India Travels

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.