fathers and their brothers. They may be physicians or MBA’s, sisters in Fatehpur Sirki, daughters of well-to-do agricultural families. Such is the nature of the patriarchy these women seem to accept.

In the process of getting married, the girl child creates a huge economic burden for her family. Marriage is expensive; the meter starts to run when the bride’s family pays dowry to the groom’s family. Maybe the bride’s father can’t make up the entire payment. He begs for six months or a year to pay in full. If the specified time comes and he still doesn’t have the cash, dowry harassment may begin. The women tell me cash is not the only problem; rural and village women are also expected to bring property.

Perhaps the illegal dowry payment is manageable; I know mothers who begin to save the moment a girl child is born. Maybe there is no property involved. But now the bride’s family must raise the rupees for every single detail of the wedding. Details range from renting the marriage hall, providing a full dinner at the reception, breakfast the next morning when the couple weds, even the expensive suit and other necessities worn by the groom. And I don’t know the half. Perhaps 500 will attend the wedding, while 1,000 hungry folk show up for the reception. I was at a wedding reception last night where over a 1,000 sat down to eat, in shifts, to the music of a live band. Parents may cash in their pensions and still pay wedding debts for years. The tab runs into thousands and thousands of dollars, lakhs of rupees. One article I read described the Indian family’s preference for boy children as ‘gender apartheid’, but it isn’t a great conceptual leap to understand why boys are best.

So, why was I thinking female foeticide is a problem of the poor? Stereotypes, maybe? Dona says no. In fact, Mandya is one of the most affluent taluks in Karnataka. Statistics show female foeticide is a largely an action of the affluent, the middle class, the educated, the well-employed. The largest discrepancies are in the affluent states of the North; Punjab, Haryana, Gujarat. In one area of Punjab the census counted 752 girls for every 1, 000 boys. Good heavens. I’m glad I was invited along.

We don’t get there ’til 10 AM, and people are filtering into the hall. Happily, Indian people read a 10 AM start as 10:30. We move quickly, put up banners and posters, get a couple of tables to the front, watch the hall techie set up the PowerPoint gear. We get underway just before 11. The hall is almost full, I count about 250 people, mostly women. I wonder how many are doctors and later learn that seven attended.

The community workers speak the local language, Kannada, so I find some of the presentations fairly inaccessible. Fortunately Bernie, a woman working with UNICEF in Delhi, is taking notes in English. I ask permission to read over her shoulder. She grins, moves her book closer. The UNICEF doctor from Hyderabad speaks English, but his presentation is a string of stats from areas in Karnataka. People pull out their cellphones and check for new numbers. Oh my.

Next, Dr. Sanjeev Kulkarni, a gynecologist from Belguam - another hi-female foeticide taluk in Karnataka - rises to speak. He is young, dynamic, he speaks in Kannada but … his PowerPoint slides are in English! Yippee. His title: ‘Pre-natal sex determination and female foetus abortion: An unfolding disaster’. I settle over my notebook and this is what I learn:

The decline in child sex ratios has been happening for 20 to 30 years in different parts of India. Between 1991 to 2002 one in four girls went missing, although the Indian population increased. Prosperous parts of Karnataka are losing more girls; in urban areas the situation is worse. Per capita, the largest number of sex selection clinics in Karnataka is in Mandya, where doctors run 27 clinics. There are 600 clinics in Bangalore.

And female foeticide continues to increase because doctors allow it – they collude in sex selection. When one was arrested two years ago the entire community of physicians insisted that female foeticide was not happening in India. Bernie whispers that UNICEF took a Public Litigation Memorandum to the courts in 2001 to stop pre-natal sex determination. This resulted in the 2002 Pre-Natal Determination Test Act, outlawing female foeticide.

Dr. Kulkarni reminds us that mother in India is held in high esteem, yet the proportion of girl children is dropping. The world sex ratio is 1000 males to 1050 females; the MF sex ratio in nature shows that girls are stronger than boys.

In 1901 there were 1000 boy children n India for every 961 girls. One hundred years later the ration is 1000 to 933. Why the difference? Infanticide. Neglect of female children. Pre-natal sex determination[PNSD]. Selective female foetus abortion[SFFA].

In 1979 the first sex selection clinic opened in Amritsar, site of the Golden Temple in Punjab. It offered PNSD and SFFA using amniocentesis. Soon clinics sprung up in Delhi, Mumbai, and in the state of Gujarat. Ads appeared on the Mumbai local trains and in the railway stations. The late 80’s brought the wonders of ultrasound[USD]; non-invasive, simple, quick. By the early 90’s USD had gone mobile, PNSD delivered right to mom’s door by her ever so helpful physician. The technology spread rapidly across India, but the highest sex selection rates remain in the more affluent centre of the country – Delhi, Punjab, Gujarat. In Maharashtra: capital city Mumbai [Bombay], girl children number 917/1000, Kolapur, 860/1000, Sangli 850. In Gujarat the overall ratio is 879/1000, in the city of Mehsana, 762. For every 1000 boy children 0 – 6 years in Delhi, there are 865 girl children. In Punjab there are 793, with the lowest ratio in Punjab town of Fatehpur Sahib – 752! Imagine.

What does this mean???? For starters, men will not have an equal number of women available for marriage. This will create an increase in the crimes against women: abduction and rape, sexual harassment, polyandry, sale of young girls for future wives, forced prostitution, and the severe restriction of women’s freedom and mobility.

Dr. Kulkarni tells us the sex ration imbalance in human society has reached an unprecedented scale. He points the today of Punjab and Gujarat – and raises the spectre of tomorrow across India.

What are the reasons for this malpractice? First there are the societal reasons: a strong preference for sons in a country with a small family norm and balanced family concept. This concept of balance applauds two parents, two children. Two boys are just fine, as long as there are only two children.

There are economic concerns regarding a female child; dowry and marriage costs. India’s profit-based society, fast-growing with globalization, gives rise to consumer-based economic selfishness. Boys are not just a gift from God; they cost less! Too, they are seen as more productive, able to do men’s work.

What about the Indian doctors who perform female foeticide? Dr. Kulkarni lists the platitudes mouthed by these physicians: they are “assisting with population control”. “If not me, another doctor will do the procedure”. This is a “woman’s personal choice” so we are simply “helping the woman”. He chokes on that last one, and reminds his audience of the intolerable coercion faced many Indian women, wrought by husbands and in-law families. He calls it “individual female domination”. He explains it happens behind the family curtain, from where the patriarchy sends her out to kill her girl-child. Some choice.

He goes on to list some other important factors: Abortion was legalized in 1971 in India. The balanced family concept effort began in 1980. In 1985 ultrasound came to India, and went mobile in 1990. Now doctors just need to put a small machine in the trunk of their car and they’re set. 2002 saw the arrival of new meds; he mentions Prostaglandins.

He places the blame for sex selection and female foeticide squarely on the medical profession. He lists their four stances: Deny the problem. Acknowledge grudgingly. Look for loopholes in the law. Act reluctantly.

He wants doctors to stop – “ Stop the supply, stop the demand”.

He asks, “Why do doctors continue to perform female foeticide, the greatest sin on this earth?” And he answers: Substandard, non-comprehensive medical education. Insufficient medical training on the social/economic/cultural aspects of health and illness. No gender-sensitive medical education. Commercialization of the medical profession. No mechanism for automatic regulation by the profession.

All this has lead to a socio-demographic emergency in India. He damns the state and central governments for the obeisance they show to high profile specialists with social/political/legal clout.
He ends with a plea to all in the hall to recognise the magnitude of the problem, educate against myths and misconceptions, and involve willing doctors in an action to stop their illegal practice.

Brisk discussion follows. A female physician stands up and asks why he is blaming her for being a doctor? Dona takes the mic and eventually loses her temper; she is a fiery woman. Bernie whispers to me: the doc is saying she doesn’t know anyone in Mandya who is involved in sex selection. Dona thinks she must live under a rock. Or maybe she is lying to cover up. The implication is clear. I think it is a good exchange for the wide-eyed community workers; they are the ones who work with doctors and pregnant women. They see the level of denial that Dr. Kulkarni identified.

There is a buzz of comment after this. Two mics out on the floor. I’m not going to get a word of this, so I sit and watch the dynamics. People are galvanized. Good.

When the buzz dies down and the questions seem to end, the UNICEF doctor from Hyderabad takes the mic. His PowerPoint presentation wasn’t so hot, but he’s got great mediation skills. And he’s speaking in English, with translation. I have lots of time to write.

He says it is a common response that this practice is one of the uneducated, the ill, the poor, the ignorant, but this is not so. The issue is more in wealthy and middle class families. The drop in sex ratios is not from infanticide, but from technology. It started in Delhi at government institutions, and doctors just can’t say it isn’t happening.

The problem is that girls are not getting the chance to survive. We understand the reasons. The enemy is diffused, in many places, so we will not try to point a single finger. We know it is complex; one enemy is the societal outlook. But the big actors are the machine and the doctor who operates it. He smiles at the defensive female physician and says, “I cannot vouch for the sanctity of all doctors, nor do I represent all doctors. But it is important that we get off the fence, and motivate doctors to come over to our side. We have to work, as doctors, to implement the PNDT Act.”

He talks to the community workers. He wants them to do four things: know the name of every pregnant woman they visit; be a worker for the whole family; form a relationship, a partnership, with the woman and her family; and to their good counselling skills add an understanding of criminality in case a woman asks them about USD.

Well, I’m impressed. So is everyone in the hall. Indians don’t often applaud with vigor; this time they do.

The day is done; we sit and talk in English. A few stray comments: “Education only works for the educated!” I’ll follow that one up later. Another, “Development doesn’t bring enlightenment or education on values. Even an old, illiterate woman has a mission and values. Technology started in the US and keeps moving to India, now we have foeticide and soon we’ll be able to select the sex before conception!” There’s a lot of good words in the air; it’s been a worthwhile day.

Eventually we fall silent. What were the references to the Green Revolution, I ask? Ah yes. Good question. The Green Revolution brought the commercialization and mechanization of agriculture. It marginalized and devalued the women who were once in control of agricultural production. It increased materialism as it changed the face and focus of rural areas; from small, adequate production to the ‘need’ for a bigger machine, a larger field, more animals. And the Green Revolution states have the highest female foeticide rates – Punjab, Gujarat, Haryana.

With increased materialism came an increase in violence against women, increased dowry demands, increased alcoholism. All this contributed to the devaluing of women. Yet women still do 90% of the work in rural India; they rear children, clean, cook, collect firewood, haul water, do field work, attend community meetings to strategise on approaches to government [for bore wells, electricity, roads . . .] and on and on.

And make no mistake, India is still rural. Anyone who wonders just has to look at the recent rout of the former, city-focused, BJP central government. People hope the Congress will remember the forest, tribal, rural people of India. Me, too.

100 Women Die

In Bangalore, an average of one hundred women dies suspiciously every month. Every month. They die from ‘suicide’, ‘kitchen fires’, other unspecified disasters. Their deaths are called Suspect Deaths. Did they really die by accident, or at their own hands? Or did they die at the hands of their husbands, mothers-in-law, extended family members? These women die because they have not given birth to a child – particularly a boy child; they die because they can bring no more dowry money into their new family; they die because they are ‘having an affair’. Dona Fernandez, the woman talking to me, runs Vimochana, a powerful, activist, feminist, pro-women Bangalore agency. She laments that Indian men are SO insecure. “If you look at a man, you’re having an affair; if you come late home from work, you’re having an affair; if you talk to a man on the phone or on the street, you’re having an affair; if you take care of your appearance or wear a nice saree to work, you’re having an affair. For these reasons and more, women are murdered.

Did they kill themselves by hanging, or were they throttled and then hung from the ceiling fan? The rope may remove signs of strangulation. And what about those kitchen fires? As the story goes, women in synthetic sarees are cooking over a gas burner. They use the saree material as a potholder, and take the pot from the flame. Oops, the saree catches on fire! And in the kitchen, with water close at hand, they burn to death. Most of the women who die each month die from burning. How many fumble-fingered women can there possibly be in the kitchens of Bangalore? Lots, according to the families of the deceased. The most useful aspect of burning, of course, is that it removes all traces of beatings and other violence from the body.

I am stunned by Dona’s disclosure. And horrified for the women of India. This is Bangalore, high-priced, cosmopolitan, IT capital of India. I can’t stop myself, tears spring to my eyes. My very first thought: If this is happening in the literate South, where many people have at least some education, where jobs are more plentiful, where money flows and lots of people actualize their potential – what on earth is happening in the illiterate, corruption-ridden, uneducated, poverty-stricken North? How many women die in Bihar? In other Northern states? I can’t bear the thought.

Dona tells me that these murders are by no means confined to the poor. Affluent and middle class young women are also murdered by their in-law families. Underlying the violence is globalization, greed, commercialization, commodification and consumerism. A rampant consumer culture pervades India in the same way that it does the West. In India, dowry provides an additional source of revenue to meet those greedy consumer needs.

Of course, poor families are not free from greed, and they too attempt to raise wanted cash through the dowry system. When they fail, some women are murdered. The poor women who survive the initial attack are taken to the burn unit at Victoria Hospital, a government-run endeavor. In 1997, Dona and her agency first visited this hospital. They found women dying in filthy, appalling conditions; some lying on the floor, others on beds with sheets covered in the pus from their wounds. In this government hospital, where all costs are supposed to be covered, the staff demanded Rs.70 to change a bedsheet, Rs. 10 for an injection, money for each meal, money for filtered water, and on and on. The smell was unspeakable. Husbands and in-laws walked in and out of the ward freely, bringing germs and constant threats.

Vimochana staged a lengthy and noisy protest; government officials promised to act. There were minimal improvements, but three months later the place was right back to its previous state. This time Dona organized a hunger protest; for two days women sat in front of Victoria Hospital, rejecting food and water. Their protest garnered nation-wide press. The government caved, renovated the ward, provided adequate supplies, stopped the practice of charging patients, and allowed Dona to place two social workers on the ward.

These social workers, who still work on the Burn Unit, are particularly important in bringing the murderers to justice. When first admitted to the ward, most women are terrified and insist their burns are from a kitchen fire. After time with the social worker, they admit to being set on fire by a family member. Like all women who are the victims of violence, they are frightened and ashamed. But they are also brave, and most agree to make a Dying Statement to the Police. And then they die, burns covering 60, 70, 80% of their bodies.

One further comment. During the election the president of the BJP party celebrated his birthday in Lucknow, home of former BJP Prime Minister Vajpayee. Contrary to the Election Commission’s Moral Code of Conduct, he lured people to this ‘non-political’ event with the promise of free sarees. At the end of the party he announced that sarees were available at the gate. In the stampede for these Rs. 40 sarees – about 30 cents Canadian – 22 women died, countless women and children were injured. The news is still in the papers. The deaths were in the North; even the papers of the South continue to agonize. Don’t get me wrong, I’m horrified at the deaths of these women. I just wish there were some political gains to be made through exposing dowry deaths, other suspect deaths, and the ongoing violence against women in India.

Let me introduce you . .

Let me introduce you . . .

To Babua Mohammad. Babua is 26, looks like 36, thinks like 46 and carries the family responsibilities of 56. I first meet Babua at Fatehpur Sikri, where he works as a guide. Another train chronicle will eventually illustrate one of the main challenges faced by guides in India - the hot, tired, cranky tourists.

Ah, but the tale is long, and time is short in Canada. You may want to skip the story! Just scroll down to the single line that reads:

"And that sets the scene for my tour with Babua." Otherwise . . .

On February 29th I arrive in Agra, on my way to Dharamsala. I've had another ghastly train ride, this time on a top berth in 2nd Class air-conditioned, or '11 Tier AC', the new mantra Arjun sent me following my return trip from the WSF. Bless Arjun; the car is orderly, with a seat for everyone. The porter brings clean sheets, a pillow and a blanket. Lovely, except ...

During the day, the man sitting beside me decides to steal my upper berth. His is across from mine, at the very end of the rail car, squished under a sloping roof and in the full AC blast. I don't blame him for wanting mine, but ... there's a sinus cold building in my head and I don't intend to spend the night squished beneath cold blasting air. Neither does he, so he puts his sheets on my berth and disappears to visit friends in another car.
For hours.

In the afternoon I read The Rope in the Water, a gift from Trisha. I come to the chapter where the author describes bursts of white-hot rage during her pilgrimage through India. I'm with her; I can taste and smell and feel her anger. We were sisters in another life. I recall my bursts of irrational anger at the auto-rickshaw drivers during my first few weeks in Chennai. I consider my response to the current dilemma of the berth. Is anger common for tourists in India, I wonder? How would I find out?

I read a bit of How to Practice by the Dalai Lama. His rational, loving words don't help. I add guilt to my anger, but I'm still intent on getting that man's sheets off my bed. He returns after 9:30 PM. The ladies in the lower bunks are sleeping; I'm perched on top. And I'm seething. Crossly I tell him to change beds. Of course, madam. But there is a price. He lies in his berth with his eyes wide open, facing me, his hand drifting, waving - invitingly? enticingly? - across the narrow space between us. I resolve to stay on my left side and not sleep. I also resolve, for my next train ride, to reserve the single, side, lower berth across the aisle, against two windows, with perfect privacy curtains. BTW, this has been my travel mode since Agra, and it works like a charm.

Morning comes and I'm in Agra. As predicted, I'm sick. Must stop predicting illness. I haul my backpack off the train and shoo away the waiting porters. I have yet to learn the inestimable worth of a porter, that will come with future train trips. Walking to the exit, I shoo away the gaggle of taxi drivers offering me trips to the Taj and other wonders. One is particularly persistent. I toss over my shoulder that I’ve had a rough journey and don’t want to be hassled. Softly his reply, “Yes, I’m having a bad morning too.” I have a good laugh, hand him my backpack, and we head for his car.

Rajid takes me to a reasonable hotel, I drop my stuff and we’re ready to roll. He suggests I see Fatehpur Sikri first, then the Taj. Fatehpur was build by Akbar, grandfather of Shah Jehan, who built the Taj. I’m open to suggestion.

It is 36 kms. from Agra to Fatehpur. On the way I see 21 muzzled black bears, standing, sitting and lying on the road. Men and boy children hold leashes attached to bear muzzles. It is nearly noon, the sun is hot, there are no water containers in sight. Sickly patches of broken, scabrous skin show under the long, fine hair that covers the bears. They look dry-skinned, dry-mouthed and utterly miserable. So do their masters. As cars approach the bears are pulled up by the muzzle, commanded to ‘dance’. For the life of me, I cannot understand the white tourist who stops for a picture with the ‘Dancing Bear’. I cannot bear to look any more.

I bring my wet eyes inside the car and think. I know it is not so simple a matter as merely rescuing the bears from their intolerable captivity. These bears support some of India’s impoverished families. Before retiring the bears, different work must be found for their keepers. This in India, where unemployment is counted at 15 MILLION people; who knows how many more subsist, uncounted? I feel so sad, just so sad.

We arrive at Shere Punjab, a neat little coffee shop 2 kms. from the monument. Rajid asks if I’ll stop for coffee. Oh, you bet I’ll stop for coffee. He disappears to make a phone call; weeks later I’ll learn why. The first coffee tastes good, I have a second.

Fortified, I jump into the car, ready for the sights. A man appears at my open window, asks if I would like him to guide me through the monument. Bent over, adjusting my purse and water bottle on the floor of the car, I crisply reply, “No, thanks”. True to form if nothing else. The man becomes more assertive, hands his government guide card through the window. “No”. Suddenly a faintly exasperated voice says, “Madam, you cannot see the entire monument without a guide. You will see the palace side, but not the mosque side. I will guide you for nothing, and at the end you can pay me what you like, or pay nothing.” I am so embarrassed. Will I ever learn? I thank the man for this information, tell him I will happily pay the guide fee, and ask him to jump in the back.

We arrive at the monument and introduce ourselves. His name is Babua. ‘How do you do, Babua, my good name is Jane.’ "Yes, madam". I laugh. I’ve learned to live with ‘madam’ in this country where respect is so ingrained. Sometimes I smile and say, ‘My good name is Jane, but you may call me ‘madam’.

We walk up a seemingly million stairs into Fatehpur Sikri, and I have the best tour I will have in India. This man’s knowledge of Mogul/Muslim history is prodigious. And his English is amazing. I quickly learn that he not only understands my queries, he picks up on my quips, comments and observations. Eager to learn, I ask increasingly complex questions. It’s just a treat to speak without carefully choosing my words, and I take full advantage of this opportunity. I decide to double the guide fee.

Well into the tour, when I’ve seen amazing architecture, carvings, inlays, and learned the meanings underlying all, Babua quietly asks, ‘So, what do you think of Muslims?’ I say I think they get bad press. He nods, it seems enough. I think of the 2002 riot in Gujarat; Muslim men, women and children slaughtered, their homes and businesses burned, their women and girl children raped to death. What could ever be enough?

The tour over, we return to Shere Punjab for coffee. I learn that Babua is only 26; he looks a decade older. I’m full of questions about this really bright guy. I say, 'So, Babua, you're a terrific guide. Do you like it?' "Yes, madam, it is good work." Ummm, good work, I think, recalling my sunny greeting some hours earlier. Do I nod and I keep my mouth shut? Never. 'Do you ever think of doing something else?' "No madam." I raise an eyebrow. He confesses, "Madam, I can neither read nor write." I see this is a matter of deep shame, and I reach for the strength, his English. Turns out he learned it from the tourists. Hmmm. All of a sudden, and with great force, the penny drops.

'Babua', I say, 'you've been working at Fatehpur Sikri for 15 years. That means you were one of those little kids selling the postcards, yes?' Nod. I muse aloud: what a guy he is, with his amazing competence at his job, the depth of his knowledge, his patience with the tourists, his concern for me as we toured the monument - walking from shade to shade in the blazing heat. All true, and I say it with deep respect. He's lived a life I can't begin to imagine, and here he is, charming, handsome, well dressed, great sense of humour, and so very smart. I don't allow myself to dwell on what might have been, but for the accident of birth. I’m learning that birth is not an accident.

My prying is either forgiven or overlooked. He asks me home to meet his mother. I can't, my touring time is short. The Taj awaits, and I leave Agra tomorrow. Next time. As a matter of fact, there will be a next time. Next month I'll catch the train back to Chennai from Agra.

And when I return to Agra, after McLeod Ganj and Rajasthan, Sundar drives me to the café, Shere Punjab. Babua is there and, on the back of the Hero Honda, we drive to Fatehpur, the name of his village. Sikri is the village on the other side of the monument. Tiny by Indian standards, each village has a population of 40,000.

Fatehpur is built on a hill, with streets about six feet across, only four feet are for navigation. A foot-wide ditch on either side takes up the other two feet. Shops and various markets wind through the streets at the bottom; houses line the steeper hills. There is a smell of sewage as we ride higher, and garbage floats in both ditches. A wee guy wearing only a shirt busts out of a door and across the street, positions his bottom over the ditch, and lets go. Excellent positioning skills. I get it - the concrete ditches are for sewage disposal. But what about the garbage? I think how impossible it would be to get a truck in to pick up the rubbish. Maybe a cart?? So Western, eh?

The narrow streets are filled with playing kids, barking dogs and chatting adults. It's tough going for the motorcycle, especially when we stop to negotiate the foot-deep cuts that cross the street, each about nine inches wide. I think to myself that I would fill those in, but quick. Then I realize they are additional drainage canals, to carry water overflow from one side of the street to the other. I consciously put my judgmental self in a box and slam the lid shut.

We arrive at the house. Babua ushers me into a very small sitting room at the front. In many Indian homes this is where guests are greeted and entertained. Shelves in the concrete walls are lined with dishes. There is a couch, some chairs, a tiny cassette player, and other things I cannot see in the dim light. A man is lying on the floor. He attempts to rise and Babua introduces his father. Tells me he is ill. I murmur concern with my 'Namaste' and hiss at Babua to get me out of there. Yes, I am a guest, but the last thing this ill man needs is a white woman in his sickroom.

We move down the hallway; it opens into a dimly lit room perhaps 7 x 10. Five kids play on a twin bed at one side of the room. Above them more dishes are stacked on the shelves. Two women sit on a sturdy six-foot dining room table on the other side of the room. Each is in front of a sewing machine and they are both creating clothes with a competence I envy. Behind them is a floor to ceiling closet, covered by a cloth. There is another woman with a sewing machine sitting on the floor beside the table. These machines are unlike anything I've ever seen. A modified treadle, they are powered by a handle on the flywheel. Spin, three inches of stitching, spin, three inches. I think of the 10 electric sewing machines that Susan offered me before I left Canada. Would be nice to have them now.

I am introduced to Gazella, Babua's 18-year-old sister, and the two tailor cousins who live close by. Gazella sits on one end of the table, on the other is the youngest cousin, her apprentice. I smile at the five kids - two young cousins who live close and Babua's three nieces, aged 7, 5 and 2. They live here with their mother, Racma, and father, who is Babua's oldest brother. Racma, heavily pregnant, comes from somewhere and we are introduced. Sojo, a 'sister-cousin' who lives in the house, comes from upstairs to get a cooking pot. With her is Mobina, Babua's mother. Her eyes have seen a lot. We smile; she decides that I will call her 'Sister'. About now I'd like one who speaks English and Hindi.

Babua sees I am a tad overwhelmed and ushers me into a large-ish room at the back of the house, maybe 14 by 14. It has two chairs with arms, a king size bed, a TV, a fan and several electric lights. Above the bed is a huge storage closet, curtained, and there are dressers and such for more storage. On two sides of the room, the walls are lined with dishes. I drop into a chair, Babua turns on the fan and my blood pressure begins to drop. He scoots the children out and introduces me to his wife of two months, Najrhana. What a beautiful young woman, even with the colourful scarf partially obscuring her face. I learn much later that when other people are present in a room with her and Babua, Najrhana covers her face. Respect.

I talk to Najrhana and Babua translates. Again this young man takes me aback; he is an intuitive translator. Does not look at me, does not expect to be part of the conversation, does not change my words or those of the other. Yes, after this much time in India, I can tell. Those of you who use translators know a good translator is a gift. It is so enjoyable to have a conversation with this young woman, to hear about her wedding and talk about her family. She is the oldest of five, Babua the 3rd of eight. I tell her that everything I know about families says she will look after him very well. They both laugh; apparently a pattern is already emerging. Speaking of families, how large is the family in this house, I wonder? Seventeen members. Did I get that right? Seventeen? Yup. Babua tells me there are rooms upstairs. I know there is a roof, but I don't get up the stairs on my brief visit.

Curious about this family, I decide to take them up on their invitation to return for several days. In early May, I travel 36 hours by train to Agra, spend three days and two nights, and head back to Bangalore, same train, same timing. I will miss the enforced leisure of the trains on my return to Canada.

Babua meets me at the gate and we travel 36 kms. to Fatehpur on his motorbike - with my backpack firmly wedged between us. Indian friends continue to comment that I've 'gone down' - lost weight - and I think my smaller size is particularly beneficial this morning. We stop for coffee at Shere Punjab, where I feel like a regular, and talk politics. Babua will vote next week and has decided to vote for the sitting MP, a member of the Congress party, a Hindu and a good man who has helped the villages. A local Muslim in a new party is seeking all the Muslim votes, but Babua does not trust him; it appears this man is taking money from the Right. In India, the right is the BJP, party of Hindutva and currently in power. The Congress is the party of Nehru and the Gandhi family, and represents the centre-left.

Coffee over, we are off. Driving up the Fatehpur hill at a good clip, we negotiate a steep curve and are suddenly on top of two youngsters playing on the roadway. I gasp. Babua makes a wheel-wrenching stop, and sits there - quietly reminding two little girls of how dangerous it is to play on the road. I don't need the language, just the wide-eyed nods from the children and the persuasive sound of his voice. He doesn't shout. I would have.

Before we go into the house Babua tells me he has arranged for me to spend my two nights at a hotel. I wonder why; he tells me I will be more comfortable with a proper bath and toilet. Once inside, I see the facilities in this house are located at the front, across from the small living room. There are two tiny, concrete rooms, each 3' x 3'. The room closest to the street has an Indian toilet that someone shovels into the ditch outside once a day, when water gushes through both ditches. Babua does not want to subject me to the toilet. The room behind is an equally tiny bath with a pail and a tap. Not the Ritz, but it works. I spend the first night at the hotel, then convince Babua that I prefer to sleep with the sisters, on the roof, for the second night. And a toilet is a toilet.

Nothing much has changed at the house, but now I am here for longer. I arrive to a warm welcome. I meet people I missed last time. I get my book out and write 'til I reach that magic number of 17. There are eight sisters and brothers in this family. Two sisters are married and gone, Gazella, 18, won't marry for some time.

Then there are the brothers. Kiyu, 34, is the oldest; husband of Racma, father of three - soon to be four - children. He hangs out on the roof. In a low, scratchy voice he tells me years of alcohol and cigarettes burned his throat, but he has stopped drinking. I support his decision. Over the three days he says he hasn't worked for two or three years, but he's going back to his old jobs. He will go on the road in June, to cook at hotels during the monsoon. I don't ask where the tourists come from, in the pounding rain. I do think of staff drinks at the end of each night. On my last afternoon he hits me up for a Rs. 200 loan - for medicine. I tell him Babua will give him money for medicine. Nope, does not want to ask Babua. I ask how long ago he stopped drinking. Two months. I remind him how bad he wants a drink, right now. I won't help him drink, but AA is everywhere, including India; those men can help him to not drink. As I talk Kiyu's eyes glaze over.

The second brother is Ayoub, 27, employed, with one very young child and a wife nursing a baby. He and his wife, Ravenna, avoid me. I learn later from Babua that Ayoub works, but the extended family never sees a rupee. Ayoub is always in debt, always hitting Babua up for money. I commiserate but don't hazard any guesses on where the money goes.

Sabir is 20. He has a tiny wooden shop that stands on four strong legs. He sits on the edge of his shop and supplies all the youngsters who sell trinkets and postcards to tourists at the monument. He also travels to the South and supplies tourist shops with Indian items from the North. He laments how the merchants in the South have not sent the money they owe. I, who know so little, talk to him about the difference between consignment and wholesale, and ask him to see a good business consultant. His eyes do not glaze over. Maybe . . .

At Sabir's shop, I meet Sakir, 16 and in Standard 11 at the local school. Sakir tells me that when he turned 6, Babua decided to send him to school. Ummm, I think, Babua was 15 when he made that decision. Needless to say, Sakir is grateful and the family is proud. What will he do after he finishes school, I ask? Shrug, small smile, eyes drop, "Sit here." He brings his eyes up and gives me a big, 'it's okay' smile. I smile back, forcing my eyes to join my lips.

I've left Sojo, my favorite family member, for the last. Babua calls Sojo the sister-cousin. Somewhere in her late 20's, she's the one I'd pick for a sister. She cooks for the family, cleans house, keeps an eye on the kids, cooks some more, shoos the swarm of neighbourhood kids out when the cacophony becomes overwhelming, slips off to the market without asking for help - my kind of girl.

I ask Babua about Sojo when we are walking to see the ruins behind the monument. Well, she was married, but after one night she went home. Her family told her to return to her husband. She turned to Babua, who took her in to his family. Visions of violence careening through my head, I ask why she left. Long pause, searching for those elusive English words. He was old, not ... powerful ... enough for her. So delicate. I look at the ruins, swallow my smile lest this young man misunderstand it, nod gravely ... and listen while Babua tells me how he is proceeding to find her a good husband. I think once more how so much family responsibility hangs over this young head.

How does he cope, I wonder? I decide to ask. We sit down and look over the valley while Babua teaches me about coping. When he was 5 or 6 he started working at Fatehpur Sikri - cleaning tourist cars. His lips twist - with regret? with derision? - as he recalls how proud he was of those 5 rupees; how he would run home to put them in his mother's hand. When just a little older, he was able to convince Fatehpur Sikri tourists with children that they could trust him to trail along, carrying their babies. 15 rupees, sometimes 20. I think of how responsible he must have looked, even then. Eventually he became one of those little kids I shoo away like flies at every monument, selling the postcards, jewelry, chess boxes, calendars and innumerable other gee-gaws. At 17 he secured his government guide papers and began to work towards the role of family provider. Being a guide is a good job for a man with no formal education. Exclusive of tips, he earns Rs. 250 per tour. $7.80 Canadian. In the tourist season, October to May, Babua may get as many as three tours per day; an average day yields two, but only one or none as the season opens and wanes.

Getting tours is important, and Babua’s strategy is based on well-developed friendships. Walking through Fatehpur I get the impression that he is well liked; we stop often as men reach out to shake his hand and offer the traditional Muslim greeting, ‘Salaam Valaikum’. His ability to make and maintain friendships is a strength in the cutthroat guide business, where every day 80 guides compete for the tourist tours.

The government guides have a system. They belong to two groups: each day 40 work the parking lot near the monument, where they catch people arriving in busses and cars. The other 40 attempt to stop tourist traffic as it comes into town, by frantically waving and shouting. Every time this happens to me at a monument I think someone needs help, and we must stop. It’s pretty awful.

Babua hates the traffic days. But he has a number of driver friends who bring people like me to the café near the monument. On the way out of Agra, and again from the Shere Punjab café, they call Babua. So that’s how Babua came to be at the window of Rajid’s car, I think. When he gets the second phone call, he bikes to the café and solicits the tour. I'll bet very few people, if any, say no. I didn’t.

We return to the topic of the family. What will Sakir do when he finishes Standard 12? He wants to get his engineering diploma. Will that be possible? Babua straightens, "We'll have to look at the budget." What about Sojo, will it cost money to marry her off once more? Some, but he will make sure her family helps. We kick around ideas on how Babua could increase his income by working with bus tour companies. Thinking about money, he tells me he could be a tourist car driver, but his mother is adamantly opposed. Driving in India is just too dangerous. I'm with mom.

We go back to the house, I say goodbye 'til next time. Insha'Allah. We get on the bike and go to the bus station in Fatehpur. My train is at midnight and I don't want to ride a bike to Agra in the dark. Too dangerous. Babua and I sit on the curb and talk more about the family. The bus is late. Very late.

I decide my new friendship can withstand risk, and I say: 'Can I ask some personal questions?' "Sure". 'Were the gifts of the motorbike and the Rs. 5000 from Najrhana's family dowry?' "Yes. But Najrhana did not want to go to the honeymoon, I gave the 5,000 back." 'What about bride price?' [Bride price is the sum a Muslim man pays to his wife's family to provide for her in case of divorce.] Small laugh. "Her family only wanted Rs. 600. I gave it." I think to myself that this perceptive family knew a good thing when they saw it.

‘How many children will you and Najrhana have?’ "None for two years, then one, then one more a long time later, five years, seven." [I’ve seen the household filled with girl children, so I know either sex will be welcome. This is not the case all over India, where the 2001 census revealed 899 girls, aged 0 – 6 years, for every 1000 boys. When I have time, I will put up a piece on female feticide.]

'What about Hindutva?' "It is political. Political parties use religion to make people to fight with each other". 'That party is the BJP and its friends, yes?' "Yes".

‘What do you think about the fighting in Islam?’ "Same, political. Religious is used for so many terrible reasons. Fighting between Muslims, Sunnis and Shiites – I am a Sunni – and fighting between Muslims and others. It is all political, and it all is blamed on religion. It is wrong. I believe in one God. Like Akbar" [I learned from Babua on my monument tour that Akbar believed in one God. The monument has architecture that represents Hindus, Muslims, Christians, Jains and Buddhists. Akbar had three wives, one Hindu, one Muslim and one Christian. His Hindu wife was his fave, because she gave him his only son. And he introduced the one God concept – a good idea.]

'What do you know about the tragedy in Gujarat?' "I watched it on TV, we cried. Muslims beaten, burned, killed, old women, girls raped, most dead. But some hurt girls were left. Alive. Men came from all over the state to marry to them, to give them homes - you understand, they need homes to live, to be safe." I nod, I understand; sitting in the dark I’m in tears.

The bus comes. A quick hug and I'm off into the darkness. So much to think about.

Lucky me. I came into the life of one very strong, very poor, family in India. Representative of millions of poor families, they are different only in that they are Muslims, a 12% minority in India. Weren’t they generous to let me in? Yes, and as my friend Babua would say, “Hey, that’s India!” Salaam Valaikum.

India and Pakistan

This post is old, it’s been in my head since early March, but today I’m thinking politics and it just won’t wait any longer.

In early March there are two announcements: India will meet Pakistan on the cricket fields of Lahore, and the political leadership of the two countries will open peace talks to resolve, among other things, the dispute over the territory of Kashmir.

This is my travelling month, and from the South to the North, people talk with me about the match, and the talks. They have high hopes for both, and, as I absorb their energy, I have high hopes, too. In McLeod Ganj there are many merchants from Kashmir, away from their families and homes. They tell me about the violence that drove the tourists away – and drove them to more moneyed places. What they earn they send home to their families. They would love a peaceful Kashmir with a strong commercial base to support their jewelry, coats, scarves, carvings and other handicrafts.

Leaving McLeod Ganj, I travel to Rewalser, a small town near a famous Buddhist cave. I visit a monastery and as I exit, I see tea shop. I ask for a coffee and my eyes slide over the Hindi newspaper, catching the pictures. This is how it feels to be unable to read, I think. My eyes stop at a picture of Colin Powell, standing beside a brown man in a white outfit. Definitely a South Asian politician, I think to myself. I ask the owner of the café to give me the story line. He glances with little interest, and says it is about the cricket match. ‘Colin Powell is here for the cricket match?’ I smile my surprise. The man smiles back, brings me my coffee and goes across the street to the travel bureau, returning with an English newspaper. I read.

My worst fears were not worse enough. Colin Powell is meeting in Islamabad with Prime Minister Musharrah of Pakistan, to grant that country Major Non-NATO Ally status. I read and react with disbelief that borders on horror. Turns out the man who owns the tea stall shares my sentiments, but ducked my original question because he thought I was from the U.S. There is such anti-American sentiment in India. No one is fooled by the global goodies – they are too busy lamenting the suicides of farmers, the migration of agricultural and other workers to the slums of major cities, the pillage of the water and land resources by huge U.S. companies. People laugh openly at the U.S.’ purported st