Asking directions of a local

I must confess that I am somewhat spatially challenged. I mean, even after visiting a certain place several times over, the landmarks and routes do not at all stick in mind. It becomes a new exploration each time, because everything looks different with the time of the day and direction of approach. However, my reaching destination is not greatly stressful because of the human interactions on the way.

I am scheduled to observe evening classes at a school almost on the outskirts of the city. It is after sunset and already dark when I set out the first time. Now, Kolkata is already pretty large, and with developments it is expanding further. Two hours of travel in, say, Mauritius, might cover the island nation end to end, but here, spend the same amount of time going in any direction, and you may still be within city limits. I realize it will take me quite a while to get to the suburbs on the other side, from my starting point. 

My concern is that there is no direct bus route there. Besides, I shall be slap bang in the middle of ‘office time’. That means buses overcrowded with office-goers desperate to get home. I use the term ‘overcrowded’ dramatically because ‘crowded’ is normal (remember Kolkata is peopled by a million, if not more!) An empty bus is one that you can board and find a seat, or at least, stand comfortably, maintaining personal space. In ‘overcrowded’, people hang out of the bus entrances, balanced precariously on half or less of one foot each, and the vehicle itself tilts over to one side. Obviously the bus-drivers must be immensely skilled to navigate them safe and sound through heavy traffic every single working day!

 

Part of my journey will be in the opposite direction, that is, towards the business centers, and I can expect to find ‘empty’ buses. Thereafter, I will have to compete for space, and must rethink options as I go along. The journey begins uneventfully enough, and I find a seat right at the back of the bus. Slowly the bus fills to capacity and more. Since there is no air conditioning, it soon feels hot and sticky, but everybody bears the discomfort as best they can. I notice small kindnesses as those seated move over to squeeze in small children beside them. Some others hold belongings for those standing on their laps.

From further up, I hear tempers suddenly flare, and voices rise in altercation. A woman objects to something said or done to her, a man retorts that she is only taking advantage of being a woman. Some passengers smile wryly, a peacemaker asks both sides to calm down. Closer to me two young men pick up on the irritation spewed. New rules for men, bus non-cooperation, they announce. They look around a little disappointed when nobody else acknowledges their jibe.

I feel twinges of apprehension because, yes, my spatial orientation begins to falter. The crowd muffles the shouts of the bus conductor naming the bus stops coming up. I cannot get a fix on where we are, and whether we near or far from where I should disembark. ‘Excuse me, sir’ gets the attention of the nearest regular on the route, and I ask him instead. Far yet, he nods and asks where exactly I am going. Several more heads swivel around in surprise as I mention the place (also known for its slums), and an animated discussion follows on aspects of the information I provide.

One man draws an imaginary circle in the air with his forefinger, demonstrating that I am on a long detour. I am told direct buses were available much earlier at ‘seven point’ and I would have reached destination in 10-15 minutes at most from there. I look blank and immediately tongues click. She doesn’t know the way, they look at me pityingly, and proceed to educate. Get off at the next stop and go back, advises one and some agree the point.  The man in the corner shakes his head. Nah, nah, office time, brother, he interjects, and more agree with his point. It seems the buses only pass through this ‘seven point’ region, and hence the chances are higher of my being stranded there unable to board any transport. Go point to point, the man says knowledgeably; that is, to avoid the office-returning crowd, to wherever transport is definitely available.

There is a general consensus amongst the experienced that the auto-rickshaw is my best bet from here onwards. The first man undertakes the instructing. He describes in detail the landmarks I cannot miss, the shortcuts to keep eyes open for, and pathways I should use. I am cautioned that stepping onto the flyover entails a stiff fine. The other areas are a little less lighted, but not to worry, lots of people will be going that way now, just to follow them. The other men listening in nod their agreement. They soon alert me to start moving through the crowd to exit. Thank you, I sing out to them all; mention not, they chorus back. The people packed like sardines between the seats, sway apart to let me pass.

I have no difficulty thereafter in following the very explicit directions. I find the over-bridge that gets me across the main road packed with traffic, the landmark building that I must turn off at, the dark twisting little alley beside the flyover that connects to another main road, and the auto-rickshaw stand across the way. As I head off to my final destination, I marvel at the unconditional collective cooperation I receive in such chaotic situations. Seems to me that the key to successfully asking directions of the local in India is a bit of respect for people and their cultures.

 

Journey and the Indian housewife

Social learning requires a formal introduction before people can interact with one another. The wait is for somebody to fulfil that role, somebody to set the ball rolling, and if not then not has become usual. A problem arises during travel, in the forced proximity, on a journey, with strangers. People’s focus has become reaching destination, period.  They seem always in a hurry, and the anxiety to get somewhere, turns quickly to impatience. They may push and shove others out of their way in the mad rush to be first to the exits on airplanes, trains and even theatre halls. Enjoyment of the journey itself, and relaxed conversations with others is a rarity.

The frequent fliers I have come across wrap themselves in the protective aura of power and prestige emanating from their organizations. It fortifies them through the many thousands of miles of airplane travel regularly covered in self-imposed silence. In the process, they may earn rewards of free mileage, vacations, and so on. But ask them, and they have no recollection of the thousands of people they might have journeyed alongside. One gentleman tells me he generally pops a couple of pills before he gets to the airport, and once ensconced aboard, sleeps right through the cross-continental flights, shutting off all possibilities of interaction. For shorter distances, being engrossed in the laptop or ipad is enough deterrent to any interaction. 

A far older tradition in certain Tibetan monasteries has been to deliberately rip apart these social boundaries. Before the acolyte formally joins the order, he must know himself. The young men are sent out to face the world with little more than a staff and a begging bowl. The intent is to strip the ego, to experience humility and learn adaptability to changing environments. The given task is to follow the meandering route of a holy river from source to delta, downstream by one bank and back upstream by the other – on foot.  Their return, if or when that is, depends upon the individual survival skills in various social environments.

This practice is, of course, hardly known about or followed amongst people outside the monastery. For the householder, the proposition is frightening. Women of good families, especially, prefer to travel with a group of known faces around them to keep the unknown at bay. Long distance train journeys generally mean more hours of forced companionship with people outside the social circle. If perchance the women are traveling alone, their apprehensions mount. What if I get lost is the plaintive refrain irrespective of age, education or employment. Their social dependence needs assurances ten times over that somebody will see them off at one end and somebody will receive them at the other, and prayers for divine protection en route. Obviously, few perceive any journey as new adventures.

I try to settle in early on the train, to avoid the jostling of late arrivals, and observe the unfolding of new, unique human stories. Many of the people I strike up conversations with, look as if they expect the worst from the encounter. I can almost see the wheels of their minds clicking back to childhood warnings against speaking to strangers. It takes them awhile to return to the present and remember that they actually are adults.

 
A well-dressed lady arrives to take the berth across me on this journey. The several men with her are far too respectful to be family. The boss’s wife, I suspect, accompanied by those lower on the pecking order who have discovered their unwritten duty to ensure her wellbeing - and thence their own. I gather they are Railways employees,  and remember stories told of how wives of senior officials and their entourage behave as royalty on board. Should they have links to political heavyweights their attitudes worsen in reflected glory. Yes indeed, horror stories of some sort of mafia in play. The ladies demand exclusive service from the train staff threatening to get them fired for disobedience. They also harass the other passengers that might protest, with threats of getting them dragged off the train... I wonder what is in store for us!

On this day, the men in attendance struggle with large suitcases while she fiddles with her cellphone. After a while they decide leave the luggage where it is, occupying all the space between the berths. In their overt concern for the lady, co-existence with other passengers seems clean forgotten. I pipe up to remind them of it, whilst feeling it an inauspicious opening to my anticipated encounter! The lady starts up at my interjection, and the men look around in surprise at the sound of strident female tones directed at them. Lucky for me, I guess, that they only try harder to manage the luggage!

With their departure, mission accomplished, the lady busies with the phone speaking with some people, or just waiting for some others to respond. I ask what she does for a living. Nothing, she says with an embarrassed look, just a housewife, as if nobody could possibly be interested in this group of creatures. As she gradually overcomes her inhibitions, she confides that because she is unsure about others’ reaction, she speaks only when spoken to. 

Her story resonates with that of millions of women of this country brought up high on sacrifice, and low on self-esteem. She is married off young to forestall other eventualities, and before she can really find her feet, motherhood is upon her, as is the omnipresence of the mother-in-law.  She strives to be an exceptional homemaker, an accomplished cook and the perfect mother. Her husband’s rising career graph means transfers and late working hours, so she cannot expect adult companionship much of the time. Her children are her treasures, closer to her than to their busy father. While on the way to help one settle house in a new place, she worries about those she leaves behind. All the lives conjoint with hers should run smoothly – let her be the recipient of all their travails. 

The tradition in families is for one generation to groom another to take its place on the hierarchy in the exact same way. The strict tutelage of mothers-in-law put new brides into the same mould that they once occupied in the past. The ritualistic training in customs ensures that women of successive ages, the carrier of the culture, eventually dress alike, look alike, act alike and even think alike in a stream of carbon copies. The sisterhood of sameness is their ordained destiny.  Men in the family adopt a hands-off approach to these traditions of the women’s world, while themselves keeping up with the new technology and so on, of modernity. 

The benefit of the husband’s job  allows this housewife to live in a sprawling suburban bungalow with plenty of space and few neighbours. She gets used to being alone with the children, learns to appreciate Nature, and discovers her green thumb. Gardening becomes a passion, the bonsai technique the speciality she perfects over twenty years. The plants are her personal pride and joy and it will be a wrench to leave many of the little masterpieces behind as has happened before, when they must move away to another new posting as the job demands. 
 

   
Many such women of this country tend to internalize the traditional lack of social esteem for their gender and accept their lot as karma. Nobody in the social organization is concerned with the effect of unsought change on the feminine psyche; the ‘housewife’ is expected only to deliver as others desire. In using the archaic term to describe their life roles, the women devalue themselves, and nobody else thinks twice about doing the same. Because the economic complement is missing in their contributions, they are perceived within the family as no more than glorified domestic labour. Fact is they may be worse off, in unpaid service 24/7, at beck and call of husband, children and extended family with almost no returns of credit or genuine appreciation. 

Although they are the home managers, the enablers of others’ power and prestige, they carry forwards centuries of gender inequality on their back. In this day and age as well, they hide their true worth under bushels of conditioned self-deprecation. A parable relates that the elephant could not be the king of the jungle because their large ears prevented their realizing their own size and strength. The lack of esteem in the Indian housewife similarly blinds her to her own creative potential.

The bus class

While I was still in school, my sister, who had entered college, imbibed communist leanings. Quite unaware that this was merely a passing fad for the rising intellectuals of the time, I took as new knowledge her insistence that we too rise above bourgeois sentiments and de-class. Though I hardly knew what the terms meant, I was suitably impressed that unbeknownst, we were doing something unacceptable in our lives!

I might add that in those days, the subject 'moral science' was stressed upon in the convent school I attended. Films like The Ten Commandments and Ben-Hur spectacularly underscored the ideals the nuns were at pains to instill in us, where right and wrong were carved in edicts of stone. For me, moreover, they portrayed equality of mankind, clearly upholding the values of the proletariat. Thus I reconciled quite seamlessly in my mind the little I gleaned about religion and communism, and took the learning to heart. 

I looked up to my sister to show us the way forward to change our oppressive ways of living. The obvious symbols of class consciousness, she expanded, were in how one traveled. Within the city, the choices of transport were of bus, taxicab or own car. We would be bourgeoisie to even consider the latter two; hence she chose for us the bus as the most appropriate. Needless to say, she had my wholehearted support, and unquestioning followership. 

There was a logistical problem, however. The class she was getting us to identify with was already filled to capacity and so were the buses, the cheapest mode of distance travel. It began to take us hours to get from point A to point B because buses would be jam-packed when they arrived at the stops we waited at. People would literally be hanging on for dear life; it was so impossible for us to get a foothold, it was better to walk. Yet it seemed to me that we were indeed doing the right thing. In our democratic republic, we walked the talk as it were, against the evils of social hierarchy. 

 

My brother, on the other hand, was totally disgusted. He was afraid his social image would nosedive. In the peer groups he socialized in, the trappings were important. Their dreams included among other things, swanky attention-drawing imported cars. At the time, however, the nationalized policy on vehicular manufacture favoured the Indian make in the effort to bring it up. All others brands were hit with prohibitive taxes for the same reason. One carmaker held monopoly on the family car, and as a result, a general sameness prevailed on the roads of the country. The cars all looked the same, sturdy and ugly, their social status denoted only by colour – taxicabs distinctly yellow-and-black, private cars in other hues.  It was a blow to his esteem, that we did not have a car at our disposal. A taxicab was the wooden spoon, but buses were really the last straw!

Our parents were caught in the middle of their bickering, helpless to take a stand. Their growing up had been far from the working classes we now had to rub shoulders with. The family ancestry had been landowners in undivided India; a reality snatched away from them by the horrors of the Partition that carved up the nation.  Sometimes my mother reminisces about the many prajas (subjects) that lived and worked on their properties, orchards, farmlands and crops, though my father rarely spoke about the past that we had no experience of. Post-Partition, it was a painful rebuilding for many such families that moved perforce to the new India, if not quite destitute, certainly with only a fraction of their erstwhile wealth. With affordability diminished so rapidly, they probably felt de-classed already. It must instead have been shaming to be constantly reminded of being down in fortunes, to be a disappointment to their children one way or another.

So many decades later, my brother has achieved to the fullest his childhood dreams of success. It seems to me that somehow ‘poverty’ has lodged in the mind, and the need for material security grown insatiable. Despite the accumulation of money, numerous properties and cars, he just cannot feel he has enough.  My sister’s perspective has changed drastically. Rather like the dismantled former Soviet Union, she has abandoned her adolescent leanings and fully embraced capitalism as practiced in the West, along with their subtle differentiations of class or race. Both have sworn allegiance to the lands of plenty and shaken the dust of this poverty-stricken democracy quite completely.

 

Much has changed over the years in this country as well, including wider transport choices, but the crowds on buses in India continue. Perhaps I valued the ‘new knowledge’ of my formative years a little too much, because I do still travel on them. 

Friends and acquaintances look askance and question what attraction those sweaty, smelly atmospheres might hold for me. Well, I do get a glimpse of the ordinary India that so often is written off as the amorphous them group, at the other end of the continuum from the respectable us. In fact, despite the invasion of personal space, the tedium and physical discomfort of the journeys, human interactions continue unabated. I have observed amongst the bus class extraordinary acts of kindness, empathy and humour, I am certain money cannot buy nor upward social mobility ensure.

Imagery in being lonely

“I wandered lonely as a cloud/that floats on high o’er hills and vales/when all at once I saw a crowd/a host of golden daffodils…”

Wordsworth, I think it is, who turns the mundane sense of sight into exuberant imagery. I can almost see for myself, the riot of colour in the countryside unblemished by the clutter of housing projects raising ugly fingers to the sky. Who can remain lonely with words so effused with joy! Easy it is to escape the daily demands of tasks, the negativity of co-workers, and ethical conflicts, to float away light and carefree above the humdrum, in communion with Nature, at one with her creations. 

But then, before my inward eye, flashes a different memory. I relive my leaden-footed foreboding all the afternoon my son fails to return or call, my repeated rings to his cellphone going unanswered; my uneasiness turning to anger with the policemen at the door seeking male family members to speak to, and my thinking 'there has to be a mistake' at the sudden mention of death. 

Here too is imagery, but, seared in indescribable pain, it locks in replay for a lifetime where no words can bring solace. I realize that the ‘lonely’ state of being varies with inputs of the emotional mind. I see one as a moment of quiescence awaiting direction, open to new experiences.  Like the eagerness of youth when resonating words, or slivers of wisdom, cut through the mists of confusion to shower light on the way to go forward. The readiness to meet head on all that the future brings unfazed by portents of failure; the undeniable urge to become, to combat challenges and, come hell or high water, to adapt to new reality. But the other state is different yet. A friend comments that our emotions appear to hang like garlands around dates on the calendar. Fact is the dates per se are not important, but associated events are. Snapshots of another place, another time, these past happenings burn into memory, and remembrances trigger the outpourings of emotions. 

I see again the astonishment on faces at the police station as I arrive alone. Nobody seems to want to speak to me, as I demand to see my son. They probably are afraid of women going berserk in the throes of grief, and tell me that since it is late night, it is best to return next day in the company of other relatives.  I refuse to leave my son ‘unidentified’, and eventually, they put the evidence before me - his personal effects. During the long wait for completion of the paperwork, I struggle to comprehend my reality. The other women there, eager to share their problems, look offended at my lack of empathy or response to their venting. I feel a disconnect with the immediate surroundings, in spiraling descent into the murky depths of impotent despair. Even a decade on, I touch my helplessness before the inexorable power of circumstances. 

Finally, against the backdrop of the callousness of the cadaver handlers, and their inquisitive chatter about me, I am confronted by the irrefuteable. I first recognize my son’s toes, the clothes on his body that look as clean as when he left that morning. I half expect him to jump up laughing uproariously at having fooled me silly  – and then I see the blood. The shock returns now as then, at the sight of his face smashed almost beyond recognition from the road accident that killed him, his one whole eye seems to stare into mine, his mouth open in a soundless scream… I wonder if I am delusional or in a momentary burst of light, the vision really does appear of an effulgent presence, before whom there can be no bargaining, and to whom I beg acceptance for my son. When consciousness returns of the dark, dreary environment of the morgue, and I am aware of silently mouthing the gayatri mantra (Sanskrit prayer), while my body seems to bleed profusely inside.

I wonder how other animals deal with such pain. Surely all their behaviours cannot be written off as mere ‘instinctive actions’ – what about the tiger mother battling ferociously to protect her young, elephant herds standing in respectful silence before the bones of their ancestors, the loyal companionships of dogs and other house pets? Relationships obviously matter to them as they do to us. Perhaps we are yet to fathom the depths of their conscious thought or feelings because they communicate differently. Their acceptance of the inevitable is definitely stronger, as is their dignity in moving on from personal tragedy.

My world shattered in an instant and I still grope to find the pieces. I am horrified that I, as parent, have failed in duty to protect, and that I outlive my son. Why did destiny have to ensure my being left behind? In my reasoning, had we left life together, we would hardly have been missed - not for long anyway. Truth is my focus had been on making him independent of me. I would relate as a lesson of life, the story of Flint, the baby gorilla that grew up so dependent on his mother, he just could not survive her death. ‘I won’t be around forever’ I would din into him. My intuition failed me there, because I never once visualized the necessity of my training likewise as well.

Humans mourn loss not so much for those who leave, but for their own voided future. Kubler-Ross theorizes five stages to the grief that must follow – denial, anger, depression, bargaining and acceptance. They have no specific time or order for appearance, they may or may not at all display in individual sorrow, and people may even be stuck in one stage or other.  

I must own to being laden with shades of anger from both within and outside of me. It came as aftershock that many distanced from me, fearing ‘infection’, and some dissected the event in secret joy at having escaped the attention of Yamraj (lord of death). Others of the extended family, especially the elder male relatives, voiced belittlement at not being consulted first, blamed the event on bad victim behaviours, bad parenting and bad fruits of karma. The social response was near unbearable then, and it bothers me that my son is now so easily forgotten. I cling to memories as all I have left of him, while to others he is lost without trace in the sands of time.  

Fact is the social fabric has not evolved with time, but has simply been adulterated. Through centuries of collectivism, community rituals dealt with occasions, both happy and sad, to continually refresh the cultural context giving meaning to life events.  Today, overlays of the individualism learned from other cultures have diminished their importance. Whether residing within the country or abroad, modernity has meant that only remnants of traditions carry forward, often as superstitions. In the electronic world, the social solidarity traditional group activities once generated to coincide individual and collective well-being are no more. Instead the interpersonal bonds have weakened, while fear and uncertainty abound about coping with the unexpected.

Technology is no substitute for the psychological development of people. The over-dependence on rationality to carry the day leaves the emotional mind backward and retarded. Individuals tend to adopt defence mechanisms – anger, judgement, selective memory and so on, to protect against the external. But memories are the internal stressors, reminders of devastation that, because one cannot change, one must endure. A random thought or association triggers feelings of profound loss or failure. That experience of defeat most unexpected is not at all easy to work out of, for alone or in the crowd, one is lonely. Unless the memories and their emotional attachments are put in perspective, they tend to grow unnoticed, and like a bomb buried live, just wait to explode someday.