Saying goodbye to Chennai is not easy. I return to my dear family filled with stories of Rajasthan and the Dalai Lama, with only a few days before I set off again. So many wonderful people, so many goodbyes – I’m sighing as I write. In my absence the weather gets hot, taking over the lives of people in Chennai. Everyone hates the heat, and all talk about survival tactics to last to the end of June. Each night when I return home I wish someone could just pick me up and wring me out, like laundry.
One of my stellar goodbyes is to faculty and students at the Madras Christian College School of Social Work. This fabulous School is located on the edge of Chennai, in a delightfully rural setting. Faculty and students speak excellent English. Not only is all instruction in English, but conversations among peers are also in English. I enjoy this time because I sit in many conversations with English speakers where the language used is Kanada, or Hindi or Tamil. I offer this as an observation, not a complaint – but sometimes I feel a bit odd, knowing I am the topic of a conversation I don’t understand.
MCC SSW is the School that sponsors the International Human Rights Conference in October each year. The students are the ones I met on the train to the WSF – the ones whose singing led me to their car. I’m so impressed with these students, their faculty and the radical curriculum of the School.
We meet on the 2nd of April, and talk about social work in India and in Canada. As usual, I learn more than I teach. And at the end of our time together – a birthday cake with a lighted candle and, written in icing, Happy Birthday Jane Birkbeck! And I am happy – students and faculty all took time to write a note on my birthday card. Pretty special.
My sleepy family members are all up to say good-bye to me at 4:00 AM on April 3rd, as I prepare to leave for the train. I am sad, and deal with my feelings by not saying goodbye, just ‘I’ll be back’. These four wonderful people mean so much to me; how would I have landed in India without their care and support?
I arrive in Bangalore five hours later. What a treat it is to step off the train at 11:00 AM and feel a cool, dry breeze wash over me. After four days in Chennai, with temperatures of 38 and humidity at 77%, it’s almost chilly.
This is the Garden City, so named because people have gardens on their property. It is also the city of green and lush parks, and trees that canopy over the thoroughfares. It is a cosmopolitan city, with outdoor cafes and jazz fusion. Sometimes it feels a bit Vancouver-ish. At a favorite coffee shop, close to my new home, the young barista starts a long Americano, two sugar and a little milk, as I choose an outdoor table. This is not a menu item – he created it for my Canadian tastes. I sit and watch the many young people out for coffee. Young women make up at least 25% of the crowd, something I’ve not seen elsewhere in India.
Bangalore seems like a very middle class town, and although I know there are many areas yet to explore, I think I’m right. I live in a middle to upper class Brahmin home, with a young woman and her widowed mother. I work in a middle class agency that provides counseling and legal assistance to women, as well as a free drop-in gym and a physician’s service each Friday. The mandate is to provide support and help to women who are, or will become, achievers – hence the name, the Guild of Woman Achievers. So far I have edited an English book for pregnant mothers, and written a proposal to fund a female candidate in the elections.
The auto drivers all have meters, and only one ran me around with his meter off before I caught the drift. I must confess it is really nice not to have to bargain for my ride each time. Everyone still honks their horns, but the noise is not nearly so intrusive as in other towns. The roadways are incredibly clean. I find garbage cans on the street, and have yet to see or smell a pile of garbage. Today I see lorry collecting garbage from the street cans. I see two small slums, houses constructed of blue tarps, on my way to GOWA each day. I wonder where the real slum is, and know I will surely find it, eventually.
People on the street, and in the shops, are unfailingly polite and generous. This part of India is just the same. The rest seems different, somehow, and part of me is missing the frenzy, the chaos, the dirt, the incredible noise. Silly, eh?
It’s not all sweetness here. My next post is about racism and human rights, and my lovely friend Govindama. Govindama works at GOWA. She cleans, makes dosa batter for sale to members, and opens and closes the gym. She is smart, savvy, and underpaid.
This is the story: Last Thursday, at coffee, I ask all the GOWA women if anyone will come with me on Friday night, to a jazz fusion gig at a club called 1912. Silence, 'til Govindama speaks up, “I’ll come, madam!” [We’re working on the madam, Govindama and me.] Anyway, this 42-year-old gutsy lady came to 1912, and, when she was refused admission, handled herself with profound grace and dignity. For me it was a disaster; Govindama rose above, and only later complained of a bit of a headache. My next post gives all the details. Titled Animal Rights or Human Rights, it is my letter to the editor of the Deccan Herald, Bangalore’s middle class neighbourhood paper. What are the chances of publication, do you suppose? It is now Tuesday and I’ve not seen it, so I guess it hit file 19.
But, there are two happy outcomes. At a housing workshop near Chennai I met Latha, who lives in Bangalore. I’m invited for dinner almost as soon as I’m unpacked in Bangalore. At dinner I meet Latha’s husband, Paul, who is the Indian representative for the Norwegian Human Rights Foundation in Bangalore. A very knowledgeable man, and a terrific conversationalist – I make another friend. So, faced with 1912’s racism, who do I call? And Paul responds.
Last night we meet at 1912, have a coffee, plan our strategy, and head into the club. It takes a long time, and runs the gamut from the racism the club manager experienced traveling in the UK to whether or not Govindama’s sari was suitable for the dress code. The security guard is called in, and obediently lies. Eventually education enters the fray. I’ve been quiet so far, but now it’s time to make my pitch. I talk about human rights education in Canada, the racism that Indian people experience in my country, and the response of human rights advocates. I put out a suggestion of human rights education for 1912 staff. The manager may be in agreement; at least he nods. I note that as the manager, he is likely in a position to influence policy at the club. He looks vaguely interested, and nods again. We leave it at that; it’s been a long, tense hour. I walk out of the club, wondering, what was the point? And then one of three young valets runs after us, to say they are all sorry. The security guard is also sorry. One small step.
The other happy side is that tonight Govindama and I are off to the Palace Grounds where, with two front-row tickets in hand, we will enter and we will hear Enrique Iglesias Live. Imagine, she agreed to try again! Such grace and courage. I have much to learn.