India Travels

Chuckles

February 1st to 25th

Chuckles

This Land . . .

I’ve always valued my tendency to sing my out-of-awareness content. Happy or sad, I can usually clue into my unconscious feelings if I just follow the bouncing ball. This morning, early in February, I indulge in a hot water bath, complete with head washing. My unruly and often tangled mop is becoming a bit of a nuisance, so I’ve taken to styling with manicure scissors. Once my bath is done, I whisk off the top of the toilet with some of my precious tissue, throw a pail or two of water on the floor to wash away the last of the suds, and emerge from the bath singing, "This land is your land, this land is my land . . ." As I get to the part about the Artic Circle I stop, and realize I’m not singing about Canada. Home is where you wash your hair, mmmmm?

Hello!

The doorbell at my family home is a delight. In random pattern, it plays a little song every time it sounds. I awake as the youngster brings a small pot of milk at 6:30 AM, to the tune of Waltzing Matilda, or The Yellow Rose of Texas, or My Darling Clementine. Another rhapsody is the theme from The Lone Ranger. There seems to be an inexhaustible supply of North American ditties caught in that little box, and every one makes me smile. One day I check with Ebenezer to see if this not quite Christian doorbell came with the apartment. No, indeed, it was purchased by young Giftson when the old one gave out – that one used to play a song and then say “Please come in”. That bell is missed.

The half salute

I mentioned earlier that the greeting in Tamilnad [the short form for Tamil Nadu] is ‘Vonnekum’. Like the name of the state, it is shortened to what I affectionately think of as the half salute – just one hand lifted in the general direction of the nose, seldom getting so far. Of course the more reserved greeting of two hands raised to chest level or higher is also used, but only for formal occasions. From my experience in Mumbai I know that this is an artifact of the less formal South.

Little kids still smile and giggle when they see me coming on the street. My half salute and smile is often met with a real salute, snapped to the forehead with amazing precision. I don’t see them saluting anyone else, so I continue to wonder if their respectful attention is just some awful holdover from a Brittisher past, 50 years gone but certainly not forgotten. I hope they are just imitating something they saw in a foreign film.

People

I have my rounds set now, places where I buy fruit, flowers, innumerable cups of coffee and various and sundry items. It is such a treat to talk to the shopkeepers, and to hear them call ‘Good Morning, Madam’ even if I am just running to catch a bus. Many of them speak English, and they are a wealth of stories about Chennai.

Not a chuckle, but speaking of stories – Buying coffee from a street shop that has a place to sit down, I meet a man from Kerala. His state has a literacy rate of over 80% and fewer than 20% of its people live in slums. But there is no employment, so the man making coffee has left his wife and two daughters, aged 4 and 10 years, to travel to Tamilnad for work. He opens the coffee shop at 4:00 AM, and works there until 2:00 PM, when he goes to his other, unspecified, job. He gets home to see his family every six months. I think this is an awful situation and he agrees, slyly noting that this has been the situation since 1991 – 92. I catch the ball, and remark on the devaluing of the rupee at the behest of the World Bank. He nods soberly, “The start of globalization”. How sad, I think, that such a well educated man is working at a coffee stand. But he is happy to have work, so we talk only about his family, whom he misses, but whom he would not think of moving to Chennai. Education and general lifestyle are far superior in Kerala.

Whines

February 15 to 20

No visit to a foreign country is ever perfect – always there are a few things that grate. Here follows the current list:

Potholes

I’m walking home from the bus stop in Korattur. It’s late, I’m tired, and suddenly I notice my walking. I’m gingerly setting one foot down after the other, moving slowly, feeling every step reverberate through my low back. This is a long way from the advice I give young Indian women who want to travel alone. My advice to them - walk hard - step firmly, keep your head up, don’t stand around looking lost, sit down in a group, stay with the crowd. Maybe with this pain, I should sit down, alone.

I wonder, is some dread disease causing all this tenderness? Considering, I think about the pain I’ve experienced on and off for the past few days, how it moves from one side of my back to the other, occasionally sitting hard on my spine. No dread disease, only a lot of back pain. Why?

In the past few days I’ve been very busy, traveling around Chennai by train, bus and auto-rickshaw [auto]. Sometimes, when it is too far to walk, I take an auto from the train to my destination – maybe another bus stop. The back roads and side streets of Chennai are simply potholes, craters and speed bumps, linked by ribbons of repaired pavement. The autos have no shocks, and if the busses ever did, they are only a distant memory. The pot holes are finishing me off.

Fortunately, in two days I’m off to a four day workshop at the Mamalla Beach Resort and will surely have a chance to rest up. I arrive home, haul my huge suitcase out from under the bed, and search for those few Tylenol I know I packed. I find . . . two pages of yoga stretches! Now I remember, I have a long back and usually take care of it. I start stretching that night, and resolve that the auto drivers will go slowly when they carry my fragile frame in the future.

Horns

Earlier I mentioned the gaily painted lorries with their invitation to ‘Sound Horn’ written decoratively on the tailgate. Most of these are hauling water into parched, drought-stricken Chennai. At the WSF in Mumbai, I was equally charmed by the ‘Horn OK Please’ signs on similar lorries. Under their tailgates was another sign, ‘I love my India’, testament to the increased political activity in the North. I’ve no idea what the Mumbai lorries carry, but, as in Chennai, they clog the roads and emit gasp-producing pollution. I’ve started to carry a handkerchief, as do all Indian women and some men, to mop the perspiration and provide a bit of a mask. The pollution is quite awful at some intersections.

And the horn mottos are no longer endearing. The sounds grate on me to an extent I find surprising. Drivers jockeying for position press their horns in a continuous volley of beeps, perhaps especially at controlled intersections where signs expressly forbid horns. Cacophony. Even sitting on a city bus I allow the dreadful sounds to wade into my consciousness. Twice a passenger on a tour bus, I find myself gritting my teeth against the aggressie beeping/speeding of the bus driver. The same applies to travel by auto or car. Only the bus drivers seem to use their horns judiciously, to avoid running over smaller vehicles. I’m surprised at my lack of tolerance; perhaps it is the backache. I try to meditate while in a vehicle, breathing in ease and breathing out pain. But the triple assault of back, horns and potholes make this a distant dream. I’ll do more stretches at home, and up the Advil.

Animals

The cows and bullocks are healthier and better fed than I remember from my last trip to India; the dogs leaner and meaner. To me, each dog is just a mere bite away from rabies, and I have no protection from rabies in my first aid kit. I give the bollocks fairly wide berth; their pointed horns, often painted blue and decorated with bells, represent a potential hazard. The dogs I slide by carefully. They growl. I pick up my pace. I know this is not the best way to meet noisy dogs, but it works for me.

Garbage fires

Remember the Pongol Fires I talked about in January, the ones making the city clean for the New Year? Well, the year is getting older, the garbage piles are back, and those who refuse to pay for garbage collection either toss and walk, or toss and burn. The smoke rising from burning garbage is dense black and subject to vagrant winds. No one, not even the family who do the neighbourhood’s ironing on the street, is safe from a blast of hot garbage air. I wonder about the garbage piles I see in Korattur, burning in front of affluent homes. What are those people thinking? So much for the non-judgmental approach.

Dinner at Lakshmi's

Early February: Dinner at Lakshmi’s

Lakshmi is the social worker I met at the Institute of Mental Health. My dinner at her home is a rare treat. As she is taking me through the gate, past the apartment’s guard, a man drifts by on his motorcycle. She notes that he is her husband. I take in his solid frame, salt and pepper mustache and pleasant features. I observe that he is very handsome. Oh, she says, but he is black. And indeed he is, as are many Tamil people. I say as much, and repeat my observation. This all leads to some laughter when we all assemble upstairs. I am left to contemplate the Tamilnad focus on blackness – something I have done when similar interactions take place. Racism? Reality? Eventually I shall ask, but not tonight . . .

Sitting down, I meet Sangeetha, a lovely 24-year old just finishing her diploma in medicine. With this four year course complete, she is ready to write her entrance exams for the 3 year M.D. program. She hopes to be a gynecologist, so her program of studies will extend into a residency. Right now she is interning on a medical/surgical ward. She is also exhausted from a 24 hour shift, so she heads off to bed.

Lakshmi shows me around her home, the most luxurious I have seen to date. My first hint was the elevator taking us up four floors. The living room has a large TV and comfortable furniture, and the dining area is attached to a huge kitchen. Each of the two bedrooms has an attached bath, and there are three balconies. Wow. Lakshmi’s family is Hindu, and she explains the figures in the substantial shrine near the kitchen/dining area.

Once a lovely dinner ends it is time for the evening entertainment. I have already heard much about the 34 year old son who lives in New Jersey and works for Citibank. Lakshmi admits to favouring him, and says that Sangeetha comments unhappily on this fact. Now I will see a video of his wedding, to the lovely young woman he married three years ago. He is nine years her senior, and their's was a love match. It was also an arranged marriage, with parents meeting to discuss dowry, property and other significant matters, not described.

The video is remarkable. It contains footage from three days of festivities, culminating with a 6:00 AM wedding. Weddings begin early in the day, to recognize the new beginning of the couple. At one point we all laugh heartily: The tying of the taluk [apologies if I misspell] is a very important part of the ceremony. Everyone is in the hall as a coconut is placed on the palms of the couple, a banana added on each side, and a rope circles the fruit and the hands, tying the couple together. A lovely moment. But it does not last long. Suddenly everyone bolts the hall, leaving behind the priest, bridal attendants and the couple. The camera follows them to another room. Ah, they are sitting down to breakfast – after all, the ceremony will last for three hours. It is early in the morning, and people are hungry. The wedding will continue on without the guests.

As we watch the video Lakshmi tells me that this year she and her husband will begin to find a husband for Sangeetha. After all she is now 24, and after age 28 or 30 she will not be as fresh. Does she wish to marry, I ask? A shocked looked accompanies Lakshmi’s reassurance. Of course she wants to marry. And will she perhaps have a love match, as did her bother? Of course, that is possible, but if not, her marriage will still be a good and satisfying one. Will she continue her school? Naturally. I listen with deep interest and limited understanding. This is one area where I cannot say that we are more similar than different, in India and in Canada. But I am acutely aware that we in Canada have not cornered the market on happy marriages, and I have met many young and older couples whose arranged marriages work very well. I listen some more, and, of course, wish that Sangeetha was part of the conversation. But this would not be appropriate, because we are not engaged in a debate, just chatting about the facts.

I am learning more about dowry as time passes, and eventually I will put something on the webpage. For now, it is enough that a lovely Indian couple invited me into their home and shared some of their stories with me – and now I can share them with you.

Never pass a free toilet . . .

It’s Saturday morning, a work day for Aruna. Monday was a religious holiday, and school was closed. But the day must be made up, so she will teach on Saturday. Go figure. I’m taking the train downtown to do some saree shopping for friends. The trains are quicker than the buses, and they don’t get stuck in traffic, belching fumes.

Aruna and I leave at 7:30. Both fast walkers, we hike over to the train, a good 20 minute walk. I’m soaked. Aruna is worried I will get on the wrong train and be lost in Chennai. Forever. This woman is a year older than I am, but she is also mother. Plus, her world is pretty small; she goes to work, but is accompanied by her husband, daughter or son for any other trips. Accompanied by choice; she is no disempowered wife. We alight at her station and she refuses to leave until she has me safely on the ‘M’ train to Central. Nice.

I’m at Central in no time. As I leave the station I see that magic sign, “Free Ladies Toilet.” This sign I seek whenever I travel – sometimes even in downtown Kamloops. Who knows when I shall see another? I queue up, and slowly move closer to the chosen door. Once in front of the door, I am slow; twice a lady slides by me. Ready on the third go, I step in but – what? Oh, a lady wants the plastic bottle in the water pail inside my stall. Sure, come on in. In the stall, I step aside. The door closes. As she pulls up her saree and lowers her body, she smiles – just be a second. She hands me her parcel. Sure thing. Maybe she'll stay in with me and hold mine? Nope, a swirl of water around the floor and across her feet, and she’s gone. I firmly close the door. I lock it. I have my free toilet all to myself. And because it’s an Indian toilet, even in the day-train station it’s okay. As I leave, I swirl water over my feet. Neat trick that.

Saturday night and I’m home; mission accomplished. I have sarees of many colours. Lots of reds. We go through them; Aruna and Scotty admiring my flawless taste. Meantime, Ebenezer is in the kitchen, cooking chapatti for supper. He has two specialties, the other is dhosa. Aruna joins him in the kitchen. She raises her voice, says something sharp in Tamil. Dead silence. Whispers. What will Jane think?

Ebenezer comes out of the kitchen and notes Aruna shouted at him. Again. He smiles his genuine, kind and so gentle smile, spreads his hands, and says “It is customary. She shouts at me. All the time, the custom.” He is grinning now, and I start to laugh. "Oh yeah, I know it, you poor man, she just shouts and shouts at you. All the time." He laughs with me, then tells me Aruna is mortified. She was only getting his attention - one chapatti was burning.

P.S.

This is such a neat family. Last night I came out of my room for something, to find Aruna and Scotty in the other bedroom, Aruna seated and Scotty at her knee, just chatting. In the living room Ebenezer and Giftson pour over what look like architect’s drawings. Giftson has another big order, and Ebenezer is going over it with him, cut by cut. Giftson takes notes. For some, this living together all in the same small space works very well. I smile and tip toe off to bed.

World Social Forum: Day 1

I’m up early and arrive at the WSF before 9:00 AM on the 16th of January. Orange and yellow vertical banners decorate light standards for the last few kilometers of my three-wheel taxi ride, announcing “World Social Forum” and “Another World Is Possible.” Stone fences surrounding the NESCO Grounds [site of the Mumbai Exhibition] are painted with slogans denouncing capitalism, communalism and globalization. The front gates are crawling with Mumbai police officers. One directs me to the Registration area. With my registration form in hand, I stand in line. Looks like there are about 20 people ahead of me; I’ve never been this early in my life. The registration area is so efficient; poles create the back and forth line-up area, and many young women and men sit behind signs for various types of registration - individual, group, NGO, disabled, tribal/Dalit, credit card payment, and cash only are most of the categories. As an individual I will pay Rs. 2250, less than $70 Canadian dollars. What a bargain.

Behind me is a Belgium man in his mid-60s. He tells me that he builds villages in India. I see by his card that he is part of a worldwide movement, and we chat about his work. I wonder what he was doing before he started building these community villages? Well, he allows, he was the president of a university in Belgium, but now it is time for him to stop thinking about practicality and begin thinking about humanity. Great concept. It occurs to me that I will meet many fascinating people this conference and, in retrospect, I was right.

I get my cardboard badge in short order; now, how to identify myself. I finally settle on my first name, last initial, name of my NGO in Chennai and Kamloops, Canada on the bottom. I head out to the grounds and immediately my education begins. Huge signs spanning the roadways and hanging along the paths identify so many things: Don’t Owe, Won’t Pay – Debt Domination Is Human Rights Violation - Create Solidarity of Workers Confronting Multinationals – Let’s Make Another World Sans Refugees – National Forum of Forest People and Forest Workers – No Privatization of Basic Services and Public Utilities - and my own personal favorite - Make Tibet a Zone of Peace for That Another Possible World. There are many of these signs, but all the rest were printed without the “That”.

Tibet is well represented here, with Buddhist monks, nuns, tribal people and community members. There are also people from too many countries to name, but on my first day I meet groups from Malaysia, Indonesia, Bhutan, Italy, Sri Lanka, Bali, Nepal, New Zealand, Australia, the U.K., Tobago, Pakistan, Germany, Canada, the U.S., Japan - and I know there are many others.

There’s not a lot happening, so I wander the huge ground space, checking out the huge six by ten foot site maps, on poles in five locations. The site is too big to grasp yet, but it is a five day forum, and I have hopes I will eventually get my bearings. There are many small stages scattered all across the site, where incredibly diverse performances will be presented. There is one huge stage, with a black backdrop, and what looks like thousands of chairs set up in front. Behind the chairs are canvas groundcovers that stretch back about a hundred feet. [I cannot count the chairs, but I walk the 35 paces!] This is where nightly speeches, and entertainment from around the world, will take place. There are four huge convention halls where plenary sessions will begin tomorrow. I see signs about what topics will be presented in each hall; tomorrow I will wish I had written that information down …

There are lines of food booths in three locations, serving predominately Indian and Chinese food. I’m learning that Chinese food is big in India. One third of the stalls also serve coffee and tea, which pleases me to no end. A good distance away from each food location, but still in the general area, there are a set of toilets. These are Indian toilets for the most part, and all have a tap for running water, a pail and a dipper. Really clean and efficient. I avoid the European toilets. Beside all toilets are cunning hand washing facilities. The water drops into an angled trough, under the many taps, and spills it into a deep hole. For several days there is little water on the sand in front of the taps.

There are three exhibition halls, all filled to capacity with booths. Some are set up by NGO’s from across India and neighbouring countries. These are great places to learn about the work of the NGO sector. Large book companies have set up walls of books; it looks a bit like the Book Fair at CASSW. Groups affiliated with NGO’s are showcasing merchandise in still other booths. I see lots of beautiful embroidery and other hand stitched work. I buy some oil for muscle aches, and learn that night how effective it is! I see t-shirts with interesting logos and stop to look. The logos are sayings from the Mahatma, some in Hindi with an English overlay. I’m already impressed, but then I meet Mr. Gandhiji’s great, great, great grandson. He has dedicated his life to keeping these wise words, and Gandhi’s exemplary way of living, alive. The foundation has three websites, and I will at some point do more reading. For now, the shirts. My children don’t like t-shirt gifts, I know, but how could they turn these down? Consider the context. I buy quite a few shirts, and will eventually mail them off to Connie, who is generously doing parcel pick-up.

One large corner section, in each of the three halls, is dedicated to Indian artists. Each was commissioned to portray art about India’s social condition. There is a huge king size bed, with lamps and night tables. At the foot of the bed, on the floor, are the belongings of a slum dweller. Close by, a woman lives inside a string wall, invisible by her behaviour. Faces line a wall. In the place of each mouth is a child’s top that reads ‘mindless commercial consumer’. Globalization is only 12 years old in India; it dates from the devaluing of the rupee by the World Bank in 1991. The mindless consumerism has done nothing to make this country a better place. In another hall, a huge maze-like circle, built of bricks. Beside it is a superb poster session that speaks to the devastating 2001 earthquake in Gujarat state, and the painfully slow rebuilding process. Documented are the promises of help that never came; carried out only in front of TV cameras. And then there is the help that did come. Finally, the eventual product, circular stone and brick homes that will better withstand the next earthquake. All this art tells such stories; I look and look, but just can’t take it all in. Sit. Look. Think. By now I realize that the presentations will start tomorrow, and I’m grateful for the extra day to take in the many other sides of the Forum.

A vast network of buildings, for seminars in the widely dispersed areas A, B, C and D, are ingenious. Poles driven into the ground form the framework. Then semi-transparent cotton, fifteen feet high, is wrapped around the structure, providing a series of cool, recyclable rooms. Cotton also creates the vaulted roof, and I am not surprised to see many ceiling fans hung across beams in each seminar room.

Permit me a small digression: These large ceiling fans are the incredibly efficient cooling devices of India; the poorest shopkeeper has at least a standing fan, most have ceiling fans. Where I go to use the Internet there is a separate ceiling fan for each cubicle. Where I live there is a fan above the dining room table, two on separate switches in the living area, and one in each bedroom. They work like a charm, and are healthier than air-conditioning.

As the afternoon progresses the roadways become busier. Groups in every manner of dress showcase their cultures and their causes – usually at the same time. Women and men wearing ‘Judge Not’ logos on rainbow triangles hand out stickers, and information about the GLBT reality. Homosexuality is still illegal in India, I am shocked to learn. I take several stickers. Not enough for all my friends, but several. Music fills the air at every turn and drums beat many messages. Adding to the cacophony of thousands of people and many musical instruments are the four huge megaphones, installed on a tall pole at the Crossroads of the WSF. I will come to hate those megaphones, and to hope that Sally finds Harry at Seminar Room 2 – quickly.

Children and adults are handing out papers and flyers; conscious of recycling, I look at each one to see if I will read it. Silly me. Many are invitations to various seminar presentations tomorrow, and there is no program. In fact, it takes two days to get the program finalized and printed. No wonder, in the end it is the size of a tabloid newspaper, 120 pages long. What a place to be. I’m almost on my knees, but on my way home I can’t wait for tomorrow.

Almost home . . .

It’s the 30th of January; I’ve been in India for 23 days, and 9 of those were in Mumbai.

This morning I get off the bus without a second glance to see if this is really my stop. As I walk down the street I notice shops and faces, not just landmarks in each counted block before my turn. I see the man who sold me a converter earlier this week. He was not sure it would work, so I stop to tell him it is perfect. At last I can charge my camera battery without going to the neighbours. I nab a coffee and buy some pencils from a couple of local vendors. The pencils will be useful the next time I am surrounded by small children, while visiting an IWDI village. I turn the corner, walk another couple of blocks and arrive at IWDI, almost without thinking. This is the first morning I have not felt just a little vigilant as I made my way through new territory. Feels good.

For me, the worst part of traveling in a country where my language is not consistently understood is my dislike of being lost. This is not particularly rational as most times I have the cancer-causing cell phone and could call for help. But on the street, in a bus or behind the driver in a three-wheeler I want to know where I am – so today was a pleasant experience. I am oriented by almost three.

Of course I will never get more than a landmark or two during my time in either Chennai or Bangalore. These are BIG cities, where a taxi ride from the suburbs to the far side of the downtown area takes over an hour! Imagine. Just like Calgary.

Smog is a big feature of Chennai. The air in this city has a peculiar odor, part flowers and greenery, part damp dirt and, occasionally, part pungent garbage piles. These and other smells are overwhelmed by the lorry petrol fumes and other auto, motorbike and rickshaw pollution. Sometimes I am nearly bowled over by these smells when caught in a traffic jam or at a light. Most drivers turn off their engines, but enough don’t bother, and it makes breathing quite miserable. Of course, many of India’s vehicles are really old - the petrol guzzling lorries belch smoke, and 1950’s Ambassadors, well-maintained but with no emission protection, fill the air with sooty smells. The motorbikes are 150 to 200 cc and I am sure something could be done to improve their emission control. This is a major issue for all countries of the South, not just India. I have no idea how people with allergies survive; even I have developed a chronic cough.

29 January 2004

This morning I meet a woman on the bus who is an administrative secretary at Chennai’s Institute of Mental Health. She tells me this hospital has the largest outpatient treatment facility in the country, and the second largest inpatient hospital. She suggests that I come to see her hospital – right now. Well, why not? How lost can I be getting back? I can call IWDI on my handy cell phone and tell them I’ll be a little late, then phone again if unable to find enough breadcrumbs to get to the house.

We walk onto the grounds of the facility through huge open gates, guarded by only two security people – hardly security at all by Indian standards. There are concrete buildings scattered about, with seeming randomness as far as I can see. I learn from Mohana that the grounds cover more than 70 acres. She points out the walled, but not shut, women’s facility, and two buildings with men sitting in front. Almost everyone is colour coded; the female patients wear green shapeless gowns, the men blue shirts and pants. Female nursing staff are black-ribbon capped, and dressed in white, starched uniforms; students wear red and white sarees. Male nursing staff and students wear white shirts and pants. Psychiatrists, psychologists, social workers, OT's, RT’s and admin people wear civvies. I was able to ascertain this because Mohana left me waiting on a chair outside the Director’s Office, certain he would soon arrive and give permission for a tour of the facility. He never did arrive, but I was able to meet many staff and several nursing professors from the Madras U. Two notable people I met were a social worker and a psychiatrist.

Lakshmi is a Social Welfare Officer at IMH; she started here 36 years ago and somehow spent her entire career at the hospital. She will retire in June, at 58. She tells me this is the preferred retirement age in India. She gives me tons of information; a focused case history of IMH, crisp and clearly detailed. There are 1600 inpatients at IMH, 15 social workers, two recreational therapists and a lapsed OT position, currently filled by an OT instructor and her students. Lakshmi says the social workers cannot do justice to either the patients or the families; they are forever working in chaos. She talks about the social issues facing families, and the stigma endured by the patients, sometimes from their own families. Stigma regarding mental illness is huge in India, going well beyond anything I have ever seen in Canada. And I think Canada is pretty awful.

Angry that mental illness has come to their home, family members will sometimes drop the patient off at the IMH, pretending to be a friend or someone who saw them on the street. They hope this will allow them to simply abandon their family member forever. They feel justified in their anger because of karma – the patient must have done something wrong in the past life, and are now paying the price in this life. Why ought the entire family to suffer? This is indeed a rare moment for me, one where I cannot relate social problems to something very similar in Canada. I experienced much as a medical social worker, but karmic history was never part of the intervention.

Lakshmi talks about her roles. She and her peers provide individual and family social work treatment, plus awareness and education for family members and employers. Employer awareness is key to a person’s permission to return to work. The social workers do what they can to offer psychosocial interventions to patients, but often there is simply no time. Many of the duties assigned to these social workers are the same kind of extensive and endless tasks expected of workers in Canadian hospitals. Some are more challenging: occasionally a wandering and seemingly disturbed person will be brought to IMH by some good-hearted soul, or they may be sent in by a magistrate. The task for the social worker is to search for their address, attempt to contact relatives, obtain a useful social history and provide social work treatment. Whether admitted by family or from the street, 99% of the women and men treated at IMH are unable to pay. This does not mean they do not work, only that a mere 1% has sufficient income to pay. On discharge, the poor can’t afford their medications, nor can they afford the bus fare to get to outpatient IMH for free meds and day treatment. Some of this sounds like home …

There is a new Mental Health Act in India, passed in 1987. It replaced the Lunacy and Insanity Act of 1912. Lakshmi explains the process for voluntary admission [voluntary boarders], involuntary admission [civil certified by two magistrates and one medical officer, brought to the institution for observation and treatment], and doubtful cases, found by police and sent to IMH by the magistrate [civil supposed, certified by one medical officer for not more than one month, when the person may contact the magistrate for release]. Every month a visiting committee meets at IMH. It is composed of one magistrate and one medical officer from IMH, plus a group of retired volunteers: a psychiatrist, a psychologist, a civil servant and two social workers. This body reviews all magistrate and police cases, and decides if discharge will be approved. I am impressed that this happens monthly. How often do we review involuntary judicial cases, Jeanette? I’ve forgotten.

Eventually I must leave; Lakshmi and I agree that she will attempt to get permission for me to follow her for one day. What an opportunity that would be. As she is walking me out, we meet Dr. Nimbi, a psychiatrist and the Chennai IMH’s deputy director. We chat and he tells me some of my colleagues may be at Chennai’s International Conference on Schizophrenia – opening ceremonies are this evening. Would I like to come? Well, would I ever. He digs through his overfull briefcase; I spot a new text on Mental Illness and Community Intervention. Mmmmm. He finally comes up with the invitation. I wonder if it is okay for me to take his? Not a problem. By the way, when I return I must see the fairly new wing for the De-addiction Ward. I am and would be most grateful - hope to see him tonight.

I have nothing to wear. My dress salwar kammeez is undergoing its maiden dry-cleaning; after this washing only in cold water, ma’am. My other salwar kammeez is worn to bits and must be washed. Black pants, almost white shirt. At least the shirt has no bluing, as does every other white thing I own. Black socks cover my blacker feet. There has been no good water for two days because the pump is broken, so I spritz my hair, saline the rest of me, and rinse off in two cups of bottled water.

Scotty comes down to bargain with me for the three-wheeler. Rs. 150. No. Okay, Rs. 130. Away I go, and go, and go, and go, and the petrol fumes settle on my face at every long stop. I watch the passing shops become tonier, and note when we reach the diamond district. Lots of diamonds in Chennai, the stores keep flying past. At long last, we reach the hotel. I pay Rs. 150 – it was a very long drive. I head for the washroom; can’t see any petrol fumes on my face.

On the fence and in the lobby of this gorgeous hotel are banners announcing that the Chennai branch of SCARF, the Indian NGO dedicated to working with schizophrenic people and their families has organized this conference. I later learn that SCARF is a 20-year-old institution in Chennai. Their advertising, personal contact and incredible work has brought the International Association of Psychiatrists here in force - 30% of the attendees are from across the ocean. The President of the Intl. Association of Psychiatrists is here from Egypt, the MH director from WHO in Geneva, the British High Commissioner for something or other, and a few other dignitaries are greeted on the platform by the President – elect of the Indian Assoc. of Psychiatrists . . . my benefactor from IMH, Dr. Nimbi. Also on the platform is Dr. Thara, the director of SCARF. Her speech of thanks to the psychiatric association, her staff at SCARF, other associations for help and sponsorships, and most especially to her family and friends, is a marvel of grace and elegance. She begins by talking about the great importance of the Indian wedding, and how she sees this conference, bringing together old and new friends, as the culmination of the wedding plans.

And who else came to the wedding? Well, not the Minister of Health, whose neglect was graciously excused, but the Governor of Tamil Nadu managed to make it. He arrived early, accompanied by a white and red liveried guard, two military officers, and a couple of city cops. A handsome man with snow white hair, approaching seventy if not already there, Governor Rao is a consummate politician and seems like a very nice person as well. His address to the group begins with a humble recognition of their expertise, and a note of one thing he has already learned about schizophrenia through material from SCARF. He talks about his time as a young police officer, trained under the Insanity and Lunacy Act, out picking up lunatics and insane people, and for their lunacy sending them for incarceration in mental institutions or with their families. He talks about the new Mental Health Act and the National Institute of Mental Health, of which Chennai’s IMH is second largest. He recognizes the fact that in India 2 million people with mental illness are served by only 4,000 psychiatrists; nowhere near enough. I like him.

Well, the proceedings end about 8:30 PM. I look at the three rooms where dinner will be served, buffet style, and prepare to leave. But that nice man from SCARF, who opened the evening’s speeches, comes after me. Learning that I am a gatecrasher, generously invited by a Chennai psychiatrist, he still insists I stay. Dinner begins with tomato soup and croutons. I think this must be a staple of Indian fare because they even serve it on the train! I get into the wrong line-up and nearly end up with a plate full of chicken. Oh my, wrong line. Veg? Yes, lady, over there.

I see lots of Indians and one white couple in the vegetarian line. As we emerge, our plates filled delectables, I sidle over to chat. I learn that she is here with her husband, Grey Whelan, from the University of Melbourne. He teaches med students about addiction and the role of physicians in helping with recovery. He tells me he is also doing some intensive psychosocial teaching. Good stuff; how do the students engage with the material? Not too bad, but yes, it is as I found in the 80’s: if they can’t cut it or poke it, med students are not so eager to learn about it. However, Dr. Whelan has enough medically based material to keep them focused. He asks where my university is, and I tell him. I ask if he would happen to know my colleague, Bob Mullaly. Well, of course. Fine fellow. Liked at Melbourne U.

I carry on, talk to lots of people, and tell the very bored wife of a young Egyptian psychiatrist that she is in the middle of the diamond district. Ah yes. She visibly perks. Time to go, and suddenly Dr. Nimbi is at my elbow. I am happy to have the opportunity to say thank you, and good luck with the busy presidency ahead. Oh yes, I’ll see you at the hospital.

Here I am now, miles from home and ready to sleep. I approach the three-wheeled bandits sitting under the flyover. Korattur? Korrateur, lady? Might as well be the moon, have to deadhead back, blah blah, sit in the rickshaw and we will get a price. Much chatter. Ah yes, Rs. 400. I don’t even look cross any more, I just smile and say, ‘I will take the bus’ as I alight. No, no, lady how much do you think? Lady thinks Rs. 170. No, must be Rs. 250.
‘Sorry, lady must take the bus.’ Desperation. Rs. 200. We have a deal. Smiles all around. Then, 10 minutes into the ride, the driver pulls up in front of a fabulous Ali Baba-type store and invites me to go in and look - for 5 minutes only. What’s the point? I have no money! And we are off to Korattur. It was easier this time. . .

A pic is worth . . .

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I guess I have about 850 to show you! A combination of happenings, which I won't even begin to recount, ended in the loss of my first pics: Singapore and my first week in Chennai. Lucky me, I discovered this pitfall before unloading any more memories into recalcitrant computers. I don't seem able to get rid of the Singapore pic button, added so hopefully a month ago, so I will leave it and upload the rest . . . maybe. Here's hoping, because I do have some stellar snaps, particularly of the WSF. I'm catching up on my writing and hope to upload my WSF notes soon. Cheers, j.