Social attitude and family reality

Children in traditional India lead more sheltered lives than their counterparts elsewhere. Helicopter parents control the purse strings and their lives. It is social duty to do so, because they are judged by their children’s achievements. But family structure is rapidly changing in today’s India, and so must the social attitudes.

Education is priority over everything else. The family’s social recognition depends upon results - how the children do in the high school Board Exams, in college, in university and so on. The parents want their children to go up in the world, hence, the proper exposure is of paramount important. From middle school itself, extracurricular activities or vacations are sacrificed for coaching classes to prepare the children for the next step in life. There is no let up to keeping noses to the grindstone. It is for their good they are told, for their future.

The transition from high school to college is most stressful, especially for the parents. Adolescents beginning to explore the world outside without supervision is concerning, because who knows what influences will be picked up to alienate them from cultural family values! 

A teenager, Runu, stands on this threshold. Much time is spent in weighing the pros and cons of the different institutions. On the one hand, there is a far-away governmental institution, where costs are subsidized. For the adolescent, it is opportunity to be free of parental supervisions. On the other hand, staying in the city brings down establishment costs, but extends the parental watch. And it means attendance at a more expensive private institution; hence more strain on parental resources, because the children are still economically dependent. 

The immediate family and the social circle of involved relatives and friends agonize over the course of action for college admissions, reminiscent of the joint family structure of days gone by in India. Where siblings and cousins were brought up together, with several generations living under the same roof, it was not customary for the individual to think or act independently. 

 

Westernization and the partition of the country destroyed the joint family social unit, and instead, small, independent nuclear units became standard. The circle of people involved in decision-making became smaller, restricted to parents and their children. However, older age groups sometimes behave as though the traditional collectivism continues, whereby somebody’s business is everybody’s business.

In my opinion, young people need to make their own choice in the matter of their future. Runu should not feel pushed to live out somebody else’s dream, and later blame them for it. He needs to discover what his aptitude and interest pointed to, and state them clearly. I insist to his parents that they let him do so and support him to their best ability, and not the other way around. My input bases on the experience of another family, traumatized by change.

Fact is the social unit is again in transition. The education and employment of women has put them in touch with their own identity, as distinct from husband or family. There is power struggle in the home. Men may want to continue with things as they were, but women are less tolerant of second-class citizenship within the home. Consequently, separations and divorce have risen sharply.

The new family unit then is becoming parent-and-child/children, and the parent mostly, is the mother. A matrimonial bond is traditionally supposed to last seven lifetimes; hence a fragmentary family is an affront to social attitudes, and bias is clear. Social sympathy sides with the man, and the social circle is more concerned with his needs. The woman is generally blamed for the failure; kinship support deserts her. The responsibility of child upbringing remains hers, nevertheless.

Shibani is such a single mother and Santanu, her only son. Since she is also the breadwinner now, she opts to send the boy to a military boarding school. In the absence of the father as a role model, she reasons, the school training would instill discipline in his life. His mother doesn’t have the time to hover, and all she can do was to keep track of academic results.

She dreams of a far better future for them, expects him to achieve certain targets, and he consistently delivers. But her goals are those that society values. She looked forward to him becoming a doctor, or an engineer. Only his success in life will assuage the pain and guilt she is burdened with over the breakup of her marriage and the family unit.

Unfortunately, Shantanu dreams different from his mother. Neither medicine nor engineering interest him. That his aspirations are quite in another direction, he doesn’t share. Shantanu had learned early to look after himself and appears quite self-sufficient. However, he has withdrawn into himself and shares little of his thoughts and aspirations with others. He also trusts none - least of all, the adults in his life.

His mother pushes him to appear in all the relevant entrance exams, and dutifully he does so. He passes them all with flying colours and top institutions in the state offer admissions. But on the very day they are scheduled to complete the admissions process at a top college, Shantanu is untraceable. His mother waits in vain at the admissions office, devastated as her dreams for their future slip out of her grasp. 

Caught between his own aspirations and social expectations, Shantanu meanwhile, has fled from home. He takes up residence in a district across the river, and a job as a delivery boy to support himself. He stays put for a few weeks while he thinks out the direction of his future. Mother and son thus live in the same state, with no contact whatsoever between them.

Fortunately, Shantanu finds his course in life, and returns a few weeks later. The absence of a father figure and role model in his life to provide seasoned counsel is stark. His choices clearly lack the experience of life. He enrolls in his favourite subject at a very ordinary college nearby. One college is as good as another, it is the subject that matters, he reasons in his inexperience. No quite, I say when I meet him. The equation is small pond versus big pond. A small place doesn't hold out too many opportunities for the future. In the work world, the value to a potential employer is the institution he graduates from, and bigger is better.

Children of fragmentary homes are alienated from society itself for no fault of their own. While unable to comprehend the trauma they have to go through, they internalize it. They feel the outsider, compelled to reinvent the wheel, to relearn things by trial and error. Society needs to be aware that many of its traditional practices are fast becoming obsolete. A change in social attitude to family reality is necessary eschewing the entrenchment in social inequality.

Street corner GPS

I’m rather challenged in spatial orientation. I mean my sense of direction goes haywire on the road in Kolkata. It is tough to figure out locations, and their street signs are a little difficult to spot too. I don’t worry too much, however. Navigational help is around the corner, and it comes free.

The street corners of Kolkata buzz with activity, from first light to late night. They are the centres for adda (gossip). Everything is discussed, the local news, sports, politics or personal issues. They may have card games there too, and gambling. Makeshift stalls for tea, snacks and tobacco spring up on the sidewalk, to do brisk business. The corner serves the same social purpose for the ordinary that exclusive clubs do for the wealthy. In both places, men need clubbability, like ships need anchors. But the roadside intellectuals are rather more street savvy. 

I venture in to explore an area in the vicinity of the Howrah Bridge some call a bad place. Wholesale goods are auctioned there. Hand-rickshaws or thelas (pushcarts) line the street ends, waiting to be engaged, to carry people and goods to different parts of the city. They run on human labour through the seemingly mazes of lanes and bylanes of Kolkata’s congested areas. Getting lost is pretty easy in those places, and on my own, I go round in circles.

Many street corners of the city double as stands for transport vehicles. Each stand is specific for a type of vehicle – for taxis, for auto-rickshaws, for rickshaws, etc., and mindful perhaps, of road hierarchy, the types don’t mix. The transport walas (drivers) are weather-beaten men, almost uniformly dressed in lungi (long loin-cloth) and baniyan (vest), which younger men might vary attire with jeans and tee-shirts.

 

Each though, carries their trademark long red gamcha (towel). It helps with the sun, the rain, the cold, and the carrying of weights. They are patient, they can wait hours, perched on their vehicles or squatted on the sidewalk. The chaps in this place speak Hindi, not Bengali, as do most of the traders, which shows how diversity has infiltrated the city. I guess the ‘bad’ perceptions may also be parochial! 

I stop at the corner to enquire where the roads might lead to or come from. Surprised at being addressed, they all stare at me. Finally, one of them asks instead where it is I’m trying to reach. Nowhere actually, I say and smile at the incongruity, just roaming. They find it funny that I would choose such a place to roam in. But still, they need a destination to be able help. I say Kolkata, which is silly really, as we are in the city, but they rightly assume I mean its central region. They explain the one-way only rule is enforced here, and hence it seems wise to keep going with the traffic. They point out where I can join the flow, and how to return to the centre. Accordingly, I go across the river over the bridge, u-turn at the railway station, and then, via the flyovers, head back to more familiar climes.

Another time, another turn becomes wrong. I find the sides of the road closing in, and the surroundings progressively shabbier. I realize I’m in the heart of a close-knit minority community, and its residents are suspicious of outsiders coming in. Few women are about, and those that are, are keeping conservatively covered. I’m obviously out of place in that environment, and it is being noticed. The rule of thumb of following the road no longer makes sense because it’s now a dirt track. 

No help for it, I have to stop to ask directions. Several young men are lounging about on the street corner. I attract their attention and they gather around, curious about what I’m about on their turf. I mention the landmark seven-point crossing. They know where it is, and how to get there. They tell me I’m actually heading the opposite way. Their instructions to going back include plenty of turns, and I’m getting confused.

The first thing though, is to move, because a queue is building up behind me. I decide on taking one turn at a time, with the first one right there. Drivers behind me, and those in oncoming vehicles, begin sounding their displeasure, but the young men jump in to help. With their arms outstretched, they stop the traffic on either side, and hold them back until I manage the turnaround in the narrow space. I wave my thanks as I drive away in the general direction they explain to me. A few street corners later, my way forward is clear again.

Many localities in Kolkata have their own distinctive community flavour. In the more congested old Kolkata, especially to the north of the city,  pockets of various religious minorities focus on preserving their customs and rituals. In the more affluent southern areas, the social milieu is more diffuse, more liberal perhaps, but neighbours hardly know one another.  

Near railway stations, the roads become thoroughfare. There is a constant stream of people that have just stepped off one or are on the way to catch the local trains. They commute daily from their homes in the villages far from the city.Fortunately, for millions of people employed in the city, the Indian railway network is the largest in the world, and it is their only mode of travel. 

When they set off from their homes early morning, it is still dark. Their families are asleep when they leave and when they return. They are so focused on getting to work, or catching the train home, that they are quite oblivious of their surroundings. Honking at them makes no difference; they walk in the middle of the road, as they do back home. The only way to drive there is to trundle along behind them.

I take a turn to get away from the crowds, and that road keeps winding on and on, left then right. I follow it with the hope of coming upon a main road soon. Eventually, I see a row of cycle-rickshaws at the end of the road. Beyond them, between two buildings, there is an opening. Something seems to glint beyond. I stop and roll down my window. The group of men squatted on the roadside, look on impassively. Elder brother, I say, is it possible to go down that way? I gesture to the passageway beyond. 

No, elder sister, they reply, pleased with my respectful form of address. I realize I’ve reached an absolute dead end. The glint I saw is the railway tracks just beyond, and the opening is a shortcut to the station.  It’s their corner, they line up their vehicles on one side, pick up passengers coming through the opening, and move on down the other side of the road to take them on to their destination. They tell me I should have turned right instead of left, to reach the main road and the bridge further on. A passing man sniggers that the only way out now is in reverse. But backing the car around the winding bends I passed earlier doesn’t seem a great option.

The rickshaw-walas watch in silence as I back away to the nearest pavement and wait there. Some rickshaws are taken and ready to move. Their drivers look at me uncertainly. They are unsure of my intention, and seem to debate being patient or being belligerent. I wave them on their way. There is just enough room for them to go past, and they head out. Thankfully, passengers are aplenty the line of parked rickshaws clears quickly, and I can continue with my manoeuvre. The drivers that remain courteously move their vehicles up to provide me a little more space to help me get right around and retrace my route.

The class conscious groups in Kolkata looks down their noses at the riff raff that gather at the corners. They are loud and individuals may be quick to confront, or even come to blows over perceived injustices. Moreover, they may be illiterate and vice ridden, so the respectable barely acknowledge their existence. Street corner people are perceived the lowest of the low.

But their social responsibility is second to none. These savvy people become first responders in any emergency. Their help is immediate even for a total stranger. They spring into action to clear traffic jams if the police are not around, or as additional help. They also regularly intervene to resolve street altercations.

The one thing they are undoubtedly expert at, are road directions. Ask about locations, shortcuts, traffic flow and road conditions, and they are instant sources of information. They know ways in and out of the locality, like the backs of their hands. A satellite-dependent GPS is a must in the West.  In Kolkata, we get by with these human equivalents.

The end of fear itself

Mary Kom, the living legend. Bear in mind that her country of origin is India, and her achievements of five world titles in boxing, is mind-boggling. But can the film inspire families around the country to allow their women-folk to step out of traditional gender roles? Or will the tale of her success remain bittersweet for the many nameless, faceless women of India, themselves casualties on the road to self-actualizing?
 

The Mary Kom biopic released in India this month. Her life story, packaged in a Bollywood production, sweeps the audience along on an emotional roller coaster. We are in awe of her grit in demolishing the sexist bounds girls her age are afraid of confronting. We marvel how her boxing dream sustains her through travails. The images portrayed are iconic, and have dramatic timing. Against the backdrop of destructive insurgent standoffs in the Northeastern states, a young girl finds the boxing glove that inspires her career. Again, conflict flares and curfew ensues when she is to become a mother.

We too rage at the sporting ignorance of the federation officials, and at the injustices meted out to state and national players. Our tears well up with her collapse onto the ring canvas in sync with her child’s loss of vitals during her comeback championship bout. Together with her supporters, we will her to find strength in helplessness and get back to her feet. Her pain as person, woman, daughter, student, wife and mother resonates as our pain, because so many women in India are or have been in like situations. 

Although all around the world, women’s movements have cried themselves hoarse in protest over the invisible glass ceiling in employment organizations, in India it is barely realized. Entrenched in gender roles, most women probably do not believe they are worth any better. We cannot hope to see anybody else have the self-belief to speak out, let alone throw a chair in protest at the powers-that-be. It may be telling that, although in the last fortnight, the film screened in theatres in the rest of India, its release is as yet held up in Kom’s home state of Manipur!

In the social structure of the country, women do occupy positions of power, but their climbing the rungs of achievement on their own strengths are rare. Far more often we hear of the incumbents being somebody’s mother, sister, wife, daughter or daughter-in-law. In short, behind every successful woman there is a man to pull the strings, and wield the power. When this is the socially accepted construction of a woman’s life, it is no surprise that their self-worth is also dependent on forces outside of them. Against that norm, the woman that values herself is an oddity.

We love the men that stand up tall in her life - the father, a wrestler himself, for his turnabout from stiff resistance to support of his daughter’s dreams, the husband for his calming counsel, devotion to family and commitment to her career, and of course, the curmudgeon coachfor his unwavering focus on goal, without whose guidance in training she acknowledges she can never be a champion.

We are also secretly jealous, because very, very few women can boast of kinship support that respects or even tolerates the development of their individual identity. Rather, most women that dare to be “unwomanly” in a patriarchal society are not only left open to gender exploitation in the outside world, they also face the severest backlash at home. The pressures of battling several fronts often break down resolve, and in abject despair, most become apathetic shells of their former self. In the ultimate analysis, they lack the killer instinct.

What holds the women back from achieving their goals? In one word: Fear. The undifferentiated fear that is all consuming. The fear is of stepping outside the mythological lakshmanrekha (invisible boundary) that tradition constrained them with so many millennia ago. The fear is of performance, it is of making mistakes, and of being a failure. The fear is of the unknown, of what inexplicable terror or danger might lurk in the shadows. The fear is of other people might think. The fear is of bring shame to family.  The fear is of being abandoned.

Women of this country have been taught through generations that they are custodians of culture and carriers of the tradition. They are bred to be dependent. This perspective has probably become interwoven with their DNA. Hence, fears are their constant companions and rule their lives. In one memorable scene in the film, the protagonist warns the official, Don’t scare anybody so much that their fear ends altogether. Women of India need to take heart from it.  Fact is they have nothing to fear but fear. Conquer it, and they become impervious to the men’s most potent weapon of control against them - emotional blackmail.

Mary Kom is not the first ever woman in the country with the drive to break new ground. There have been many that have tried before to fight for gender equality. Like the same wine in older bottles, they too were held hostage to stereotypical assumptions – that they would become boys if they played boys’ games, that nobody would ever marry them, that they would bring dishonour to the family prestige, ad infinitum.  Through earlier ages, innumerable women have thus been felled by the wayside for their audacious attempts to reach out and break the glass ceiling. They were not defeated in fair fights but through their greatest weakness, the desire to maintain relationships.

The tenacity of Mary Kom lends substance to her legendary status. She keeps her goal in sight no matter what. Through thick and thin, her talent remains undiminished. When the father forces a choice, the pressure shows, and yet her gaze is unwavering as she chooses boxing over the familial relationship. It makes the Arjuna Award for her exceptional prowess significant – Arjun the warrior-prince of the Mahabharat could shoot out the eye of a fish on a rotor at a distance because of that extraordinary ability to focus.

Although the earlier women innovators remain in the shadows today, Mary Kom’s success actually vindicates their belief that woman can do this. For them it is bittersweet - they couldn’t make it, but somebody finally did! This country and many others around the world could do with a reevaluation of gender roles. May be, just may be, the story of one woman’s journey to the top adds fillip to a new trend in women’s development.

In the cinema hall, the audience jumps to its feet as the national anthem plays at the end of the show. They applaud, perhaps the person, perhaps the presentation, perhaps both. I wonder whether they will, thereafter, apply any of it to bring change into their own lives. Or will the majority soon distance from proactive action, and instead, re-view the biopic as just 123 minutes of filmy entertainment…

Save the last dance

In modern India, older age groups have a problem. Actually, they may even be the problem. After decades of nurturing others, they forget how to nurture themselves. Society forgets about them as well. Elsewhere in the world, we hear 60 is now the new 40! But that memo, for sure, is yet to be received here.

I visit an upcoming housing complex. Their marketing executive tells me that the place is self-sufficient. Residents do not need to step outside the area for any activity or entertainment. With a few thousand high-rise flats, it is like a little town in itself. He reels off the modern in-house facilities, now an inseparable part of urban living – shopping mall, multiplex theatre, gymnasium and health spa, children’s play centre, community hall, and so on. He is eager for me to understand that they have thought of everything. 

What about senior citizens? I ask. A flourish of his arm takes in a passageway with about a dozen armchairs. I stare in surprise. Is that all the activity retirees merit – a sit down and chat? It is almost like waiting to die. That the elderly are viewed as completely spent is disquieting. The metabolism may have slowed down, but the minds are still active, thinking, creating. May be more, in fact, now that the distractions of youth have been seasoned. I dream of ageing gracefully, not of being relegated to a trash heap of uselessness!

For years the older age-group shoulders responsibility for the future. First, it is more important to focus on a good education to go up in life, then, there are job priorities, and finally, family and children take precedence. The little time remaining in hand for them must look bleak when the social consideration they earn as returns is poor. Surely, the ageing deserve something a bit more imaginative!

Society may not mean to discriminate, but its majority associates this group with little other than medical needs. It pushes the elderly to think negatively about themselves too, when the opposite is just as true. Now that responsibilities are largely over, it is opportunity for them to refocus on the self. Post-retirement, one finally has time to develop freely what has been left remote for years. Maybe childhood aspirations saved in some corner of memory could be resurrected. Discovering the simple joy of learning new skills, for instance. 

Certainly, the assumptions of suspended animation need to be question, and yes, a few waves created in chasing dreams. From my very long-term memory, I dredge one up - Dance.  I was captivated with it, but was then too young to join the class the three older girls in our joint family were going to. Later, they told me. Alas, by then, the older girls gave up on it, one by one. The family was convinced that, by association, so would I. Dancers only get fat later on, they told me, better to learn to sing.

A dream shatters at a very impressionable age. It is not forgotten, just buried in memory as failure, never pursued again. I imagine putting the pieces together, to see what comes of it.  Out of respect for the childhood goal, I could at least give it a try. In fact, the exercise might be more interesting than the chatting envisaged as the appropriate old age pastime. 

My age-mates laugh at my craziness. Seriously, time to stop, they tell me in parental tones, you’ve danced around a lot before in your life. Yes, but that was a different spin of dancing. Bouncing around is perhaps a more appropriate term to use - changing subjects of study, changing job fields, and changing homes.

I suppose they mean for me to have stability in my life, to be completely predictable, and like furniture, to just be there. The mistake is in thinking there is safety in an environment controlled to keep everything the same. Fact is the only constant in life is change. Accept that, and one is ready to adapt to any new reality.

I set about finding the dance school to attend. I look them up and decided to ‘phone a couple located close by for details. Initially, they are most welcoming. I’m just the kind of enthusiastic person they need in their class, they tell me. There are two broad categories, Indian and Western, and under them, innumerable styles and specializations: bharatnatyam, kathak, odissi, salsa, samba, zumba, and more besides. For an absolute beginner, Indian or Western makes no difference. At the moment, it is more a question of what might be a little easier to do. The schools promise guidance, and incidentally, telephonic admissions are also possible.

In the end, I ask the most important question, the age limit. They assure me there isn’t any. Student over a-year-and-a-half in age is all. They misunderstand. At the other end, I clarify. My query puzzles them. Adult? They respond tentatively, like it is a question. I tell them I’m in search of a senior citizens class. The silence wafting down the telephone line is telling! I can feel their interest wane. Senior citizens don’t do these classes. But there is a sop. I can join in with the kids in the beginners' class, if I want.

I decide on not for now. Surely, senior citizens have the gumption to organize their own activities! It may feel a little awkward at first, but to just think, they don’t need to impress anybody or please the world any more. When there are no classes for seniors, go to Plan B. The point is to learn. Technology is freely available, so why not take advantage of online instructions. I search the ‘Net and find a slew of tutorials. They all say joining an actual class is the best way to learn, and I couldn’t agree more. However, a saying in India is that having a blind uncle is better than having no uncle at all. 

The dance is, at last, for me! I decide to choose something with rhythm. I close my eyes and make a stab at the computer screen. Salsa, it is, a sexy dance from Cuba. It may be an ambitious project, but well, I’m not about to become a performer. The aim is to prove that this also can be achieved. I try to emulate moves from the video clips. They don’t look impossible to remember. Right, left, right … Left, right, left … Like walking. With a wish held this long, touchwood, I might even get it.

In the guise of a stranger

Poverty, as the world has understood, is India’s unique selling point. Any documentary or news spot telecast on the region, tends to underscore that fact. The first time I visited the West, an elderly lady on the bus I was riding in, asked in a loud whisper whether there were any buses in my country. I politely assured her there were, although, No, ma’am, I wished to say, we ride tigers and wear snakes! Abject poverty has become the cultural stereotype of all things Indian.

A quarter of the Indian population is deemed to live below the poverty line – “bpl” is the largest social category now. But the line itself is arbitrary, probably a statistical index based on some international standard of fixed income. Millions of people don’t reach that standard in a country where labour is plentiful and cheap, but they manage to get by under their own steam. Small trade, hawking, contractual labour or domestic help are usual modes of earning, and returns may be also in kind.

But for many others, poverty is the business project, milking the universal stereotype for all it's worth. After every natural disaster, scores of victims appear in localities. One such group of adults and children took up ‘residence’ on a busy street corner and soon began to terrorize passersby for alms. Encouraged by the adults with them, the small children ran on to the streets after auto-rickshaws, and other vehicles, to accost anybody alighting. Emboldened by people’s self-conscious compliance, the children grabbed hold of people’s hands, legs, bags, or clothes, refusing let go until some money changed hands.  It had become an easy method of extortion.

But in size, the children were mostly under eye-level, and drivers couldn’t always spot them coming on to the road. In exasperation one day, I confronted the adult man with them that seemed in charge, about their antics. I began to tell him off soundly for his completely lax parenting skills, causing them to run wild and endangering the little ones. In the midst of my strident lecture, the man muttered that they were not his children. These people were not related to one another at all. They were professionals, con artists simply playing at being a destitute family, to profit off the national disaster.
 

On another day, I noticed an old woman standing alone at the crossroads. She was small, and the length of sari she had wrapped around her body and head, was well worn. Considering her age, it seemed a little odd that she had come out that early in the morning. Passers-by glanced at her as they went by, mildly curious as to whether she was lost or turned out of her home.

After sometime, she shuffled up to an older man that seemed preoccupied with his own thoughts, a piteous expression on her face. The man was a little startled with her approach. She stood with drooping shoulders, but all the same, in his way. He fished in his pockets for some coins that he dropped on her palm and hurried away. She was not lost or anything. She was in her element, in the begging business. This crossroads was her beat for the morning, and she was working it well, getting several people to donate to her cause of being old.

I watched with interest. She told a white-haired man the poignant story of how she was forced to beg because her sons, controlled by their wives, had stopped caring for her. She went up to a young man next. But it was a mistake, and in a moment, she tried to get away from him. But he wasn’t about to let her off so easily. Why not, he called loudly after her; a little work won’t hurt you. You want money, don’t you? Come, sweep the floors, wash the bathrooms, you’ll get money. No work, no money. She turned away, pretending to be deaf.

She tottered over to a corner to regroup. Surreptitiously, she counted the money she had managed to collect. The notes in her hand might be enough for a couple of meals. She seemed to debate whether to push her luck or call it a day. The mean young man had lost interest in baiting her and was gone, so she turned around for another foray.

In the end, she encountered a lively young woman in a bright red and orange sari. She embarked on the tale that now that she was old, she couldn’t find work any more, nobody would employ her. You’re telling me, mother, the young woman said laughingly, I work too, you know. She reached inside her blouse and pulled out a small coin purse. She pressed some money into the beggar’s hands. If we don’t help one another, who else will help us?, she said cheerily to everybody else as she went on her way. 

That empathetic sentiment must be counted on in target choosing. The art of begging in India seems to me to be somewhat like that of selling refrigerators to the Eskimo! Poverty is as universal here, as ice must be out there, hence to be convincing is not an easy task. The old woman didn’t go after anybody that was clearly well off, the joggers and walkers, for instance. No, her targets were the people of the harder working class, like the lower level office staff or domestic help, hurrying to get to their place of work before their employers arrived or left for theirs. She probably felt that they had more heart, and in most cases, she read them right.

I’m sure few on the beggars’ radar in India are particularly fooled by the sob stories dished out to them. They know the score, and yet they give, willing to share, although nigh have-nots themselves. If the rest of the world would look beyond the poverty in India, they could find juxtaposed with the dirty and ugly, an ample measure lesser know cultural traits of India to be really impressed with. 

Firstly, social collectivism exists among the general populace, characterized by the truly hospitable spirit. They may be shy at first, but there is little hesitation to include others seemingly worse off within their universe.  Ask them, and the gods will provide, they say with karmic conviction. And finally, deeply ingrained in the psyche is a stronger spiritual belief. They are brought up not to turn away anybody that come to their door. Who knows, God may appear at any time in the guise of a stranger. Every such encounter is a test, and none want to risk failing it. 

 

Signalling ambiguity

Ever quite so often, I wish for a dashboard camera. Pictures that would capture in a trice the happenings on the roads of Kolkata would indeed be worth the thousands of words I labour to express – sometimes funny, sometimes heart-warming, and sometimes exasperating. On our general confusion with the traffic signals, for instance, they would speak volumes!

For decades, things were easier, and only three lights used to be there, red, amber and green. They were positioned on wooden or metal posts on the left corner of the road or in the middle of the traffic island with lights facing four ways. It is customary to drive on the left in this country; hence, an automatic left turn at crossings was the norm.

The signal posts of yesteryears are still standing. They also function, although greenery growing around them may obscure their lights sometimes. We have juxtaposed modernity now, with more rows of lights hung up ahead. The multiple new green lights qualify the single homogenous green light of old, and are redesigned into a green arrow to point out the direction more specifically. There are as many arrows as there are roads diverging from the crossing. Rendered necessary, I suppose, now that the numbers have increased, of people, and correspondingly, of traffic.

For additional help, single lights, red or green, are placed on the left or right of the road. The information the ordinary driver needs to drive safely is obtainable partly ahead, partly on the left, and partly on the right. Unfortunately, in the midst of heavy traffic, these are difficult to spot, let alone collate on the fly. Most people don’t bother their heads with them, and just go with the flow. It is so much easier to follow somebody else. It must be our herd instinct, do whateverthey are doing, right or wrong! 

The rules have changed from yesteryears, and the automatic left facility no longer exists. A “no free left” signboard stuck halfway up on the old traffic signal post says so. But how many of the drivers in Kolkata read English, anyway? It is thus unnoticed or just ignored. The point is the free left still exists in the minds of many drivers. Without the specific signal, yes, it is often freely appropriated; leaving behind those that can read feeling stupid!

I notice at several crossings, the “go left” green arrow comes on some seconds after the red light stops all traffic on the route. Vehicles bound for that direction begins to move, but after a few seconds more, that green light goes off again. Must the left-bound traffic already on the move stop again ? On a right turn, they must stop, of course, because traffic on the straight will soon be oncoming. But on the left turn, certainly no such difficulty exists. Still, I prefer to wait for the clear signal. However, for many other drivers that initial green arrow is go-ahead enough to keep going. Seems to me that if so, the signal too should stay on for the entire duration the channel is open. Surely, common sense dictates that! 

In many places, timers next to the signal lights count down the seconds. They look very precise and efficient technological tools. Motorists can see for themselves how much longer they have to wait for the go signal, or conversely, how long the channel will remain open. To my mind, though, it is the major irritant we can do without. The timings programmed into them are abysmal.  It may be that many of these signal lights have manual overrides, and the fault lies with their operators, since it is their duty to ensure that traffic on any particular road is not backed up too far too long. And what easier way to clear the traffic jams on one route, than to freeze the signal lights on the others until it is!

Often, despite the timer having already counted down to “00” (zero seconds remaining), motorists continue to be greeted with the unblinking red light. This may go on for an indefinite period – I’ve counted 30, 60 and even 90 more seconds sometimes with the timer frozen on zero! Why install them in the first place if their purpose is abused? They are meant to be an accurate gauge of time, in this case for stopping or for going, but appear to become the instrument of somebody’s whim.

Furthermore, if the signal operators forget to remove the override at the end of their day, it carries forward to the next. On an ordinary working morning recently, traffic was light. Before rush hour, those out early could beat the logistical delays, and they probably expected to do so. At a crossing in front of a hospital, the timer had already counted down, but the signal remained red. Since there was no obvious emergency happening there, may be the light was malfunctioning. Drivers soon became restive. Several just drove off. Unwilling to run the red light, some stayed put. That frustrated those behind them. The hospital zone was then treated to their high decibel venting, until finally, finally, the signal turned green! 

On many routes, the red and green signal lights are turned off during the very early hours of the morning. Only the amber continues to flash, warning people to be careful and responsible as they drive along. It makes sense for that hour, because traffic is anyway so sparse. The motorists don’t have to waste time just waiting on empty roads. But again, there is inconsistency; on some routes, the red and green are active, despite the traffic being just as sparse. Hence, minutes of stoppage time are mandatory. Many drivers don’t bother to wait. Instead, indulging their needs for speed, they zoom right through the intersections. The onus is on others, the more sedate motorists, to forget the signals, just get out of the way! 

The little red and green men, signalling at pedestrian crossings, are meant to light up in opposite to the main traffic signals. Their task is to alert pedestrians when it is safe to walk and when not. That is, the standing red man shines to halt pedestrians when the motor traffic is on the go, and conversely, the walking green man shines to indicate that their getting across the road is now safe. Situations arise however, that would be comical if they weren’t potentially dangerous. Somebody connects together all the ‘red’ lights in the signals, and all the green ones too. As a result, pedestrians are cautioned “don’t walk”, when the traffic is at a standstill, and encouraged to “walk” when the signal light to motorists too is green for go!

Perhaps it is just as well that most people on foot in Kolkata ignore the traffic lights completely. They don’t labour over ambiguity and cross precisely when they deem it right to! With the technology to guide safe road travel frequently going awry, in their minds, it is much safer for them to take charge of their own lives!

But if, out of sheer frustration, motorists begin likewise to ignore the lights, and follow their own ideas on the road, it becomes a very different, even ugly story. Road safety depends on traffic signals being unambiguous. The technology is meant to ensure that they also are consistently precise. Traffic signals are there to help people on the road be safe, not to raise the general stress levels. Doubts created in the mind compel motorists to second-guess themselves, become dangers to themselves and to others. We need clarity on the road, not information overload nor tactics disrespectful of the public’s intelligence.  

Heed the homily, sir

As the one of India’s very ordinary citizens, the intricacies of governance is a little beyond me, as it must be amongst the vast population of the country. The Supreme Court’s response last week to a petition against tainted ministers caused a stir in political circles, and some lawyers termed it overstepping jurisdiction.  I hoped it was a ruling dramatic enough to shake the country out of its stupor.

 

In the Indian Parliamentary system, the Constitution clearly and ingeniously separates the powers of the legislature, the executive and the judiciary. Like an equilateral triangle of power, each has pole position, and is a counter to the others. Their equidistance is a democratic necessity, maintained by check-and-balance to prevent the usurpation of power by any one, or connivance of two against the third. Nobody guards turf better than the members of the tripartite. They do not have to agree, and so, with metronomic regularity, they flex muscles to prove they do not. But in this case, certain politicians applauded the Court’s stand, which is a bit unusual. 

A public interest litigation was filed some ten years ago (against ministers of the last coalition government actually), asking the Court to disqualify ministers involved in cases. As it happens, thirteen ministers, almost a third of the present Administration, have lawsuits pending against them; some named the accused in criminal cases. Granted that at times, these may be frivolous, filed to create trouble, and that none of the charges have yet been proven. And, that this stalemate may continue for years, because delays in Court are easy to obtain by filing appeal after appeal. The point is we, of the almost silent majority, are tired of political sins, real or imaginary, being swept under the carpet of expediency.

On the campaign trail several months ago, news channels reported statements the Prime Ministerial candidate purportedly made, and I quote: 

Just give me one chance to clean the system. I will set up special courts under the supervision of the supreme court to try all the tainted MPs and MLAs, that too within [a] one-year time limit. After one year, those who are guilty will go to jail. 
 

These impressive words must have contributed at least a smidgen to his attaining office with sweeping majority a short time later. We are now well into the “one-year time limit” delineated. However, in the months that have passed since then, there has been a profound executive silence on the matter. 

 

The question often raised is that should the country meanwhile be deprived of the talents of the ministers in governance? In this there are no global cultural differences! The identical equation of worth is brought up whenever an incumbent is caught out or indicted for corruption of one type or another anywhere in the world. The standard of personal integrity should be held high and uncompromising, because the public arena is such a minefield of temptation. Power corrupts, said Hobbs so many decades ago, and absolute power corrupts absolutely. The executive body knows, as does each member of the judiciary and the legislature, that thence, they are called to be above reproach.

The flawed character is prone to deviousness to cover up their lacks of honour, merit and commitment. Neither is there the moral centering and self-control needed in the job; they repeatedly falter, or take the easy way out, and then expect protection of the Institution. Its veil of immunity is probably what they count on, because surely they are well aware of the outcomes of indiscreet or corrupt activities.  

That quality of person has no business being there in the first place, and should indeed be kept out. This nation has survived more than five thousand years without their inputs and certainly can manage further. Yes, some have been falsely accused. They should have the grit to ride out the storm, and return exonerated, elevated to spotless in the eyes of the nation. Few though, can resist the lure of the kursi (chair)! 

I couldn’t figure where the Bench had overstepped its bounds in this particular case of public interest. Fact is they actually declined disqualification, and no surprise then that the politicians applauded! The Court claimed no Constitutional provision for it; it would tantamount to crossing the boundaries of judicial review. However, there was a sop for the many, many in the country that had hoped for a definitive directive.  Politicians convicted and sentenced are disqualified from elections, even if they are in the midst of filing appeals. Miniscule though it is, perhaps it is a wiggle of change in the right direction.

The 5-member Supreme Court Bench left the task of dealing with tainted ministers up to the discretion of the Prime Minister, the executive head of government. As reported in the news, and I quote, they said:

 

The Prime Minister, while living up to the trust reposed in him, would consider not choosing a person with criminal antecedents against whom charges have been framed for heinous or serious criminal offences or charges of corruption to become a minister of the council of ministers… This is what the Constitution suggests and that is the constitutional expectation from the Prime Minister. Rest has to be left to the wisdom of the Prime Minister. We say nothing more, nothing less.

Well, there we have it, the old and trusted check-and-balance at work! One body on the power triangle can go only so far. May be their hands are tied and they cannot issue directive to the Chief Ministers of states, and the Prime Minister of the Union. May be the “homily” was all that they are able deliver under the circumstances. But to the ordinary citizen, it could look like the suave passing of the buck characteristic of democracy – everybody’s business is nobody’s business.

 

It may also be that the Bench decided to serve a subtle reminder to the Prime Minister of his own words to the electorate in the run-up to the elections. They put the ball squarely in his court. Many of us remember that on several occasions before and after assuming office, swacch (clean) is the word he emphasized. On the national stage, he promised to prioritize clean rivers, clean environment and clean government. Even those that did not vote him to power were impressed with his forward-looking speeches. The hope being that acche din (good days) are really here, rather than merely in a catchy slogan.

It is owed to the country. For decades we have waited for our political leaders to lead the country into the light, and almost every time, we have be left with disillusionment. But still we believe that change is right around the corner. Lest he forget, they have taken oath to bear true faith and allegiance to the Constitution of India and to discharge their duties faithfully and conscientiously. The time for talk is over; it is now time to execute. That is why he is in office - to do in letter and spirit of the Constitution. The country must now await the outcome of the executive decision. Will the homily be heeded? Or will political expedience trump personal integrity?

The attitude to middle age

Why tell everybody how old you are? My young European friend is bemused by what he perceives is the Indian obsession with ageing. The West obsesses too, but differently. For both peoples, perceptions derive from the traditional meaning given to life and living - with their modern twists. Tough it is to find common ground between the diverse cultures!

The West is focused on just one lifetime. They must achieve their destiny during it - today, rather than tomorrow, because finally and inevitably, death claims all. With life goals in sight, and limited time in hand, they work long and hard to improve skills throughout young adult life, and play hard as well. It is growing older that then presents problems. The face in their mirror they see changing, harbinger of the imminent, raises fears of the unknown. This is compounded by the tacit social bias against ageing.

They may become preoccupied with retaining youth to remain relevant. A great many go through lengths of excruciating pain repeatedly to preserve or create physical attractiveness, and prolong the fun of life with toy-boys and trophy wives. These seem patterns of repetitive behaviours, experiences of same old, same old, over and over again. The relentless pursuits of pleasure that blur or even remove boundaries between generations cannot and do not, however, change the final outcome.

 

Eastern philosophies, on the other hand, see life as a continuum, stretching over lifetimes. There is no end as such, death merely signals the beginning of a new spiral. There is hence little need to bother with achievements in this lifetime. The preference instead may be to leave matters to fate. It is far more important to build ties in the community, supporting family and lineage.

I try to explain to the Western mind the significance of age in India. It has to do with respect, for and between generations. Age defines the social boundary. Interpersonal communications too change accordingly. It is customary to use the formal form of address in speaking with the elderly. Younger generations bow down with respect before their experience of life, and in devotion, touch their feet to seek their blessings.

 

The traditional practice of community living is inherited from ancient Hindu rites. The individual lifespan is structured into four distinct stages. The first quarter is the brahmacharya, the studentship, wherein boys and girls gain knowledge and skills that will sustain them as they take their place in society in later life. The next quarter is grihasta, the householder, with marriage and living within the family structure, with spouse, children and extended family. Then comes vanaprastha, which literally means to head for the forest - I think of it as detaching from the personal accumulation of worldly possessions and giving back to the community. And finally, the sanyas stage that calls for tyag (renunciation), residing on a spiritual plane in anticipation of being freed of the present, preparatory to moving into future journeys.

The European is unimpressed with my lecture. The shortfalls of my personal experience, probably makes it all sound very theoretical. Furthermore, this common collective structuring is unacceptable to the concept of individual choice. With a quizzical look, he inquires, what about you? He is of the opinion that chronological age should be immaterial. What one feels, is instead more important. If one feels like 27, then that is it, no matter what the actual age is. That sounds a little bizarre to me. He asks what age I feel with.  I can’t say, since logically, if we are to have an age based on feelings/emotions, we must accommodate several other age types as well – physiological age, mental age, psychological age and spiritual age, which together make for more confusion! Because in each, we may be at a different age of being, and hence, which of them is it?

We are not sixteen any more, my classmate from college often reminds me.  She holds that we should not only accept the irrefutable, but also live by its traditions. Act our age and keep our dignity should be the guiding principle. She was a vivacious person in those days, but has since chosen conservatism as her hallmark. In public, she drapes in traditional saris and seriousness, because, as elders, it is our duty to maintain a distance between generations. Seems to me however, therein are elements of self-imposed isolation and loneliness. The elder might cling to the projected image, and pontificate rather than share details about their mistakes in life. Actually, as mentors and role models, they can be agents of change. Genuinely helping others find answers, they gain insight, about themselves as well.

The reality is that the ancient practice of community living is almost obsolete in this country, as self-interest grows more prominent. Extended community ties have faded, and the sense of family shrunk to the immediate household. Neither vanaprastha (giving back to community) nor sanyas (spiritual journey) is invested in. With nothing further to do in life, middle age now signals game over. Ageing parents are accessories to the lives of their grownup children – minding the household while others are at work, babysitting the grandchildren and so on. Senior citizens are apathetic about developing themselves further. Many a breakdown occurs post-retirement from the work or family organization identified with for decades. They give up on life itself, regressing into absolute dependency in old age.

My young friend’s objection to the word old may be its connotative association with decay. Ageing is a factual reminder of our mortality, but what is important is the attitude we cultivate in that knowledge. Overcome with negativity in middle age, we tend to become stagnative. Our fear of the unknown attenuates positivism in life. Our activities become repetitive, ritualistic. We fail to question, to search answers, or discover new fulfilling purpose for ourselves.

It is the attitude that counts. We need to break out of the fearful moulds that constrain us, and find ourselves again.  We need to give rein to our curiosity, to stimulate creative thought, and look forward to the re-experience of “Aha!” moments in breaking new ground. These replenish us; they make us upbeat, and we discover joyous meaning in life and living. Infused with its energy and enthusiasm, no, not at all old, we can be ageless.