Have increasingly been thinking along these lines.
I have been born and bred in the city, always considered myself urbane. Elitist even?
Used to a certain way of life, without getting into clichés so to speak.
A pseudo intellectualism, a tendency to think cognitively, a world weariness that seemed at odds with the many things that one engaged in as a matter of routine.
All carefully cultivated, maybe. But that’s just the cynic in me.
Growing older and getting around more, I am experiencing myself differently these days.
It’s difficult to explain in words, now that I think about it. I’ll try, though.
Just that, it’s becoming a simpler world in my head, pared down to the basics really.
I see it in small things and big. In my growing disinterest in polite conversation. In meaningless jargon.
In engaging with people who used to speak only my language, read only my books, listen to my music.
I find myself curious about the many people I meet who come from such different places.
I want to know what makes up their day, the minutiae of their lives. I want to connect emotionally.
In a way that the chip on my shoulder (or maybe it was an innate shyness?) has never allowed me to previously.
There are other signs that are equally telling.
I enjoy my time on the field. Today, I find myself sitting in a small village where the phone refuses to ‘catch the tower’ and the datacard has stopped working. And I’m putting pen to paper after a long time.
I crib occasionally about the choices I have made – about the endless travel, the absence of a ‘normal’ domestic routine, the heat and dust of the unforgiving road. The other day I was waiting for my train to trundle in and mentioned to someone that all I wanted was to make myself a hot cup of tea in my own kitchen. Also, I miss being with family and friends – sometimes, I feel disconnected from their lives in a way that is difficult to catch up with in retrospect. And don’t even get me started on the difficulties of sustaining any kind of intimacy while living out of a suitcase.
But a few things make it alright.
Like waking up in the morning and seeing a peacock outside your door.
Looking up suddenly in pitch darkness to see the starriest night that you have seen in awhile.
Climbing up a small hill in the searing heat in search of ‘Dungerland’, only to find the most spectacular view of patchwork fields from atop.
Getting your hands dirty – doing ‘shramdaan’ - as part of your stay in an organisation.
Learning how to communicate without knowing the language being spoken.
Appreciating the value of a simple meal when the day has been long and hot. Hunger is the best sauce, especially when you know how hard won the meal has been for the hosts who serve you so warmly.
Feeling humbled by the people you meet – the manymany men and women who carry the burden of the world so lightly on their shoulders. And somehow, soaking in their spirit to help you soldier on on days when you feel like giving up. Remembering, always remembering some faces, maybe not so much the names – randomly, in the middle of the day, making you smile.
It makes you travel light, all of this. Even as you struggle, sometimes, with the unfairness and injustice of it all. It relieves you of your own sense of importance and makes you laugh inwardly at your own pretensions, so closely held over the years. And with that laughter, the load lessens and you realize that you’re just a cog in the wheel. Turning and turning to your inner music even as you remain entangled with the notes of many others. ‘Tis a simple life, after all.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Playground Politics
Took the little one to the playground yesterday in the evening.
Only after she had preemptorily ordered her Ma away, saying that 'Pipi will manage me well.'
Unused to having so much faith reposed in me - that too by a four year old.
I take her down to the building park where she plays with her friends everyday.
Seems a happy enough place at first glance. Teeming over with kids of all shapes and sizes.
And their caregivers. And their paraphernalia - dolls, cycles, balls and the water bottles.
Not to mention the occasional harried parent/guardian issuing stern instructions to their respective wards.
And the children running amok, enjoying their few hours of relatively unsupervised, unstructured play.
Look a little closer and the perfect picture breaks up somewhat.
You see a little girl and you immediately know something's not quite right with her.
The thing is, you'd probably pass her by with her gap toothed smile and her repetitive gestures.
But the other children give her a wide berth - her solitude makes you stop and notice her difference.
The cliques keep forming and breaking in front of your eyes.
It could be something as innocuous as a smaller child wanting to play with an older group.
They call her close, ask her her name and start laughing as she struggles to pronounce it just so.
She smiles on, unaware that the joke is on her. Still eager to please as they run away to play by themselves.
You are also struck by how well these children are clothed for rough and tumble play.
Some in party dresses, almost. Shoes to match. And almost all of them carrying Barbies to boot.
But you still see a tyke who is playing by herself, using her imagination to turn the playground into a big wide ocean.
And another little person who is busy hunting for ladybirds in the green.
And where is your little person in all of this?
She is bright-eyed and bushy tailed as she saunters in. Plays Hide and Seek with you tirelessly.
Till she spots a gaggle of girls holding hands together in the middle of the park.
She trundles over and introduces herself. Only to be royally ignored.
As her smile wanes, you find your own heart sinking.
And you know that these are her own battles to fight.
Yet something inside begins hurting as she looks around for a playmate.
Finds her beloved 'Samu' eventually. But you hope she learns to walk alone.
Only after she had preemptorily ordered her Ma away, saying that 'Pipi will manage me well.'
Unused to having so much faith reposed in me - that too by a four year old.
I take her down to the building park where she plays with her friends everyday.
Seems a happy enough place at first glance. Teeming over with kids of all shapes and sizes.
And their caregivers. And their paraphernalia - dolls, cycles, balls and the water bottles.
Not to mention the occasional harried parent/guardian issuing stern instructions to their respective wards.
And the children running amok, enjoying their few hours of relatively unsupervised, unstructured play.
Look a little closer and the perfect picture breaks up somewhat.
You see a little girl and you immediately know something's not quite right with her.
The thing is, you'd probably pass her by with her gap toothed smile and her repetitive gestures.
But the other children give her a wide berth - her solitude makes you stop and notice her difference.
The cliques keep forming and breaking in front of your eyes.
It could be something as innocuous as a smaller child wanting to play with an older group.
They call her close, ask her her name and start laughing as she struggles to pronounce it just so.
She smiles on, unaware that the joke is on her. Still eager to please as they run away to play by themselves.
You are also struck by how well these children are clothed for rough and tumble play.
Some in party dresses, almost. Shoes to match. And almost all of them carrying Barbies to boot.
But you still see a tyke who is playing by herself, using her imagination to turn the playground into a big wide ocean.
And another little person who is busy hunting for ladybirds in the green.
And where is your little person in all of this?
She is bright-eyed and bushy tailed as she saunters in. Plays Hide and Seek with you tirelessly.
Till she spots a gaggle of girls holding hands together in the middle of the park.
She trundles over and introduces herself. Only to be royally ignored.
As her smile wanes, you find your own heart sinking.
And you know that these are her own battles to fight.
Yet something inside begins hurting as she looks around for a playmate.
Finds her beloved 'Samu' eventually. But you hope she learns to walk alone.
Rajasthan Rambles
So many images jostling for their own rightful space in the public eye.
That one really doesn't miss the camera left behind - the mind has its own memory y'see.
Little snippets captured here and there that surface at the end of the day.
And make you believe that somewhere, you must have walked the right road.
To hear the stories, see the things you were meant to see.
Met a man today. A farmer by vocation, an ascetic by calling.
His daughter was brutally murdered at her marital home - he tells the story well.
Of how she was pushed into the 'kund', a storage tank for water.
And how he took 10 days to wrap his mind around the thought that she was no more.
Another 4 years running from pillar to post to ensure that the killers were jailed.
He walks on. His wizened face belying the youthfulness within.
He carries a small red bag slung across his person - with a spare 'dhoti', some 'bajra' and sheafs of papers.
He is illiterate, he will have you know. But he knows which of the 5000 RTI applications have been written for what.
And he tells you that it is not him that does the walking - it is God that drives him.
You wonder at the simplicity/strength of his faith as he walks away into the scorching sun.
Her name literally translates into 'orange'. She has prepared her script well.
She speaks of mobilising 'Sangathan's to act against drunken husbands and abusive men.
Of walking to the Collector's office at Ratangarh to plead for a pipleine connection to her village.
Of protesting against inflated electricity bills that the government regularly serves to the poorest of the poor.
But even as she regales you with her stories of change, her face remains covered as her husband enters the room.
She is the daughter in law who has come in from outside. You'd remember her face long after the rest fades.
She serves you a meal of 'roti' and 'sangri ki sabzi', insists that you use the bathroom before leaving for the field.
Looking at her, you'd never guess that she is part of a village committee that monitors the activities of the Panchayat.
She laughs in glee as she recalls her attempts to campaign for a woman sarpanch in the village.
And informs you, with pride, that she has learnt how to write out an RTI form all by herself of late.
I walk into a large compund segrgated into 5 distinct spaces.
A domestic area, one for livestock rearing and another for an 'atta chakki'.
The remaining 2 spaces taken up by a small kirana shop and a sewing machine in another room.
I meet the woman who runs the show - singlehandedly earning the upkeep for her family.
The field worker complains that new money has spoilt her - I see only a sense of accomplishment in her eyes.
And finally, the most enduring image of the day.
I go to see the site of a house that is being built by a member of the team.
Meet his parents instead - they are from a remote village and have dropped by to help their son build his home.
His old father sits in the sun separating the stone chips, his mother carries them to the waiting labour.
He proudly introduces his parents as they pull up a charpoy for me to sit awhile.
There are many many more, tucked away somewhere.
But those are for private consumption, to be savoured when the mood is low.
I leave you with these stories, with the feelings they have evoked over the past few days.
Feeling fatigued and nourished at the same time - I hope you get the drift?
I know I will be travelling some more.
That one really doesn't miss the camera left behind - the mind has its own memory y'see.
Little snippets captured here and there that surface at the end of the day.
And make you believe that somewhere, you must have walked the right road.
To hear the stories, see the things you were meant to see.
Met a man today. A farmer by vocation, an ascetic by calling.
His daughter was brutally murdered at her marital home - he tells the story well.
Of how she was pushed into the 'kund', a storage tank for water.
And how he took 10 days to wrap his mind around the thought that she was no more.
Another 4 years running from pillar to post to ensure that the killers were jailed.
He walks on. His wizened face belying the youthfulness within.
He carries a small red bag slung across his person - with a spare 'dhoti', some 'bajra' and sheafs of papers.
He is illiterate, he will have you know. But he knows which of the 5000 RTI applications have been written for what.
And he tells you that it is not him that does the walking - it is God that drives him.
You wonder at the simplicity/strength of his faith as he walks away into the scorching sun.
Her name literally translates into 'orange'. She has prepared her script well.
She speaks of mobilising 'Sangathan's to act against drunken husbands and abusive men.
Of walking to the Collector's office at Ratangarh to plead for a pipleine connection to her village.
Of protesting against inflated electricity bills that the government regularly serves to the poorest of the poor.
But even as she regales you with her stories of change, her face remains covered as her husband enters the room.
She is the daughter in law who has come in from outside. You'd remember her face long after the rest fades.
She serves you a meal of 'roti' and 'sangri ki sabzi', insists that you use the bathroom before leaving for the field.
Looking at her, you'd never guess that she is part of a village committee that monitors the activities of the Panchayat.
She laughs in glee as she recalls her attempts to campaign for a woman sarpanch in the village.
And informs you, with pride, that she has learnt how to write out an RTI form all by herself of late.
I walk into a large compund segrgated into 5 distinct spaces.
A domestic area, one for livestock rearing and another for an 'atta chakki'.
The remaining 2 spaces taken up by a small kirana shop and a sewing machine in another room.
I meet the woman who runs the show - singlehandedly earning the upkeep for her family.
The field worker complains that new money has spoilt her - I see only a sense of accomplishment in her eyes.
And finally, the most enduring image of the day.
I go to see the site of a house that is being built by a member of the team.
Meet his parents instead - they are from a remote village and have dropped by to help their son build his home.
His old father sits in the sun separating the stone chips, his mother carries them to the waiting labour.
He proudly introduces his parents as they pull up a charpoy for me to sit awhile.
There are many many more, tucked away somewhere.
But those are for private consumption, to be savoured when the mood is low.
I leave you with these stories, with the feelings they have evoked over the past few days.
Feeling fatigued and nourished at the same time - I hope you get the drift?
I know I will be travelling some more.
How does it feel?
This is a post that is long overdue. Postponed for very many reasons, but itching to be written nonetheless.
Have written earlier about the habit of internalizing most experiences. About the need to be compulsively articulate in select few spaces. And then again, the experience of those feelings that are subliminal. Creeping up on you every now and then, never fully rising to the fore, settling like deadweight somewhere in between. Till you get used to carrying a certain heaviness on you - almost comforting in its familiarity – stifling as it may be otherwise. When you feel occasionally relieved of it, you unconsciously begin searching for it, preempting its presence even. And then you know, something’s not right inside. Yes, I am talking about grief. The art of grieving. And the ability to cope, heal and grow through this.
We are all products of our childhood, I believe. Absorbing the direct and indirect messages that we receive from parents and primary caregivers, responding to stimuli in our immediate environment. We see evidence of their formative influence on our thoughts, behaviour and actions and even if the link is not immediately decipherable, the pattern is clear in retrospect. Some of us are conditioned into suppressing the way we feel, all our efforts directed at control and management rather than articulation and analysis of what lies beneath. Boys and girls, men and women alike – we live in a culture that often does not allow demonstration and expression. We are encouraged to suck it in, be strong and soldier on. Others will argue that a culture like ours makes adequate space for expressions of grief and mourning. The rituals afford time for families to come together, the particular rites offer cleansing and catharsis even. The emphasis on an afterlife lends solace to the bereaved and there is celebration of the life that was and the one that is. Maybe, ours is a generation caught in between. Our lives are private and insular, our sorrows are our own and our coping mechanisms largely aimed at making do and getting by.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that we should stay with some of these unresolved feelings. Not suck it in, be strong and soldier on. Allow ourselves the space to mourn a loved one, not judge this as an indulgence. Acknowledge those emotions (rage, sorrow, disbelief and despair) that threaten to overwhelm and find safe outlets for their expression. Seek help (counselling, grief healing, support groups) when needed, not look upon it as a sign of weakness. Recognise the fact our lives have changed irrevocably, that we have changed beyond measure and actively look for means of realignment. Reach out to those who come from similar places with empathy and compassion – reach out to ourselves. Not resent those who tell us to heal differently, try and focus on their intent. And finally, learn to let go of the heaviness and make peace our own way.
Have written earlier about the habit of internalizing most experiences. About the need to be compulsively articulate in select few spaces. And then again, the experience of those feelings that are subliminal. Creeping up on you every now and then, never fully rising to the fore, settling like deadweight somewhere in between. Till you get used to carrying a certain heaviness on you - almost comforting in its familiarity – stifling as it may be otherwise. When you feel occasionally relieved of it, you unconsciously begin searching for it, preempting its presence even. And then you know, something’s not right inside. Yes, I am talking about grief. The art of grieving. And the ability to cope, heal and grow through this.
We are all products of our childhood, I believe. Absorbing the direct and indirect messages that we receive from parents and primary caregivers, responding to stimuli in our immediate environment. We see evidence of their formative influence on our thoughts, behaviour and actions and even if the link is not immediately decipherable, the pattern is clear in retrospect. Some of us are conditioned into suppressing the way we feel, all our efforts directed at control and management rather than articulation and analysis of what lies beneath. Boys and girls, men and women alike – we live in a culture that often does not allow demonstration and expression. We are encouraged to suck it in, be strong and soldier on. Others will argue that a culture like ours makes adequate space for expressions of grief and mourning. The rituals afford time for families to come together, the particular rites offer cleansing and catharsis even. The emphasis on an afterlife lends solace to the bereaved and there is celebration of the life that was and the one that is. Maybe, ours is a generation caught in between. Our lives are private and insular, our sorrows are our own and our coping mechanisms largely aimed at making do and getting by.
I guess what I’m trying to say is that we should stay with some of these unresolved feelings. Not suck it in, be strong and soldier on. Allow ourselves the space to mourn a loved one, not judge this as an indulgence. Acknowledge those emotions (rage, sorrow, disbelief and despair) that threaten to overwhelm and find safe outlets for their expression. Seek help (counselling, grief healing, support groups) when needed, not look upon it as a sign of weakness. Recognise the fact our lives have changed irrevocably, that we have changed beyond measure and actively look for means of realignment. Reach out to those who come from similar places with empathy and compassion – reach out to ourselves. Not resent those who tell us to heal differently, try and focus on their intent. And finally, learn to let go of the heaviness and make peace our own way.
The Field beckons...
Picture this.
Waiting at New Delhi station for a train that finally leaves at 1 a.m.
A small station called Meghnagar next morning, no sign of any clouds though.
16 kilometres away lies Jhabua, the most backward tribal district in Madhya Pradesh.
Or so the statistics say, on paper at least.
I check into a hotel called M2, meet foreigners in orange jumpsuits.
Working for a gas plant nearby - that explains the Indian Chinese on the menu.
Quick breakfast of 'poha' and 'jalebi' at the bus stand and we hit the road.
10 villages await.
The field team is from the local Bhil community. Animators, as they are called.
I sense them sizing me up, a strange mix of the hostile and the subservient.
The outsider in me has long ceased to be apologetic about the differences.
Even as the insider longs to claim space, be accepted, warts and all.
The topography is unfamiliar. The terrain is hilly.
l hear the women speak of how far they travel each day for water.
The hamlets are now separated by maize fields - the crops growing so high that you cannot see beyond.
We walk on, stopping occasionally to meet the groups - those that have been organised at short notice.
The women congregate wherever they can. Whenever they can.
In 'ghoongat', their voices ring loud and clear as they speak of their lives.
Working almost 16 hours a day - at home and on the field.
With no food security or assured means of employment, it seems such a sham to speak of literacy and rights.
So I talk instead of where I come from, what my dreams are.
I make my personal motives as clear as I can. Tell them that professionally, I'm here to stay awhile.
And that there are no promises I come bearing, no services that we offer.
The response is mixed and muted - these are early days yet.
We talk of livelihood options. Of livestock rearing and organic farming.
Of watershed management and vermicompost. There is much more to be known.
The team reminds me that we need to head back - the area is unsafe post 5.
I wonder what that means for the women living here as I speed back to Jhabua myself.
The next few days pass in a blur. There are lists to make, data to verify and systems to install.
Every now and then, we encounter a human face to the story. Won't use that as fodder for these posts.
They serve as powerful reminders for the why and wherefore.
And I know that I will be returning for more.
Waiting at New Delhi station for a train that finally leaves at 1 a.m.
A small station called Meghnagar next morning, no sign of any clouds though.
16 kilometres away lies Jhabua, the most backward tribal district in Madhya Pradesh.
Or so the statistics say, on paper at least.
I check into a hotel called M2, meet foreigners in orange jumpsuits.
Working for a gas plant nearby - that explains the Indian Chinese on the menu.
Quick breakfast of 'poha' and 'jalebi' at the bus stand and we hit the road.
10 villages await.
The field team is from the local Bhil community. Animators, as they are called.
I sense them sizing me up, a strange mix of the hostile and the subservient.
The outsider in me has long ceased to be apologetic about the differences.
Even as the insider longs to claim space, be accepted, warts and all.
The topography is unfamiliar. The terrain is hilly.
l hear the women speak of how far they travel each day for water.
The hamlets are now separated by maize fields - the crops growing so high that you cannot see beyond.
We walk on, stopping occasionally to meet the groups - those that have been organised at short notice.
The women congregate wherever they can. Whenever they can.
In 'ghoongat', their voices ring loud and clear as they speak of their lives.
Working almost 16 hours a day - at home and on the field.
With no food security or assured means of employment, it seems such a sham to speak of literacy and rights.
So I talk instead of where I come from, what my dreams are.
I make my personal motives as clear as I can. Tell them that professionally, I'm here to stay awhile.
And that there are no promises I come bearing, no services that we offer.
The response is mixed and muted - these are early days yet.
We talk of livelihood options. Of livestock rearing and organic farming.
Of watershed management and vermicompost. There is much more to be known.
The team reminds me that we need to head back - the area is unsafe post 5.
I wonder what that means for the women living here as I speed back to Jhabua myself.
The next few days pass in a blur. There are lists to make, data to verify and systems to install.
Every now and then, we encounter a human face to the story. Won't use that as fodder for these posts.
They serve as powerful reminders for the why and wherefore.
And I know that I will be returning for more.
Surviving Delhi
Been quite a month, this.
Running around, only to find myself standing in the same place mostly.
Look into the mirror every morning, find new reflections each day.
Wake up with a start, take awhile to find my bearings in a strange room.
Still struggle with the key in the door, often leave it behind.
Walk into office, into a cubicle that still bears the marks of the one who came before.
Break into the occasional Bengali with a colleague. He laughs it off.
Lose my way while walking through the neighbourhood, don't ask for directions though.
Learn to distinguish between a good fruit and a bad, bring the bread home.
And burn the rice, wolfed down hungrily at the end of the day.
Plan my day around the electrician, the plumber and the carpenter.
Feel a sense of accomplishment as the house begins filling up with things from home.
Not entirely sure whether I'm comfortable in my own skin yet.
Could this be the start of something new?
Running around, only to find myself standing in the same place mostly.
Look into the mirror every morning, find new reflections each day.
Wake up with a start, take awhile to find my bearings in a strange room.
Still struggle with the key in the door, often leave it behind.
Walk into office, into a cubicle that still bears the marks of the one who came before.
Break into the occasional Bengali with a colleague. He laughs it off.
Lose my way while walking through the neighbourhood, don't ask for directions though.
Learn to distinguish between a good fruit and a bad, bring the bread home.
And burn the rice, wolfed down hungrily at the end of the day.
Plan my day around the electrician, the plumber and the carpenter.
Feel a sense of accomplishment as the house begins filling up with things from home.
Not entirely sure whether I'm comfortable in my own skin yet.
Could this be the start of something new?
...
'Tis way past the 'witching hour, but sleep eludes me tonight.
Pottering about the house in darkness, lest I wake the others.
I walk into my room - almost unrecognisable now, an unfamiliar smell even.
Have spent much of last week trying to pack some of my life into boxes.
Wondering what to leave behind so that the place doesn't look spare.
Have spent most of the last fortnight agonising over the goodbyes.
How do I say what to whom, what do I tell myself...
Was a very different feeling when I left home 5 years ago.
Remember it vividly - there was a certain celebration in the air.
An anticipation of what lay around the corner, despite a longing for the old.
My father supervising the packing of my holdall, Ma getting ready to accompany me on the journey.
Friends dropping in, bearing motley gifts for the hostel room at all odd hours.
Spent much of the last week trying to pack, spent some time over the goodbyes to significant others.
But there was a brazenness to it all, an eagerness to embrace the new and make it mine.
A lot has changed over these 5 years. I sense the change all around.
There are less people around, for one - that does something to a house somehow.
A heaviness that creeps up on you suddenly, as you watch your mother trying to be strong.
She tries to help me pack but her heart isn't in it, really. I can tell by the way she keeps away.
A few friends who have understood this and stood by solidly. They are sleeping now in the next room.
And that leaves only me. A lot less brazen, a lot more emotional, still undecided.
Poised to take a leap of faith - I look up, the daylight's breaking through...
Pottering about the house in darkness, lest I wake the others.
I walk into my room - almost unrecognisable now, an unfamiliar smell even.
Have spent much of last week trying to pack some of my life into boxes.
Wondering what to leave behind so that the place doesn't look spare.
Have spent most of the last fortnight agonising over the goodbyes.
How do I say what to whom, what do I tell myself...
Was a very different feeling when I left home 5 years ago.
Remember it vividly - there was a certain celebration in the air.
An anticipation of what lay around the corner, despite a longing for the old.
My father supervising the packing of my holdall, Ma getting ready to accompany me on the journey.
Friends dropping in, bearing motley gifts for the hostel room at all odd hours.
Spent much of the last week trying to pack, spent some time over the goodbyes to significant others.
But there was a brazenness to it all, an eagerness to embrace the new and make it mine.
A lot has changed over these 5 years. I sense the change all around.
There are less people around, for one - that does something to a house somehow.
A heaviness that creeps up on you suddenly, as you watch your mother trying to be strong.
She tries to help me pack but her heart isn't in it, really. I can tell by the way she keeps away.
A few friends who have understood this and stood by solidly. They are sleeping now in the next room.
And that leaves only me. A lot less brazen, a lot more emotional, still undecided.
Poised to take a leap of faith - I look up, the daylight's breaking through...
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