India Travels

My Electoral Errors

Setting the record straight:

As I read today’s paper I see that I made too many mistakes in yesterday’s post, and resolve to correct them before day’s end.

What was I thinking? The Electronic Voting Machines don’t require electricity - they are battery operated. Scratch all those heavy generators. On the other hand, there is a fabulous pic in the paper of two elephants, their drivers sitting proudly atop, moving through the jungle. The caption reads: ‘Jumbo carriers . . . Security personnel escort election officials transporting EVMs on elephants to polling stations in Assam on the eve of elections.’

The paper also reports that some potential voters in Assam are less concerned with politics than with the early arrival of the monsoon. There is a river near Dhubri called the Bramaputra, which annually renders thousands of people homeless. Sweeping across the agricultural lands, flooding causes a huge loss of crops as it buries cultivated land under tons of water. Problems of poverty and unemployment just get worse. Health and educational facilities are the exception; Dhubri ranks last on Assam’s Human Development Index. Voting is not a priority.

The BJP is NOT the party in power; in fact it is the NDA. The National Democratic Alliance is a coalition government of 22 Federal parties. Imagine. The BJP has the majority of the seats, but in order to break the Congress dynasty or monopoly on power, it was necessary for all these parties to cooperate in coalition. And indeed they have, with good success. The BJP is, of course, hoping for more seats this time, so the coalition will be a bit smaller!

Yesterday was NOT the only Election Day in India, another round is planned for April 26. There simply are not enough EVMs for all constituencies to vote at once. This round, 17.5 crore were eligible to vote. That is 175,000,000 people. Voter turnout averaged 55% in the 16 states and union territories where voting took place. Officials worried about voter turnout due to the unseasonable heat. Summer came early to India this year, and voters know they will wait in long queues for their turn to cast their ballot, or press a button to be precise. As well, there are areas where people must walk for some kilometers in the heat to cast their vote.

I was right about the dearth of female candidates, but I did not know the depth of the problem. A total of 1,103 people contested the 140 Lok Sabha [parliamentary] seats yesterday – 81 of those were women. A Reservation Bill has been in front of the Parliament for some time, which would see a 33% quota for women in Lok Sabha. It has yet to be passed. In an interview today, Prime Minister Vajpayee mused that men really are more electable, so the Reservation Bill must be made law. “Maybe for 33% women, maybe for 25% . . . ” Maybe.

A Reservation Bill is the equivalent of Canadian equity legislation, and certainly there have been delays in implementing our equity laws. So it is in India, where another Reservation Bill, also yet to be passed, would see 33% hiring of women into the Public Service. There is vocal opposition to this Bill, as you may well imagine.

Much effort goes in to ensuring an honest election process. For instance, when people register to vote, one finger on their right hand is painted with indelible ink. This is to dissuade people from voting twice. Many people did not have a chance to vote even once. There were a vast number of reports from people who, because their names were missing on the voter’s list, were unable to vote - even though they produced voter’s cards and other ID. Many protested they had voted in the same place for years, yet could not vote yesterday. Often these protests turned violent, and there are reports of EVMs and whole polling stations being destroyed, even in Bangalore, as well as other places in India.

Much effort goes into ensuring a peaceful election process. In Bangalore alone, there were 5,000 police officers deployed yesterday. In Bihar, a state known for its outlaws, lawlessness and violence, shoot on sight orders were issued against anyone attempting to disrupt the polling process.

In other states, reports of ‘left-wing extremists’ in the more impoverished areas filled last night’s news. When I asked my family who these people were, they said “anti-rich people”. I expect the UCC School of Social Work might refer to some of these left-wing extremists as ‘protesters’.

As far as violent behavior goes, there are different reviews of the day’s events. The local newscast and newspaper reports 20 killed in election violence; the national paper reports 30 killed. Both report untold numbers of people injured. I sit here thinking: 175 million people voted, in a country where many areas are racked by poverty, others by communalism and unspeakable human rights abuses, others by political grudges that span decades, others by problems I know I cannot imagine. Elections give some people a moment of optimism, of hope that the problems that plague them may somehow get better. Of course I am saddened that 30 people died; perhaps even more. I’m also amazed it was not many, many more. But then, India is just an amazing country.

Election Day India

India votes today. 700 million people are eligible, and there is a concerted effort to get the vote out across India. Last night India’s President, a mostly titular position, gave an impassioned speech on radio and television, asking people to exercise their sacred duty to vote in this, the world’s largest democracy.

Imagine the complexity of establishing voting stations in India. Since the last election, when people placed a thumbprint beside the party of their choice, India has introduced electronic balloting. Yesterday I saw more busses than I could quickly count, lining the side of a Bangalore road. They were all ready to be loaded with machines and polling clerks this morning, and bussed to the polling stations.

Some of these electronic machines will be hauled up steep mountain roads, in trucks equipped with generators for those villages without electricity. And even though there are few places without power in India, back-up generators will be needed in all those little villages where the power may go out - and the power goes out a lot. Other machines will be set up in agricultural areas where the population is widely dispersed. And I wonder if any machines will reach all those nomadic people in the deserts of Rajasthan? A complex business, voting in India.

Voters who get to the polling stations will press a button beside the party name, and/or logo, of their choice. The party name will be written in English and one local language – Kanada in Karnataka, Tamil in Tamil Nadu, Malyalum in Kerala, Telegu in Andhra Pradesh, and Hindi in the northern states. As you can see, the southern states made a concerted effort to retain their own languages. For those who can’t read, there is the party logo.

And, because so many people cannot read, logo identification is a huge part of the election process in India. I don’t know how many adults are illiterate, but I can tell you that in this country of over 1 billion people, 40% are children and 25% of those, or 100 million children, are not in school. As with all statistics, this one is layered – some of those children are pre-school. Still, imagine how many adults in India function in their world every day, although they don’t read. Those who vote will use the party logo.

Logos are everywhere. Painted on walls and houses, plastered on poles and storefronts, waving in the air. Small plastic flags, attached to strings, criss-cross the streets and climb from the metal fences surrounding the traffic circles up to the top of the center posts. Three logos predominate in Bangalore: The lotus is the symbol of the BJP, the party of business currently in power and likely to win again; an open hand, thumb tucked in, identifies the Congress, the center-left party of Nehru and the Gandhi dynasty; and a woman carrying a sheaf on her head represents the Janata Dal’s focus on agriculture. The BJP and Congress colours are orange, green and white, the colour of India’s flag; the Janata Dal is green and blue. There are other parties, of course, and a large Independent contingent.

Many women, refused the right to contest the nomination in their party of choice, will run in this election on an Independent ticket. The newspapers report a sharp decline in the number of women nominees in all the major parties, compared to the last assembly elections. Party backroom people, questioned and quoted in the papers, say that men are more winnable than women candidates. So women have no choice but to run as Independents. And before I say ‘ain’t it awful’, I stop to consider - how different is it in Canada?

There are differences, of course, and this campaign has highlighted some of them. I don’t know enough about Hindutva to comment at length, but I’m told the movement represents the militant religious wing of the BJP. Its job, I think, is to protect the Hindu faith and way of life in India. Currently, 85% of India is Hindu, yet I hear some Hindu people discuss their fears of being overrun by Muslims. There’s an interesting human rights twist to this discussion, as by law Muslims are allowed to marry four wives, Hindus only one. I’ve heard that this right must be denied to Muslims. Like the electoral process, marriage is a complex institution in India. There are marriage and divorce laws written for Hindus, Christians, Muslims, Parsi’s, and even secular laws for foreigners - all are different. Miscellaneous laws include the Dowry Prohibition Act of 1961 and the Child Marriage Restraint Act, 1929. I mention all this because it gives a bit of a window into the diversity of opinion one might expect to find in India.

One of the outcomes of this diversity is communalism. Communalism, as near as I can figure, is the coming together of people from one religious group to take action against those from another religious group. Recent newspapers have been filled with streetcorner skirmishes and clashes between Hindus and Muslims, between BJP and Congress party members, and between separate wings of the BJP, who represent candidates with divergent views. In all cases, men are fighting one another, and in some of these cases, a death occurs. I’ve seen no fights of any kind, although I have skirted around some raised voices during an evening walk.

The infighting in the paper is rampant, and I understand almost none of it. However, I follow the trail of Sonja Gandhi, Rajiv Gandhi’s widow. Rajiv, you may remember, was the assassinated son of Indira Gandhi, blown up by two Tamil Tigers from Sri Lanka. Before that, his mother was assassinated by her guards, after she sent Hindu troops into the Sikh Golden Temple at Amritser. Rajiv was married to Sonja, an Italian woman, and when he died she took over his place at the head of the Congress party. Well, there’s been a hue and cry that a foreigner ought not to be the Prime Minister of India, and Sonja is a foreigner. There’s been talk by the BJP that they will actually pass a law forbidding foreign leadership, after the election. The Congress Party answers this with allegations of BJP Hindutva, and examples of other foreign heads of state. Congress candidates say that their secular party will provide better leadership than the religion-based BJP party.

It’s a massive country with layers of meaning. If I stayed for a decade how much would I understand? I’ll never know. But the tiny bit I’ve learned is incredible, and I appreciate the chance to share my confusion with you on this Election Day. BTW, my heart is with the Congress, but my money is on the BJP. India is happy, by and large, and much of that happiness comes from prosperity – all those outsourced jobs, employment by transnational companies, foreign investment to build new airports and dams, and, of course, jobs created in India by Indians. The BJP gets the credit for all this, and I expect they will get the vote. All the usual suspects will make it to the polling station, and the people displaced by those dams and airports? Or working in forced labour to produce for those TNC's? Well, the displaced migrated to Mumbai, where they now live in Asia's largest slum, so they won't have a voter's card. And the families working in forced labour are prisoners, not allowed to leave their place of employment. But there are a lot of people doing very well in India, and I'm going home now to see how they vote.

The Concert Experience

And it is an experience. Govindama and I arrive early and I promptly join the first queue I see – the wrong queue. Thirty or so minutes later, when a youngster catches sight of our ticket colour, we hurry across the fairgrounds to the Rs. 900 line-up. Govindama takes in the situation and, grabbing my hand, strides briskly past the people waiting in this shorter queue, until we are about four rows back from the gate. Her reasoning is we’ve been here for a long time. It works for her, and no one is shouting at us, so . . .

The gate opens and people are checked by security guards, one at a time. Need more guards, I think, people are pushing. I finally reach the entrance. The guard strips me of my cold drink, popcorn and water bottle. I complain about the water bottle, but who’s listening? We hasten past the food and water booths to … an open field with a metal concert stage, holding many drums and hung with lights. Hung with men, too, still at work, high in the air. I register that there are no seats. This is a stand-up concert, just as I feared. Govindama and I dash to the metal-fenced square about a hundred feet from the stage. Turns out to be the protection for the sound booth, and we get a great leaning place, with a three inch top rail. We’re on the side of the fence that faces the stage, standing on a three-inch riser. Best seat in the house, just as I hoped.

The warm-up band features five young men from Goa, and this is just a great chance for their 6-year-old band. I’m thrilled for them, even as I endure their 70’s heavy metal set, mostly Van Halen. I flash to an old memory, telling my boys to turn that music off! Blocking the sound, I smile at the three police officers in saris, standing inside the enclosure. I watch as porters bring in 15 white slipcovered chairs. I tell Govindama if they are for political people I’m not going to vote on April 20th. She chuckles, and later points as a Minister’s daughter, from the state government party, arrives with her retinue. More political types come, and then, I think, three cricket players.

Eventually the boys from Goa finish, and we wait. And wait. When Enrique finally hits the stage, 25 minutes later, my first thought is that a bad hair night caused his lateness. His head is fully covered by a brownish skullcap. From a distance, the cap looks crocheted. Won’t he be hot, I wonder? He greets the crowd and bangs into some really loud, heavy-bass tunes with great singing and good back-up vocals. It gets the crowd going. I enjoy most of this, and then – wonder of wonders – he swings into an acoustic set. Maybe he saw me, and the other 18 people my age? I lean on the fence, swaying to ‘Stand by Me’, ‘Knock, Knock, Knockin’ on Heaven’s Gate’ and all those other old and wonderful memory tunes. Someone sets a red leather couch on the stage, the back-up singers lean against it, the guitar players sit on or behind it. Reminds me of that Burton Cummings set in Kamloops, July 2000. Enrique’s mannerisms remind me of my youngest son, Shawn. The kids are waving their arms, a few lighters burn aloft, and altogether I’m having a great time. Oh, except for the people behind me who are leaning on and over me, striving for a better view. Kind of feels like the train from Mumbai, all that leaning.

The set ends and the heavy bass returns. Govindama and I look at each other; we’re out of here. On the way home she confides that was her first English music experience, and offers to take me to a Hindi concert. I tell her I can't wait. The auto drives her home first, through bumpy, narrow streets with lots of young kids still wandering about just after 10 PM. I remind myself it is now school holidays, and hope most of them are in school. Dogs lay across the narrow roads, deeply asleep. The auto stops to wake them, then moves forward. The houses look small, but sturdy. Govindama invites me in, and we agree on next time. Fun night.

Human rights or animal rights?

Here is a letter to the editor of the Bangalore Deccan Herald. Its genesis is described in the post below this, titled Bangalore: The Garden City.

Animal rights flourished at Nineteen Twelve: The Living Room, on Friday, April 9, while human rights took a flogging.

This “retro bar and restaurant on St. Mark’s Road” was featured in Thursday’s Deccan Herald, Metro Life section. The article described the evening as a benefit concert to support a wildlife project in Nagarhole. It offered “retro fusion music by Firefly . . . for all music lovers.” But not for my friend and colleague, who was stopped dead at the door.

We arrived early and smiled at the khaki-clad security guard as we mounted the steps. He smiled back into my white face and said, “You cannot take your servant into the club, madam.” I replied that the lady with me was my friend and work colleague. He disappeared into Nineteen Twelve to confer with others. We followed.

A young man and a younger woman, with faces slightly less brown than my friend’s, searched for our reservation. Then, together, they disappeared through a door behind the reservation desk, and up a flight of stairs.

They returned to inform me that the evening was “a private party.” I reminded them of the Herald’s five column spread, complete with coloured photo of Firefly and invitation to call for reservations.

They fell back on my lost reservation. The club was full, with 75 reservations. I observed that seating existed for more than 75 persons. But there was no getting past the colour of my friend’s skin. Or was it her caste? Is there some way people can tell, without even asking, just by looking?

As a Canadian, I cannot answer that question. But as a human rights law professor I have no difficulty recognizing a human rights violation when it slaps me in the face. My friend was the victim of racial discrimination, based on colour or caste. She was denied a service customarily available to the public - the right to buy a ticket and hear a concert.

In Canada, people from India and Canadians of Indian origin are routinely denied their human rights in the areas of services, housing and employment. Such blatant racism is both shameful and painful. So it was on Friday night, when I saw three Indian people discriminate against a sister.

As a foreigner, I cannot file a human rights complaint in India. However, I hope the good people of Bangalore will think twice before they patronize businesses and bars that discriminate against some Indian people, but not others.

Bangalore: The Garden City

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.

On to Pushkar

I’m ready to leave Bikaner after a day and a half. Three days ago I scrubbed Jaisalmer from the tour, yesterday I cut Jodphur. Only Pushkar and Jaipur to go, but at least I will have a couple of days in each place. All in all, five days travelling and five days sightseeing. Next time I’ll pick places closer together, on better roads. I forgot to mention that the road from Churu to Bikaner is a one lane; when lorries approach Sunder carefully drives the car off the edge of the highway and down to the sand below. It’s a drop.

We are on the highway by 7:00 AM because I daren’t eat; not even coffee. My stomach is grateful. Sundar is excited; he tells me several times that Pushkar is a very holy city, and many people stay longer than intended. I’m templed out, so I hope Pushkar has more to offer.

We average an outstanding 45 km. per hour, and reach Pushkar before noon. The hotel looks good, complete with pool. The hotel owner is a treat – he calls me his elder sister. I look at him and ask to see his driver’s license. I get a great room, overlooking the mountains. For a few minutes I even turn on the air conditioner, even though I know it is bad for the lungs. I have a shower under what turns out to be the best shower I’ve found in all of India. What a fabulous treat. Of course the drought is raging in Rajasthan, too, so I make an effort to get clean and get out.

I’m in the city by early afternoon. Pushkar is built around a lovely lake, with ghats [steps] leading down to the holy water from the many temples that surround the lake. Because it is a holy city, vehicular traffic is prohibited during the day. What a welcome relief to dodge only the odd motorbike.

A young man approaches me with a greeting and some flower petals. After the usual welcome and what country am I from, he directs me into a temple. It must be one of the main ones, I think, judging by the list of Rules for Foreigners painted on the concrete, in yellow and black. I take a picture of the Rules – one of the rules is no pictures of the ghat, but surely the Rules don’t count? I head carefully down the steps, alert for rats. I’ll be on Rat Patrol for some time, I expect. No rats, only a priest, and I successfully negotiate the right to say my own prayer and toss my flower in the water. I learned in Chennai these blessings can be expensive items, so I routinely pass. Nice of him to let me, I later learn, as I poke my head into another temple or two. In my last one, a man in a white jacket and trousers, wearing an orange sash, accousts me, impatiently presses a flower towards my hand, and points me in the direction of the ghat. I say no, thank you, and begin to sidle backwards. He shouts, what is wrong with me? I have no respect! and similar imprecautions. I escape, slightly shaken.

And, between temples, now viewed only from the outside, I look at the goodies displayed by the Rajasthan merchants. Many goodies, and many foreign people buying them up. I have not seen so many foreigners since the Singapore airport. I hear accents from Australia and Great Britian, language from Scandanaia, Italy, France and places I can’t identify. This is a popular tourist destination, but I am not sure why.

By the next moring I think I have figured it out. The cafes all serve Western food, the pace is slower than in other Indian towns, and almost everyone speaks English. This is a great stop for the foreigner overwhelmed by India. I am quite enjoying myself.

As I walk into the old city I turn left, and meander down a dusty little street. All the corner merchants direct me to continue straight, toward the lake. They are quite insistent. I tell them I am exploring, and I find . . . the Maharaja Camel Tour office – actually, it is a table in the sand, surrounded by great signage. Gopal, the young salesperson, calls me over. He extolls the virtues of a two or three hour sunset cruise over the desert on a camel. I am almost sold but what, I wonder, is the cost? Rs. 50 per hour, ma’am. About $3.20 for two hours. I sign up, not knowing that I have been given the cut-rate price. Perhaps I still look shellshocked from the days of driving? I spend the day in fairly mindless activity. [That means I don’t do any shopping: shopping can be a curse, I’ve learned. And it is hard work.]

I meet the temple-crier from yesterday as I turn the corner and head for the lake street. He accousts me again, even more vociferously than before. Must be a slow time for blessings. I say, pleasently, ‘Sir, you accosted me yesterday, and you are accousting me again today. If you do not stop, I shall call a police man’. My clear communication works like a charm.

As I continue on, the gypsies run up to me, merrily greeting me as a favoured friend from many years past. They are all so beautiful, I ask if I may take a picture. Of course. While I am taking it, the youngest woman begins to henna my right hand. I take a pic of that, too. These’s one born every minute, as my father used to say. We repair to a quieter place where Camilla, the younger gypsy’s mom, orders a Pepsi, says it is good luck for me to pay, and begins the other hand. She slips a ring on my forefinger; for me to remember her. We are sisters. We discuss the Sisterhood, and how gypsies are treated in Rajasthan. Much better than the Roma people in Slovakia, I learn. And then it is time to pay for the henna. Camilla would like Rs. 500; even I am shocked. We talk price goodnaturedly, then I get out my wallet. I lay out all my money for the day: four 100 rupee notes, and three 10’s. What would she like? Well, she would like it all. But I want some, too. We agree she will take Rs. 220 and I will pay the other 10 for her Pepsi. The henna is lovely, the two different patterns intriguing. Walking around town throughout the day I see that the gypsies are also the local sex-trade workers, and I feel better about my donation.

There is a temple I want to see, the only Brahmin Temple in India, so they say. I walk in and suddenly realise, after negotiating all those hot marble steps in my bare feet, that I do not have a handkerchief to cover my head. I use a map, but it leaves something to be desired. When I exit the Temple I head into one of Pushkar’s largest fabric shops, and ask to buy a hankerchief. The owner does not sell such, but he sends me to the back, with his son, to have someone cut me a hankie from a bolt of material. I hunt for a remnant and finally find something fairly small. As I am hunting, and the man is cutting, I see the shop. Lots of happy people. I mention this to the owner as I thank him for my new headcovering. He is pleased. Of course he will not let me pay for the cloth, but I am welcome to take pics of his shop. He is a huge exporter to Canada. No, he never heard of SA 8000, but he is interested, and clearly a good employer. I go back and take shots of the sorting room, sewing room and open areas. Everyone is smiling. I wonder where the handloomed fabric comes from, and, for once, I decide not to ask. It is good to see well employed people in good working conditions. It reminds me that not all of India is abusing workers in the fabric business.

And at last it is time for my camel safari. There are three other people. As promised, I have the best camel. Another man wants him, but Gopal says I saw him first. Sharvin, the camel driver, tells me which way to lean and gets Johnney up. It’s a long way up. Sharvin walks beside the camel for the first hour. I ask if he would like my sandals; his thongs don’t look so good for desert walking. Of course he says no. After about an hour we take a break. The camel goes down and I intuit which way to lean. Jane of Arabia. Ha, I think, more like L.M. Montgomery’s Jane of Lantern Hill. After the break Sharvin joins me on the camel. I learn that a camel saddle is huge; Sharvin is sitting almost a foot behind me. I find out he is 21, and started to learn the camel-driving business when he turned 12. He does farm work in the off-season. I don’t ask about school. We talk about agriculture and the Camel Festival in October/ November/ December each year, depending on the moon. He calls me mama, in two sharp syllables. I’m having fun.

Back in town Gopal calls me over for a chai. I love this custom; whether buying or not, visitors to a shop are offered chai. We talk about the overnight safari he has organised for tomorrow night. Ah, too bad, I leave in the morning. Curious, I ask for more details. Two and one-half hours into the desert, set up camp, the camel drivers lay out blankets, cook supper over a fire, sometimes sing. Lemon tea at bedtime, bananas and chai in the morning. Sounds good. I say I will go to my hotel and think. Gopal tells me to be there at 8 the next morning if I want to go – he has to make arrangements for food. I think I knew as I left that I would change my plans, and, of course, I sign up the next morning, not quite at 8:00 AM, but close.

I have a gentle day, just talking with the people I have met. Late in the morning I go back to the hotel for a shower and a sleep. I pack my cell phone so I can call my children from the desert, and Sundar drives me to the old town late in the afternoon. He seems unworried about my overnight camel safari, which surprises me. Must be the influence of the holy city.

There are six people on this tour: three young women and a man from Israel, Muriel from Switzerland, and her companion, Richard. Muriel is taking a break from married life, her husband and her two children. I wish my French were better so we could talk more about this interesting concept. Richard is a social activist with a UK singing and percussion group called Seize the Day. They have a website, www.seizetheday.org. They were in Seattle to sing at the WTO protest. They are funded by organizations like Greenpeace. Richard and I have lots to talk about, and later, in the dark desert, we sing.

The trip out is grand. I’ve caught onto the rythym of Johnney’s walk, and I sit relaxed as Sharvin points out antelope, small black and white birds with 9” legs, mango trees, irrigation, small and market-garden-sized flower farms, and chapatti flour – I recognise it as barley. Flowers are a huge trade in Pushkar, because of the temples, and Sharvin tells me they also sell to neighbouring towns. It is so nice to see the desert slowly. We pass the Canada-Rajasthan Water Project, suitably flagged on the metal sign. Sharvin is so pleased to show me this 1989 initiative. I don’t tell him that Canada now spends less than 1% of GNP on foreign assistance. But I think about it. Shameful, isn't it?

We arrive at the campsite and everyone but me goes for a desert walk. I stay and watch the feverish activity as the camel drivers set up camp, collect twigs, unpack wood, and get the fire going in the pit. Food comes off the backs of camels; cleverly hidden under blankets. One youngster, about ten or twelve, acts as kitchen helper to the man who is obviously the cook. I learn he is that man's son. I watch with interest, and no sense of sadness whatsoever, as this child, who has probably never seen the inside of a schoolroom, learns the family business. This is just a hint of my thinking these days; when I have it a little more together I'll write about it.

Sharvin brings me two blankets, decides one is not clean enough, and gets another. My cell phone does not work in the desert, and I suddenly realise I ought to have packed my jacket. Sharvin realises he has forgotten his knife – do I have one? Ah yes, Swiss Army, unfortunately sitting on the dash of the car. Later, he cuts himself with the small knife on the Leatherman that one of my co-travellers produced. I could call an ambulance, if the cell phone worked, but my bandaids and so far unused antiseptic pads are at the hotel, in my make-up case. Jane of Lantern Hill. Next time I’ll think more about the packing.

We eat a delicious meal of rice, dal, and chapatti balls, cooked in the fire. So good. Everyone is tired. Richard and I exchange protest songs, sometimes singing along with one another. Sharvin slips me another heavy quilt; even without my jacket I am not going to be cold. And everyone goes to sleep but me. How can they sleep with the stars shining so brilliantly? I stay awake for a long time, looking and thinking. Rajasthan has not been the holiday I expected, but there have been some lovely moments, and this one is unforgettable. I store it up in my memory bank, kicking out a few hundred miles of narrow, rutted road, to make room.

Small disclaimer: This computer has Word 97, and no spell check. The errors got by me . . .

On the Road to Rajasthan

Off to Bikaner, which I think is about 16 hours away, on the other side of Rajasthan. Sundar thinks we will get a long way but it is now 2:30 PM and I am not hopeful. We start down the mountain but don’t reach the bottom. Darkness falls, and we are still winding around the curves. I forget that I have to eat, and by the time we stop I am too tired, and my stomach hurts. There is no coffee. We go on and on, stop for two lorry accidents. No one is hurt, but each time the two lorries block the narrow road, nose to nose. It takes a while. Maybe an hour, but I don’t look. Finally I must lay down on the back seat. My back is on fire. What on earth am I doing here?

At midnight, we get to Chandigar, still in the province of Himachel Pradesh. We have yet to traverse Haryanya before we get to Rajasthan. If Sundar was not such a sweet kid I would call the tour off. But he is so eager, so thrilled that I insisted on him as my driver, and so excited to take me to Rajasthan. I grit my teeth, hard. Harder when I see the room. But it is a bed, and I fall in.

I’m up at 6:30-ish, we hit the road at 7:30. Today I will remember to eat. Today Sundar thinks we will get to Bikaner. We drive across Haryana, its agricultural delights somewhat less thrilling the second time through. But I am taken with the tractors and bullock carts pulling huge, and I mean huge, carts loaded with hay that is wrapped in white sheeting to keep the load on the cart. The sides of the hay almost touch the ground on each side. I wonder how they get the hay on the cart, but never see the work in progress. This is a productive state: rice and other grain is being harvested, as is sugar cane. It, too, goes by piled impossibly high on the carts.

Darkness falls. We drive, and drive. And drive. We cross into Rajasthan – if there is a big sign welcoming me to this desert state, I can’t see it in the dark. I hit the back seat. After sixteen hours of driving, interrupted by two one-hour stops for flat tires, and with very few stops for chai – there are no tea stalls that serve coffee on this road – we arrive in Churu. I look at the room. It is a bed. I am so cross with myself for taking this tour. I tell Sundar I will be ready at 6:30 AM. He looks at me with such compassion and tells me I am tired. We will start at 7:30. And I reflect that nothing is ever all bad – or all good.

Another morning. The sun gathers strength. Merciless is a good adjective. I wonder why it is always on my side of the car? A peacock runs across the road; I am unimpressed. One peacock does not make a picnic. I fashion a blind from the dark green scarf of my salwar kameez and roll it up into the window. Better. Why did I not think of this before? I can’t have the window down anyway, the air is so dry. My mouth is a raisin, the rest of my face a prune. If Pam could see me now she would certainly stop for moisturizers. I decide that is a fine idea, and stop at a Chemist’s Shop. All they have is cold cream with aloe, but it can’t hurt. I buy another gel for back pain, my Tiger Balm long gone.

We drive and drive some more. The desert is not just an open expanse of sand dunes; stunted trees and grasses break up the landscape. I see many camels and I am finally thrilled. They are pulling carts, for the most part, very few carry a person. They hold their noses high in the air – smelling water? They flap their fat lips all the time. Does this keep their lips from turning into raisins, I wonder? They place their feet with royal grace, slowly covering the ground. The camels are my absolute favorites of all the animals I have seen since my arrival in India.

We get to Bikaner. It is noon, our first short drive. My spirits pick up ‘til I learn there is no room in the hotel. We drive to another and the owner, taking one look at my exhausted face, decides to give me a lovely room. Heavy, carved, Queen Anne furniture, a king-sized carriage bed, a decent shower and a faux fireplace, with little blue peacocks pained on its white surface. I appreciate them. I shower, sleep, and start this note on the owner's office computer. It is too hot to go out yet.

At 4:00 we head off to the famous Jungrath Fort. A young guide is sitting in an alcove just inside the fort; he tells me all the good reasons why I should hire him. After my experience with young Babua in Agra, whom I will eventually tell you about, I hire Issu immediately. We get my ticket, and head off at a good clip, up the steep rise with raised concrete lines that once helped elephants traverse the entrance. They don’t help me, and I come to a stop at the top. I tell Issu I cannot hurry. He leaves me, has a long conversation in an office, while I watch with overheated disinterest. He returns, smiling. He has managed to change my unchangeable ticket to tomorrow. We will leave the fort until I am rested.

He whistles up a three-wheel auto and tells me a tour of the old city would be a good idea. I agree. Sundar is pouting. He fancies himself as my bodyguard, and he does not know these people. I invite him along. A nice idea but it makes the auto very cramped. And hotter. They make room for me in the middle - ha! I choose the outside.

We saw many lovely places, but the best was the Jain temple. One of my profound experiences while in India forty years ago was visiting a Jain temple, near Bangalore, with my father. He would have enjoyed today. This temple was built three or four hundred years ago, and the paintings are perfectly preserved. Where there are not pictures of people carrying on their daily lives – cooking, eating, playing, working, loving, warring, raising children, worshipping and holding festivals – the upper walls and ceilings are covered with clouds and flashes of lightening. A prayer for rain in the desert. The priest speaks some English. He invites me into the Sanctum where signs forbid entry. He leads me upstairs to a smaller area of worship. And he tells me his family has served in this temple for 31 generations. He introduces me to his oldest son, who will take over when he dies. I feel a sense of timelessness.

Issu has become my guide for Bikaner, and Sunder is happy – he does not know all the history I want to hear about, and his English is stretched by my many questions. Issu tells me to eat at the Palace, now converted into a hotel, next to my hotel. And he says he will be back at 7:30 in the morning; we are going to the Red Temple, the eighth wonder of the world. Sunder is all smiles, he, too, has told me about this Red Temple. Funny, I can’t find it in my travel book.

I look around the Palace, then head for the empty dining room. I order a Scotch. Delicious. I have a lovely dinner, see a puppet show common to the larger hotels, and hit the sack. And I’m up at 6:30 AM. I’ve actually given up all thoughts of resting on this tour. My fellows are waiting in the lobby and we head out into the desert. After 32 kms. we arrive, doff our shoes, and enter the Temple. I’m busy fishing out my handkerchief and getting my head properly covered. We line up to enter the inside of Temple and I notice movement to my right. I look over, near the ground, and see rats. Rats and rats and rats. Rats. We are in the RAT Temple, not the RED Temple. A hasty look upwards - yes, the Temple is white. My toes curl right up under my feet; I am balanced precariously. What to do?? Sundar is Hindu, as are the other visitors already in line; I can’t just run screaming for the door. The floor must be so filthy. I have no socks. I remember the rat that bit Chris in the barn when he was four. These rats seem to be sticking to the sides, where large round dishes of milk are set out for their pleasure. There is also a large pile of grain, which the rats share with the pigeons. My stomach rocks. The fellows go up to the area of the Temple where visitors are invited to view the local god and walk, clockwise, to see the various paintings of the gods. I smile, I think, and shake my head; I won’t be going up. As soon as it is decent, I leave. They know something is wrong, and so I tell them rats are not my thing. Issu explains that they represent the reincarnation of those who were evil during a previous lifetime, and their physical manifestations are cared for at the Temple. I resolve to be good. Really good.

And there is still the fort to see. I head back to the hotel, foolishly have an omlette, and use butter with someone else’s crumbs on my toast. The fort is a blur, my stomach continues to rock. The heat is intense. No, I do not want to see the armory, I am interested in peace. Issu is disappointed and I am too sick to ask him what he thinks about the India-Pakistan peace talks.

Back in my darkened hotel room I sleep fitfully for four hours, then finally toss my cookies. What good luck – I am just heat exhausted, I don’t have food poisoning. The next morning we leave for Pushkar. And I, dear reader, must leave to complete many errands before I say good-bye to Chennai and get the train for Bangalore. Yes, it is the 31st of March today, and I’m playing catch-up. In time I know I will convert all my little pieces of paper into website offerings. I have so many things to share with you, but it all takes time. And thank you for sharing my journey - these writings have become an important part of my travels.

Leaving McLeod Ganj

First, a little context: It’s about 9:30 AM on March 20th and I’m on the road to Bikaner from Churu, Rajasthan. It’s about 160 kms. We started at 7:30 AM and with luck we may arrive by noon. The car is a little bit of a thing, with ventilation grids that do not produce air, tired shocks, no rear view mirrors, tiny tires, a speedometer that remains resolutely at zero, and an intermittent horn. Remember my friend in McLeod Ganj who gave me the useful horn reframe? Yesterday and the day before, on narrow mountain roads, I thought about how nice it would be to sound the horn at each hairpin turn. And I wondered why I did not book my twelve-day holiday through the charming Mr. Gupta at Ways Tours and Travels in McLeod Ganj. But I digress.

Teeth grit against the potholes, I begin to compose this note: Sheer, stunning stupidity has landed me on the road to Rajasthan. How did I manage this feat, you might ask? Well …

Delhi was not my favorite stop – one night in a hotel with ants and dirty sheets, one night in a marginally better hotel, and a final night in a decent place. Hotel changes are hard on me. Hard on most travellers.

After the Tex-Tiles fair I am ready for some fun and determined to see Delhi at Night. At Connought Circle, the tourist hub, I find a Government of India tourist centre. I talk with a lovely fellow who offers me two days in Delhi by car, and night for those lights. Why take a bus when the price of this luxury is so low? I explain I have meetings the next day. No problem, madam, we shall put a car and driver at your disposal, no charge. They drive me back to hotel number two. I feel pretty good, and better when my driver takes me into the Singh Palace, where they show me a beautiful room for $25.00. It is late and I tell them I will check in the next morning.

The car picks me up early, I check out and in, again, and drive back to the travel shop. There, I meet with yet another man, who asks me what I will do after McLeod Ganj. Don’t know. Can’t go to see my friend in Nepal – too dangerous right now. Can’t fly too Turkey – too expensive. Well, he smiles, why not go to Rajasthan?? Beautiful cities, comfortable hotels, lovely villages. And for such a little bit of money. And it is a truly inexpensive tour; 10 days with car, driver, all hotels, all entrance fees -–I only have to pay for my food and souvenirs. How can I miss? For those of you who will have similar opportunities in the future, there are a few other questions to ask: In what shape are the roads? What is the distance from one of these lovely cities to the next? And how long does that take to drive? How many stops in those lovely villages? What is the state of the car? Could I have a ride in the car you will send? And so on. I bet other questions will arise before this tour is over. On to the tour:

I leave McLeod Ganj on the 18th at 4:00 PM, after the Teachings. I’m feeling a bit downcast; the day has been filled with good-byes, some of them quite touching. I’d like to check in to the monastery up the mountain and just stay. Maybe take some classes in Buddhism at the Tibetan Library, for Rs. 150 per month, about $5.00 Cdn. Maybe next time, I console myself.

I stop to replace a change purse I gave away in the afternoon. A merchant, and a man I think of as one of my new friends, sees me stop across the street and materializes beside the car. He smiles broadly, spontaneously throws open his arms and gives me a big hug. I have not had many hugs in India, and his lifts my spirits immeasurably. Change purse in hand, I jump into the car and we’re off.

Of course I have one more thing to do, and my young driver, Sundar, accommodates, although he is not happy. I want to go to Rewalsar, site of the Padmasambava cave. Padmasambava is the Indian monk who took Buddhism to Tibet. He is a huge figure in the Buddhist tradition. I learned about him in The Coffee Café where, each morning, I received a gift.

We drive slowly through the hairpin curves, through Dharamsala, through many more little Indian towns, and at 7:30 PM we arrive in Bir, a tiny town renowned for its beautiful monasteries. Sundar thinks we should keep driving, to Rewalser. I don’t. We stay at a lovely little guesthouse nestled in the mountains. I don’t think I’m hungry, but after a shower I go out to the kitchen anyway, just to chat with my hosts.

This Indian couple are cooking dinner, and invite me to join them for meal, no charge. I say I am a little hungry, and I would be honoured to eat with them, in the kitchen, and pay. We are set. I watch them dance around each other in this large, well-equipped space. If poetry really has motion, they are poetry. He makes it clear that she has taught him how to work in the kitchen; he is merely her helper. Every so often I get behind a closed door and find that patriarchy is asleep. It is just so pleasant, sitting there. The two of them love this part of their day, I think.

I watch them some more. She cooks and stirs, adds spice, breathes in warm aromas from several pots, occasionally adds more spice. She does not need to taste. He slices, dices, peels and anticipates her next request. Dinner is placed in front of me and I know I am in the presence of two truly terrific cooks. A cool yogurt dal with sprigs of cilantro and a crispy white puffed rice, a curry veg spiced just to Western taste, a green paste. I overcome my aversion to green vegetables and try the green paste first. Whatever the combination, it is hot, spicy and simply delicious. And so is everything else. The chapatis are feather light, with white insides. The lady shows me the special flour she uses; it is the consistency of medium sand. I ask about the green dish. Cooked spinach. Hmmm, I did not think I liked cooked spinach. I have seconds.

We talk over dinner. They have worked at many jobs in their lives. Two years ago they bought the guesthouse, and he tells me repeatedly it will take three years to get it fixed properly. I think it is pretty darn good now. And I think I have met the best cook in India. Do you give cooking lessons, madam? Gales of giggles greet this. I suggest they consider my question a serious suggestion. Many foreigners love cooking classes. Mentally I revise my next stay in India, adding time for cooking classes with this modest woman.

The couple tell me I must go up the mountain to the Sherb Ling Monastery before I leave. Conscious of time and Sundar’s deep desire to get to Rajasthan, I am ready at 6:15 AM. The car tiptoes up the mountain over crushed, pointed rock. Sundar is a terrific driver and cares for his car; I can only imagine the pain he is feeling. Tires are likely in pain, too. Coming back down, he tells me we will take a different route, longer but better for the tires. We descend on a perfect highway road, past beautifully constructed and cared for Buddhist stupas. It takes less time. I guess my guide just wanted me to see the back of the mountain . . .

At the top we find a huge monastery. The monk at Reception gives me a twenty-page book about the complex, which includes retreat houses for both monks and nuns, two guesthouses for foreign visitors, and a number of other buildings. This monastery also houses a large school for child monks. I watch the children running around the interior of the monastery, adjusting their robes, laughing, and getting ready for class. Several youngsters, about eight I think, go through their books and appear very purposeful in their activity. Perhaps it is a tst day? I see children from 6 to 16, and later have a chance to photograph some of them, in the parking lot, still clutching their breakfast bowls. The Temple, which I came to see, lives up to everything I was told. The hangings, wafting on slender threads from the roof of the Temple, are antiques; absolutely beautiful and perfectly preserved.

We leave Bir behind and head for the cave at Rewalsar. It is about 8:15 AM and I have not had enough coffee. Sundar is hoping to drive straight through. We have a short chat about my age, the fact the I must stop every four hours, that although I do not eat lunch, I do eat breakfast and we should watch for a tea stand where I can do just that. Sundar starts watching.

A word about Sundar. He is 21 years old, and stayed in school up to standard five. He was raised in Haryana, a beautiful agricultural state that I have now driven through twice. At the age of twelve he went to work on the family farm, full-time. This is the age many children leave school and join their father’s enterprise. I think about this for a moment. When Dan and Pam, my two oldest children, were six, they started going to the dairy barn at night to help their father with the milking and clean-up. They did not particularly want to go, and some nights I remember tears, but they went. This short reflection gives me another view of child labour. I'm thinking about this a lot, and will eventually put up a note.

Sundar has worked at many jobs. At one point he drove a truck and he tells me this is very dangerous work. In the two nights to come, I will see the danger first-hand. Sundar is a quiet, gentle and extremely good-hearted young man. He calls me mother. It beats ma’am. And there is no way in this lifetime that he could ever bring himself to call me Jane. As we travel further and further, he knows the horrible roads are creating havoc with my back, and he drives with exquisite caution. Of course I can’t tell what our speed is, but I watch the kilometers go by, and we seem to be averaging 30 to 40 km/hour. Lots of time to see the sights, but I do not ask to stop for pictures – we are on a mission to get to the next stop. I miss a few stellar pics, but it is hot, and dirty, and who knows how long it will take to get to the next hotel? Perhaps a couple of lorries will collide again, and we’ll be stopped for an hour or more. This is not pleasant travel, my friends.

Sundar’s English is fundamental, and abstract questions do not compute. I think this is, in part, because he has remained very young. For example, I saw the most amazing thing: dung being piled up in intricate circles, till the edifice comes to a point, about ten feet tall. I did stop for a picture and will get it up eventually. So, I saw the cow dung drying, and the intricate buildings that, once finished, are covered with straw and tied with twine. I ask Sundar to tell me more. He pauses, thinks, and says: “The cow potty is for fire, Mother, in the winter when it is cold. The cover protects it from the rain, rain,” this last accompanied rain motions. We talk about this some more. We pass a partially opened dung house, and Sundar points to the bit of wall that has been removed near the bottom. Fire, take out, he tells me, and I thank him for helping me to understand. I step hard on my impatience, and after a while I quietly tell Sundar that the name for cow potty is actually cattle dung. His discomfort with this terminology shows in his averted eyes. No matter what his language, this youngster just wants me to be happy. I resolve to stay kind even when I feel awful. And I do feel awful.

We arrive at Rewalsar, and Sundar asks the location of the cave. It is up the mountain. Above it, at the top, is a very sacred Hindu Temple. Sundar is elated; he is a devout Hindu and of course he has only heard of this place. Can we go? Of course, I want to see it to. On the way we meet a man who sells offerings for the Temple. Would we drive him up? This is one of the joys of having a vehicle; we have offered rides to many people. On the way up Sundar purchases an offering bag for me. Inside is a coconut, a large bag of puffed rice, a bindi package and a red piece of chiffon, three feet long, stitched on either side with one-inch tinsel fabric.

We arrive and walk past about twenty shops selling the offering bundles. How does anyone make any money, I wonder, sitting here on the top of a huge mountain? Do that many people actually make a pilgrimage, I ask? Indeed. In fact there is a festival coming when people will come here for 10 days of prayers. As I walk, I wrap the coconut in the fabric, as I’ve seen in the shops. I feel quite ecumenical.

We doff our shoes when we reach the Temple, and go in. Sundar talks with the priest, and receives a blessing. I also receive a blessing. We walk around the sanctuary and I find my favorite goddess, Sarasvatti, goddess of education.

And we are off to Padmasambava’s cave. On the way down from the Hindu Temple the prayer flags, which astonished me on the first pass going up, leave me breathless. There are literally hundreds of thousands of prayer flags stretched between trees, hung between bushes, hanging down parts of the mountain, on the telephone wires – it is really something. Who hung all these flags, I wonder?

I soon learn as I meet the one man who runs a tea stall and souvenir shop at the bottom of a very steep flight of steps. We exchange greetings, chat a bit. As I go to leave, he asks if I would like a set of prayer flags. No thank you, I tell him pleasantly, I have quite a few. Then it hits me – people who come to the cave and the mountain hang the flags! I buy a small set, reasonably priced. And today there is a prayer flag waving just for you, dear reader, – whether you be family, friend, colleague, student or one of the many new friends who now visit my website.

The climb is straight up, but it is cool, and with some stops I get to the first landing. We enter the cave of Padmasambava. It is low, and very lovely. I sit for a while. Then we travel up higher, to see the secret cave. I wonder why he needed a secret cave? I go a little higher up, and Sundar helps me hang my flags. They are rippling merrily in the breeze as I leave. At the bottom of the hill we have a chai, because the young man does not have any coffee, and we’re off. Off to Bikaner! Maybe.

The Indian Handloom Industry

Written March 31, 2004:

Since I started my Weblog I have never written a story in real time, that is, the day it happened. It’s late at the Cybercafe, but I’m wide awake and kind of excited to share this day while it is fresh.

I awake tired and out of sorts on my first morning in Delhi, after a miserable hotel[s] check-in experience the night before. Not certain I even want to get up, I check for ants on the telephone and call for a very large thermos of coffee. It arrives eventually, as does the hot water in the shower. Maybe I should just head for bed, but breakfast calls. Mindful of the ants, the exposed wiring, the dirty sheets I insisted be changed, the stained upholstery and a myriad of other details, I decide not to eat at the hotel.

Over breakfast in a nearby café a man asks pleasantly if I am in town for the Handicrafts Exposition? Well no, but it sounds interesting. Indeed it is, he assures me. I decide it might just be a gentle way to spend my first day. I am mindful this time of the auto hassle at the train last night, where the first driver whispered hoarsely, “Give me 350 rupees” and the final driver took me to the hotel for Rs. 150 after I threatened to fly out of his cab as he was once more changing the price.

I say, “What do you suppose an auto should charge me?” He smiles, thinks and decides Rupees 70. I go outside, show the driver the address, and the cost. Rs. 70! The day is looking up. Forty-five minutes later we pull up at Pragati Maiden, a huge exhibition complex, with colourful flags flying and people everywhere. I pay my young driver more than we agreed – it was a long drive through heavy traffic, longer than he expected, I think.

With much good fortune I find myself sitting on the shuttle bus that will take me to Halls 6 and 7, the Tex-Styles India 2004 exposition of ‘Textiles: Inspired and International’. Fortune follows me into the Registration area, where in no time I am equipped with an official badge on a long yellow and blue tie, stating my name, University and Canada. Blue letters on orange at the bottom of the plastic covered badge announce I am a BUYER. The Business Visitors Guide, 5 inches by 9 and half an inch thick, is in my hand. Wondering if I’m in a little deep, I ask the man who has organized all this with a flick of the wrist and my business card, “And what is the registration fee, please?” “No charge, madam, you are our guest.” Never happen in my country, I tell him, as I express my appreciation. We smile and as he moves away, I ask the yellow-shirted young men working the desks where I might find a coffee. They smile and point to an unseen coffee vendor outside. But my benefactor overhears and returns. Won’t I please follow him to the VIP lounge, and enjoy a cup of coffee?

I’m comfortably ensconced in the VIP lounge, enjoying the excellent coffee ordered by that same man as he left. I’m feeling very VIP-ish. I open the Business Visitors Guide to page xiv and read about the “exclusive showcasing of the sensuous silks of India”, the exciting range of wools, the two trend forums with interpretations of top designers and fashion professionals, innovations and concepts in fabrics, furnishings and accessories from production centers all over the country. As I read, I want my friends Shelley and Bob here with me, to interpret the wonderful weaving I know I will see inside. Another sip of coffee, from the not-quite-translucent china cup. This day is a very nice treat.

I turn to page xv, India as a Textile Nation. The first mill was organized in 1854, and today the industry is the second largest in the world, with 3,021 mills. I read on. As I turn the page, I learn the textile industry in India accounts for over 3 per cent of GDP, 14 percent of industrial production and over 22 percent of export earnings. It employs several million persons, directly and indirectly, from growing cotton through to the final delivery of hand loomed garments.

At March 2003 India has 3,021 Spinning and Composite units [companies, I later learn] employing 1.1 million workers. The 1.69 Powerlooms in the decentralized sector employ about 6 million workers. “India has about 24 percent of the world spindleage and nearly 43 percent of world loomage (which after including handlooms goes up to 61 percent of total global share). Almost 20 percent of the loomage is done on handlooms. My heart sinks. I know that handloom and embroidery workers are at the forefront of UN defined human rights abuses, from the International Labour Organization, to CEDAW, the CRC and, of course, the UDHR. These women, and their children, labour at the mercy of sweatshop employers in unspeakable conditions. Now I wish my friend Michael was here, to ask some of the questions I know I will.

Finished my coffee, I head into the Exposition. It is Ali Baba’s cave; rich silks spill down walls and over beautifully embroidered pillows. The pillows are tossed everywhere – on beds, chairs, tables, the floor, shelves – and the beds are medleys of cotton sheeting. I think of my friend Diane; she would so enjoy this collection of interior designs. Even the display areas are deftly designed interiors, many constructed of glass and wood. I am approached by a young couple that has a display – they compliment me on my Indian dress. I chuckle; wouldn’t you know it, this day I chose to wear my only polyester salwar kameez.

Polyester does not belong in Ali’s cave of treasures, and soon, neither do I. I see a young merchant whose booth is filled with heavily encrusted, embroidered wall hangings. From the back, he brings me one hanging embroidered with semi-precious and precious gemstones. Exquisite. I ask: and where is your factory? I learn it is in Delhi. Ah, I say, and would it be possible to visit? I wonder about the working conditions of women embroiderers. Oh no, no women work there – only men. Ah, only men? Yes, broad smile. Well, I wonder about the working conditions of men, as well. Could I visit the factory? No factory – all work is done in homes. His contemptuous smile does not reach his hard eyes. Checkmate. He thinks I am a fool, and I think he may be right. Feeling overtired, overwhelmed and utterly impotent, I leave the treasure chest and walk out into the central hall.

Picking up in McLeod Ganj, at 10:00 PM on my last night here – so much for real time!

And I walk right into the booth of The Handloom Export Promotion Council. I’ll be they will be able to help me. I wait till all three men are free, introduce myself and say I’d like some information. Is my English okay? Oh, yes. Good. I explain my concerns and questions. The third man’s face lights up with enthusiasm. He reaches behind and hands me the ‘Indian Handlooms: Profile of Member Participants’, an eight page, five colour, heavy paper brochure identifying the booth numbers of the handloom heavyweights. Not surprisingly, it does not highlight human rights. My English is not okay. When I finally make myself understood, they appear unhappy.

I persevere, and eventually find an unpretentious booth in another central hall, with a sign that reads ‘Textiles Committee’. The English of the young man and woman at the table is excellent. They are thrilled to see me. They have a ton of material and lots to tell me. The Textiles Committee is an autonomous and statutory body set up by the Government of India. Its role is to promote a quality Indian textile industry and trade. To that end it calibrates equipment; tests textiles, dyes and chemicals; accredits laboratories according to different standards and educates laboratory personnel; provides neutral and unbiased reports; trains industry personnel in textile testing; and offers a quick-response troubleshooting service. In addition to all this, the Textiles Committee promotes socially responsible manufacturing that enables ethical sourcing.

Ah, I say, tell me more. They show me a four page, 8-point type paper. It describes the internal industry standard for management systems in the handloom industry that wish to demonstrate Social Accountability. It is called SA 8000. It is based on the UDHR, theCRC and the ILO Conventions. SA 8000 has a mission statement, objectives, and principles that include no child labour and no forced labour, freedom of association, worker health and safety standards, fair compensation and no sex discrimination. It offers a rationale and the steps a company must take to receive SA 8000 certification. It takes 10 – 12 months to get the certification and it costs big rupees. Certification is voluntary.

Wow. I am so impressed. And so relieved. The work is underway. How many companies have this certification, I ask? Twenty. Ah, twenty, I say. Yes. And how many handloom industries are there in India? Lakhs and lakhs. Well, one lakh is 100,000, so I have a sense of how disheartened these young people must feel some days. Lakhs and lakhs. It must be difficult for you sometimes, I observe. Solemn nods. I say I’m going to get a coffee and will return. I go outside to the tea stand. And think.

I return with an idea. Those twenty handloom companies, how hard would it be to let importers in the West know about their ethical practice? People in the West are big on ethical sourcing. I tell them about my free trade coffee and the couple who sell it from their store. I get more information, email addresses and experience my first sense of empowerment of the day.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I know so little about this industry. I don’t know exactly how to proceed to learn more. I do have the name of a human rights worker in Mysore who rescues workers, whole families, from sweatshop conditions in the handloom industry. I will meet him before I leave India. And then I will enlist the help of my friends in Canada. I hope those twenty SA 8000 companies are in for a real surge in orders. How hard can it be to start a small movement on ethical sourcing?

McLeod Ganj

Tomorrow I will leave McLeod Ganj, believing that I will return to this tiny, tidy, warm and friendly town. I have met many astonishing people, several of whom have offered me a lesson. It is just amazing to know each morning, when I go to The Coffee Café for breakfast, someone will sit with me and offer me more understanding, new ideas or an interesting explanation.

Today after the Teachings I have chai with Mr. Ali Baba whose shop, of course, is called Ali Baba’s Treasures. When he first told me his name, I introduced myself as Scherazade. His name is really Altaf, but he goes by Ali, the name his grandfather called him. Horns honk, even in McLeod Ganj. As we sit on the step a row of honking vehicles roar by. I tell Ali the horns in India have started to grate on me. He reminds me that there are a lot of people in India, and without the horns, many more would die in pedestrian-vehicle accidents. A first-rate reframe. He also reminds me that lorrys in this area have a sign on their bumpers asking drivers to "Use dipper at night". On the way here I learned this means to flash one's lights before passing. Ali identifies this request as an attempt to reduce the noise, but of course it is impossible during the day.

I am reminded of the day Zena carefully stopped her car, on an icy road, to allow a young woman to cross. Pedestrians, she told me, have the right-of-way in BC. Ah, yes. And I expect the same in India, when it is just not true. Maybe not even possible. There are indeed a lot of people in India, and if traffic stopped for the torrents of foot traffic on every road, it might stay forever stopped. I will add this learning to my intention to act with more patience. And be careful crossing the road.

Back to McLeod Ganj. Everyone, from the merchants who sell their wares on cots by the side of the road, to those with fascinating shops lining the roadways, is so pleasant. I look at everything; buy little. When the merchants who have given me their time and shown me their wares say ‘thank you for stopping’, I believe they really mean it.

Even the beggars that line the road to the Temple are generous with their greetings. I greet each with a smile and a respectful 'Namaste' as I walk by, and they return my greeting with warm words and an answering smile. It was not ever so. On my first day, walking to the Temple, a man sang out 'Namaste, madam'. Preoccupied with getting to the Temple, to get that good seat, I responded briefly. He asked, 'How are you?' Shamefully, I did not respond, and his words drifted after me, 'Fine, thank you. And how are you?' On my way back the second time, with my Security badge in hand, I stopped to apologize. And of course, he smiled and said 'Thank you, madam'.

For the most part, the beggars are middle-aged to old. Nut-brown, small, wizened, often deformed, blind, or missing limbs, they have a strong sense of community and a culture of caring for one another. One lady is always wrapped in blankets, even on the hottest day, sitting in the sun. On that cold day when I wore all my high-tech warm clothes to the Temple, she was sitting with a group of friends, clasping her mittened stumps together, merrily keeping warm. Someone had lit a wood fire in a wok for her, and she was happy. As His Holiness says, over and over, we are all the same; all we want to do is decrease our suffering and increase our happiness. I have felt some compassion for beggars in the past; I expect meeting these brave folk in McLeod Ganj will increase my compassion and respect.