Be a little mad

 Although it is a common assumption that women cannot drive, the very, very few female drivers out and about in Kolkata are particularly mindful of rules, and of doing things right. The overwhelming majority of drivers on the road are men, and the art is assumed to come to them naturally. Yet many of them have the most appalling road sense.

Compared to the planned road networks in cities around the world, many of those in Kolkata seem to remain the narrow village streets they once were. Worse, they are often in poor condition. Although the business of building construction is booming in the city, the access points have changed little. More traffic in the same space is the major problem yet to be adequately addressed in the city. From having to maneuver in small spaces, one could expect greater skills, but often the driving is with no sense at all.

It reinforces my belief that mothers in India spoil their sons. How does that follow, one might ask. Fact is these chaps are raised with the belief that they are the cat’s whiskers. Secure in doting maternal indulgences, the little emperors are able to get away with anything. And as grown men in the driver’s seat, they expect similar deference from the environment around them, and for traffic to part before them like the sea did for Moses. Like little boys with toys, thoughtless about consequences, they just want to go vroom!

 

Vehicles are positioned just about anywhere, in the fight for space.  Racing to get ahead, a driver that needs to turn right next may come up on the extreme left, and then suddenly sticking his arm out of the window as signal, attempt to make his turn, cutting clean across the paths of all the other vehicles behind. Scratched, scraped and dented car bodies are testimony to what invariably follows. Stalled traffic because two drivers are locked in altercation, is a common sight on the road. 

Small cars, the vehicles of choice for most women drivers, are like tin cans. Though they may negotiate the narrow roads better, and leave a smaller carbon footprint, they damage easily and generally come off second best in even minor collisions. Their repair has to be mostly out of pocket, since insurance payouts for bodywork are meagre. Knowing full well that the litigation process is too cumbersome to pursue, the other side gleefully gets away scot-free.

Moreover, women drivers are in a minority, and traditionally they are not expected to play men’s games, nor are they taught to be overtly aggressive in public. The odds stack against gender on Indian roads. Men tend to hit and run, the general public stares rather than supports, and the police are inert. I’ve learned to be theatrical in such situations. Being perceived a little ‘mad’ seems to work – nothing hurts the male ego more than being held up to public ridicule! 

 

My car has recently returned from the garage, and I am being extra careful. If a couple of weeks go by without incident, it is cause for joy. At a crossing, the signal lights change to amber just as I approach the stop line. Seeing no point in trying to beat the red light, I slow to a stop. Almost immediately I feel the nudge from behind, rear-ended by the yellow cab following. Really? I jump out and throw my hands up and out in the classic gesture of What?! The driver stays put inside his cab. His passengers too are quiet, embarrassed at being in the public spotlight.

Pointing dramatically at the man behind the wheel, I jab two fingers towards my eyes, up towards the lights and then at my car, indicating that he should keep alert and eyes front while driving. The man pokes his head out of the window and says, I saw the lights, I saw the red, so see, I stopped. How? I retort loudly, by hitting me? No, no, he says placatingly, I hit the brake, but see, it just slipped. Bystanders testify that no damage is done; it is only a light tap, let him go. I wave my hand imperiously for him to back off, and he complies at once. 

Non-resident Indians visiting the country, consider it quite an experience to ride passenger in the front seat. Drivers themselves in the West, they shut their eyes, or exclaim in horror at vehicles passing inches away. A friend and I are looking for a particular road leading off from the main road. I indicate the rather narrow opening we have just gone past as probably it. I decide to come around again and take it on the next pass. She stares in surprise - that is a road for traffic going both ways? Well, it is broader than many others in the city, where one has to back up to some siding to let another get by! Rejoining the flow of traffic, I position rightmost, in preparation for the U-turn. 

Nearing the crossing, I turn on the right indicator. Three lights begin to flash at once, at the front, the back and on the side - essentially, leaving no room for doubt for anybody following as to the directional intent. A couple of motorcyclists move up further to my right. They both turn right and roar away, and as I begin to follow on the turn I noticed a third motorcyclist gunning his vehicle to catch up.  Aha! I thought, he’s decided he must go first too, he’s not about to let me beat him to it. Two-wheeler riders seem always on the go, and see even half a metre of available space as ample opportunity to zip by. They look pretty unstable to me, and I give them a wide berth.

 

The turn road is up a little incline and I slow down further to accommodate. To my surprise, on coming alongside, the rider suddenly throws up his hands and lets go of the handlebars altogether! The motorcycle dashes into the bumper of my car, and then away, with him trying desperately to stay on.  A low boundary wall across the turn road stops them from hitting oncoming traffic. Immediately a crowd gathers around.

I drive up the incline and out of the main traffic flow before turning off my car’s engine. Within a month, the car body looks damaged again! Meanwhile, the man has struggled to his feet. As he spots a couple of women emerge from the car, his fear turns to belligerence. He decides it is safe to go on the offensive. He accuses me of speeding, and turning without any indicator lights. 

His bluster, though annoying, makes the actual picture clear.  The fellow had accelerated before the intersection not to turn, but to zigzag past me and get ahead on the straight road. I suppose the sudden incline that he would have to zig up first, and then zag down, fazes him at the end. Losing his nerve at the crucial juncture, he abandons both his own daring plan and his ‘bike control. Somebody has to be blamed for the failure, and who better scapegoat than two innocuous-looking women! 

Bystanders usually like to side with the ‘little guy’ in the two-wheeler versus four-wheeler fracas. But with us in the fray, they decided to just watch the drama. The biker is asked if he is hurt. Immediately he tries to locate some cut or bruise to draw public sympathy with!  Stop pretending, I say in strident tones, you are not hurt at all and neither is your brand new bike. Look instead at the damage your stupidity caused my car. I draw attention to the front bumper that dangles loose and forlorn with the force of the impact.

I wag a stern finger in his face to emphasize his ineptitude - You were on the wrong side, you were speeding to overtake at the intersection, and you lost control. For a moment he is nonplussed at being yelled at. Then perhaps realizing that public opinion too might soon indict him, and who knows, they could drag him to the police station for further humiliation, he wordlessly picks up his bike and quickly exits the scene.

As we inspect the damage left behind, people come over to help. One knowledgeable person pushes the bumper back into place. He assures me that damage is just the dent on its side, and the car’s road running ability is unaffected. As I turn on the ignition, we see the indicator lights are still on, and they begin to blink cheerily again. I point it out to the bystanders and they nod in agreement. That chap, say a couple of teenaged boys, shaking their heads and laughing. They point in the direction in which he made off as they relate the story to curious latecomers that might have missed the show.

If women are to fend for themselves, they must be assertive. They need to confront the perpetrators, if only for the satisfaction of the last word, and to dispel the widely held notion of them being pushovers. Hopefully, some men will now think twice before taking punga (liberties) with women drivers on the road in Kolkata.

Bad places and good people

How often do we hear tell that women should stay at home because the outside world is bad? Any place at all may be labelled bad, and hence, they shouldn’t set foot there. I think men in India sprout these value judgements only to control women’s movements, like putting them up on a pedestal they can’t get off of.

In the Indian social context, ‘bad’ is something the respectable and dignified should not associate with. Women brought up to hold ‘respectable’ and ‘dignified’ as high ideals must be, in other words, trusting and obedient to the controls set upon them. Few of these women ever question the word of their men folk, or cross the lakshmanrekha (invisible boundary) drawn for them. What can we do, we are only women, is the common refrain of their life-long dependency. 

One such bad place is the office of the Licencing Authority. And who inhabits these “bad places”? They are members of the bureaucracy, not rapists, paedophiles, and other criminal elements! Many women keep the driving licences they issue merely as trophies. These are never used, because the people on the roads in India are also bad. Neither have the women ever set foot on the office premises to get the licences. There are male ‘representatives’ to do that dirty work for them!

Well, I need to renew my licence, and so I head over to the office. On my way into the building, at least half a dozen touts clamour to “represent” me. Why, I ask each of them, do I look illiterate? I hardly need to hire somebody to buy the forms from a vendor and then to fill in my details! 

I complete the required medical formalities, and a few days later, I am ready to submit my application. I expect the process to get arduous here on. It is common knowledge that governmental institutions tend to be arbitrary in their dealings with the public, and their departments can shut down at any time before transactions complete. I am likely to have to make several visits to get it done, but so be it. It still seems worth doing for myself.

 

Back in front of the building, I see several young men approaching me, and wave them off. A few mutter that they have been unable yet to make boni (first catch), but I am certainly not feeling charitable. I march into the building and there seems to be a lot of people hurrying in different directions. I’m reminded that time is of essence.

I ask a policeman on duty where the papers will be received. He doesn’t quite know the process. But, Wait, he says, let us find out. Several young men around are eager to show off their knowledge, perhaps hoping to be called up for representation. He tells them sternly they had better be right or else! They indicate a certain window and I have to go around the building to get to it.

The man on the other side of this open window seems busy. As I wait for him to finish with what he already has on his hands, another scruffy young man walks up and pushes ahead of me to thrust a fresh bunch of applications through the window. I tap him on the shoulder. Am I really invisible to you? I enquire loudly. He grins a little sheepishly, and backs off.

But it turns out I am actually at the wrong window; this one is for payments only. My application details need to be checked first at another window open further along. A young man sits to one side at the counter desk in there. He looks up as I speak, and recites a list of supportive documents that must also be submitted in photocopy. I find I don’t have the appropriate address proof document with me, like passport, voter’s id, Bank passbook or statement.

I have a chequebook though, with my full address on it - will that serve purpose? The young man shakes his head, no. Ah well, I think resignedly, I’ll just have to come back tomorrow.  Just then, his senior arrives. What’s the problem, he asks. He listens and then says decisively, OK, just submit the first page in photocopy. His young assistant is surprised, but takes it in stride. Take care; don’t drop anything, he calls out as I hurry away to get the relevant copies before they change their minds!

The young man at the copiers frowns at the chequebook, and says that it won’t be accepted. They said so, I insist. Who said that, he asks, was it the man in the window? I nod. Very strange, he comments. It’s not the norm and they usually are very particular, he explains. But logically, why should it not be accepted? It is a legitimate document, after all! He shrugs, Sign the photocopy and submit it, see if it works. He photocopies all the documents I need and pins them together. Put the licence in a polythene cover and attach it at the top, so it won’t get lost, he advises. He points where the cover may be obtained.

The man in the window is a perfectionist. He doesn’t like the way I attached the licence to the application. He calls out to somebody and a small man appears beside me to do it right. My documents are then accepted without fuss. I’m told to make the payments. That means the other window for one payment quickly completed there. I am then directed to a third place for another payment.  I see a big crowd milling about outside, and only one window in operation. It looks to me my luck is running out, and I’m sure I won’t reach the counter before it closes today. Still, I join the queue and several people look around in surprise. I ask if that queue is for the payment I am supposed to make. Several heads shake in unison and several hands point to a room inside the building. 

Thankfully there are no crowds at the window inside.  I pay up and am handed the receipt. I head back to the receiving window, and submit all the various papers I have collected. The small man materializes again, and makes two sets of my papers  – one, to be received at the counter, and the other, my takeaways of receipts. These are now stamped on the reverse with the official seal of the Authority. Come back in 25 days, the young assistant says from the other side of the window. 

25 days? My question is how I am to manage without licence meanwhile. The senior smiles slightly, and points to the stamped paper he has just signed.  That’s enough to cover it, he says, but if you like you can put your photograph on it, and have it attested. That makes perfect sense to me, and accordingly, it happens. 25 days, I ask again to reconfirm. 15 days should do it, he replies, Come back then and check.

I am elated that I’m done in less than an hour. As I walk away, I wonder what is so bad here? Government offices may look seedy and run down, but the bureaucracy functions all right. They keep the country going. In fact, good people may be found at these socially condemned bad places that are really helpful to the public.

Seems to me that it is not they, but the ubiquitous representative culture of touts that overrun the place that are the problem. They are poorly educated young men socialized into speed money by the more privileged sections, and now it is their livelihood they protect. Indeed, it is their accosting anybody and everybody as a matter of course that gives the places the bad name. 

For too long, women have swallowed the value judgements men throw at them as gospel truth. They need to realize the truth, to be out and about, doing their own thing themselves. That does not take away from being respectable and dignified, rather it actually facilitates independence - and self-worth. It may be better for societal advancement for them to be less trusting of judgements, and less unquestioningly obedient!

Lost in translation

Can you realize how difficult for me if even Indians is not able to understand each other [sic]. His head in a whirl, the guy’s exasperation with life itself is palpable. On his own in a new country, he cannot fathom what is going on! For the first time ever, I suppose, he really is up against India’s formidable diversity! 

Lenny, as I shall call him, is a member of the global workforce, a foreigner in India, and here on assignment.  Blessed with the characteristic zeal and drive of generation next, he is able with technology, and unafraid of diversity. He hasn’t the comfort of a compatriot group at his back, but surely, with his skills and temperament, he can take on anything!

He is the new tenant in the building. But he insists he is not new to India – he has lived in Gurgaon off-and-on for about a year for his last assignment. Now, that is an affluent complex outside Delhi that caters to non-residents Indians accustomed to the lands of plenty. It is a home away from home for expats too, with exclusive highrise buildings, and airtight windows that preserve interiors. If you live in Gurgaon, you live in a bubble. Like at an idyllic oasis in the desert, there’s no need to get down and dirty! I think I should warn him, now that he has transferred to an ordinary metropolitan city, that Gurgaon is very atypical India. Of course, of course, he agrees at once that every place will be different.

  

I ask the most pertinent question, do you have Hindi? No, he smiles. Well then, I think wryly, the culture shock awaits! Lenny may manage fine at a hotel, but running his own household may be a different proposition altogether.  I hope somebody mentioned to him before that English is only one of the 22 official languages spoken here, not to mention some six thousand dialects. These may differ widely in grammar and syntax, and hence, so do the thinking processes their people learn growing up. Even in a “common” spoken language, what is said, and what is understood, may be two very different things. Simple matters may then become complicated.

Lenny has an impressive work ethic and puts mind and heart into whatever he does. Within a day, however, he looks drawn. He tells me he was up all night cleaning the flat he thought was left dirty. It was cleaned before you came, I tell him. This is everyday dust, and it collects all time. Cleaning has to be done once or twice daily. Even locked flats soon cake with dust in this region, as you will see. He stares, and I see the wheels turning in his brain – when will he get to work then? I advise hiring help, but without a translator to back him, how can he?   

The problems pile up - there is no water in the flat. In the heat of the Indian summer, Lenny is wilting. I call the plumber, and stay to translate. I notice the flat has almost no furniture at all. I wonder if he expected to be moving into a furnished home. If so, the letdown of bare walls must be immense! It begins to dawn on Lenny that managing work and home alonein this country is daunting. He comes from a wintry country, so the weather here must really saps out his energy. And by not having the language he is lost, like never before! 

His driver arrives to transport him to work, and is instead drafted into the water project alongside the plumber. He has Hindi and passable English picked up in his line of work, and seems to relish the new role of go-between. Lenny quickly delegates the home issues to his new Man Friday. I’m relieved! It had became clear that Lenny, a fit young man who bounds up and down the stairways hardly losing breath, was quite unaware that other age-groups might struggle to do the same. In politely trying to keep up with his pace, my knees are killing me!

Some pipes and valves are changed and eventually, there is running water in the taps of the flat, everybody is happy! By the evening, however, it is all gone again. The plumber is surprised at the news. He had filled the tank to last a day or two and can’t imagine what they did with all the water. Well, I say, the sahib couldn’t shower properly for a couple of days, so he must be making up for it! 500 litres, the man mutters incredulously! But actually it is a new issue - the tank is unable to retain water, and they would have to map the entire pipeline to locate the problem points. 

That would take quite a while, and Lenny has to be at home for it to happen. Schedules would then need to be coordinated. The driver in his enhanced role, wants to protect his boss from these small matters, and tells me all communications should pass through him instead! I hand over the relevant telephone numbers, and decide that now they can help themselves, I am done. But by next evening, their octogenarian landlady is in a tizzy over another plumber on the scene! She cannot reach the tenant or his driver, so she frantically calls me to intervene. I’m mystified as to how she has suddenly become involved.

She tells me the first plumber was working elsewhere in the morning and was unresponsive to phonecalls. New Man Friday then decided to exercise initiative. He phoned her to point out the persistent problem and the plumber’s failure to respond, and asked for a replacement. Late in the evening, when they will be back from office, would be the best time for the work to be done. Too helpfully, she engaged an alternative person to work on the water system that same evening. Notably, there is no further communication between her and the driver thereafter. This second plumber arrives in time to find the flat locked, and complains. She feels left holding the bag - and the second plumber’s bill! 

Lenny, happy to have delegated, is still at work miles away, and blissfully unaware of these new developments. Immersed in a totally different world, he falls from the skies when I call to ask him what is going on. He has no knowledge whatsoever of a second plumber being engaged. He cannot understand how the issue arose, because his information is that the first plumber has been reached and his time booked for the next day. Bewildered, he points me to his driver for answers.  I accost Man Friday next to explain the mess-up. He distances from it forthwith, denies any such conversation with the landlady, and sticks to the information of the first plumber’s next visit.

I begin to get the classic picture of blocked communications. The first plumber resurfaced at the end of the day. At that time, the work schedule was re-fixed with him. Caught up in his regular duties through the day, the driver clean forgot about the other plumber being engaged by the landlady at his (Man Friday) word. His own initiative taking exercise of the morning had slipped his mind, and since then it has turned too embarrassing! Lenny, in being ‘protected’, was kept out of the loop altogether, as was I until it snowballed. 

I suggest to the old lady she involve no further for her own wellbeing, and send Lenny a cryptic text message: Lost in translation. He responds in utter confusion: Can you realize how difficult for me…

Swacch is the key

Independent India turns sixty-eight years, and we are proud to be us, its democratic people! In keeping with the tradition set with “India’s tryst with destiny” so many decades ago, today is the Prime Minister’s day. To the strains of the national anthem he unfurls the national tricolour, he takes the inter-services guard of honour, and he gives the speech to set the tone of things to come in governance. 

We witness Narendra Modi, resplendent in a pagri (turban), take the stand for his first shout out to the nation from the historic rampart of the Red Fort. This Union administration has been at work for a couple of months and it is about time they have a handle on things. We hope that they will now begin to deliver results that are actually good for the country.

I’m sure there is an army of speechwriters to help with the message, but on this day he decides to speak extempore. It is a brave move, and I hope he will not ruin it with political rhetoric. We are tired of politicians devaluing occasions by sniping at one another, blaming previous administrations for failures that continue, and wooing vote blocks with an eye on the next elections.

As he speaks, his grasp of matters is compelling. We are reminded that, although he is often derogated as a chaiwala (tea-seller), Narendra Modi is an educated man. Before this, he has been the Chief Minister of Gujarat for four terms. Part of this state of western India, was devastated by a massive earthquake.  Visitors to the regions since that decimation are impressed with the recovery he led. With the Hindu-Muslim riots however, Modi was tainted with the communal tag. The USA went so far as to cancel his visa to that country.

I wonder if that was the result of the “vilification campaign”, many at its receiving end are accusing Western media of conducting! The point is, Narendra Modi was cleared of culpability by the Supreme Court, the highest judiciary body of India, and hence was able to contest national elections successfully. Today, the US Administration is forced to back-pedal fast to establish diplomatic ties with the new Head of the Union Government of India!

I had the impression that he was a force to be reckoned within the Gujarati community, an icon within a certain religion and caste. When election results were announced, and the party projecting Modi as the Prime Ministerial candidate won a landslide victory, I texted “The Guju has landed!” to my non-resident extended family that had been rooting for him, while thinking to myself “God help us now!” My point is that when India is secular according to its Constitution, there should be no place for sectarianism in the Union Administration.

It is perhaps a discourteous thing to do, but when unimpressive politicians deliver uninspiring speeches, I tend to switch off the set or change channels. I am probably not the only one in this country to do so. I tuned into the live telecast of his acceptance speech with some trepidation. Although the trappings of the victory celebrations were distinctly Hindu rituals, it was a relief to hear the speech devoid of religious overtones. It was surprisingly sensible speaking without a written script to keep message on track. The man is gracious to the opponents he has drubbed at the hustings. It is his duty, he said, as the prime servant of the country, to also carry along with him the hundreds of thousands that did not vote for him.

Modi strikes a chord when he points out that despite the traditional reverence, the Ganges is dreadfully polluted. The River Ganges, one of the most prominent in the country, has sustained civilizations on her banks over several millennia. Hindus especially, worship her as Mother Ganga. Why then, he asks, do we tolerate our mother remaining unclean?  He pledges to prioritize the cleanup of rivers. The environmental consciousness is unexpected, since Indian politicians allegedly kowtow to the creators of much of the pollutants, the big business houses. 

In his first Independence Day address to the nation, Modi harps on the same swacch (clean) theme as in his acceptance speech. He calls on industry to utilize India's vast human and knowledge resources, to make in India various good with zero defect and zero effect (on the environment). He draws attention to unsanitary living conditions that have become characteristic of rural and slum areas. People still continue the habit of using the great outdoors, in the absence of toilets.  In growing populations, women have to wait for the cover of darkness before they may do the same. Modi questions – why this disrespectful disregard for our mothers and sisters? He exhorted corporate social responsibility in corporate houses and NGOs to prioritize toilet construction.

But to my mind, this would address only half the issue. Amongst the majority of Indians, the attitude to swacch (clean) must change. At present, it is a contradiction. People are very particular about personal hygiene and will bathe several times a day to emphasize it. However, there is a cavalier disregard for environmental cleanliness. Boys and men relieving themselves at any convenient street corner is a common sight even within the city. And it is not just the poor that do so; the habit is rife amongst those more privileged. Women, with nowhere to go, tend to avoid fluid intake to 'control' bodily functions, which leads to eventual health complications.

Most definitely, public toilets for men and women and garbage vats are urgently required at every street corner. But those that are there are so badly maintained, they are unhygienic, unsanitary, and the sources of disease. Government installations - offices, schools, colleges, universities, hospitals, trains, are the worst imaginable. They are improperly used as well, as if the people are still in the great outdoors! The plumbing is blocked, choking and often overflowing. Nobody seems to complain or even notice. Garbage disposal is simple too; just toss them out on to the street, as though to a kitchen garden compost heap! These habits persist even in the foreign returned, those that should know better. 

If cleanliness is next to godliness, we have fallen far indeed! We hear Modi is a man of action, and he likes getting things done. He has begun a new trend of issuing “report cards” to parliamentarians on the work they do for their constituents. He has called upon them to create model villages. So far he has sounded no-nonsense. And if India’s new Prime Minister is able to unfreeze the mindset of the country’s teeming populations, to make swacch the key to change, he will have done the world a great service.

Wedge of Western media

The Russian expat bristles with righteous indignation. He is all fired up in defence of his country over the Ukraine conflict. Vilifying Russia is the campaign of Western media, he reiterates to his fully Indian audience. Now, I don’t know the person or the facts of the case well enough to counter, but what immediately pops into mind is: What about Crimea?   

We look on in fascination as he expounds on his conspiracy theory. It takes courage, as the outsider in a group, to stand up for one’s convictions. I wonder how many Indians abroad would be as vehement regarding India’s reported actions. I suspect, intimidated by the environment, most would much rather focus on their jobs there, than make waves. Not that any of us here had questioned Russia’s role. He brought it up himself, and approached the topic head on – the very image of a young, impassioned Putin! (Well, he does mention his father’s name is Vladimir; but perhaps I read too much into obvious ethnic characters!) 

On this day, we hear that it is an internal matter of Ukraine, that three Russian-speaking - not pro-Russian – districts express disgruntlement over certain issues. The unrest is not of Russia’s doing. Its projection as the evil force, however, is political motivation for vested interests. It is like the situation in the subcontinent, we are told. The India-Pakistan conflict is never allowed to be resolved. India is blamed for whatever adverse happens in the other country. And ultimately, through the media hype, Western powers retain control.

Frankly, we know little in India about the crime or the antecedents of the conflict, other than what the news channels report, and the various speculations on the 'Net. It is true, though, that “proof” is pretty thin - not conclusive, it merely suggests. The world has been treated to an isolated picture of an antiaircraft gun on the back of a truck with Russian markings. We are informed that this is the culprit, the one that rolled into Ukrainian soil, shot down commercial airliner MH 17 and its passenger load of civilian men, women and children, and then slunk back across the border. That it was suddenly photographed in the process appears suspicious.

Besides, would the Russians, if they were indeed behind the attack, be so stupid as to allow any implicative evidence to exist? The KGB of yore may not remain, but surely its operative methods of ruthless efficiency live on. The Western media also presented phone transcripts that purportedly caught the perpetrators acknowledging the ‘mistake’. Now, if there are recordings of conversation after the fact, something must exist from before, from the planning to its execution stages. It seems quite improbable that only these transcripts were detected, and that too randomly. Somebody must have been monitoring that particular frequency over time. A news leak might have stopped the tragedy from happening, unless, horror of horrors, it was allowed to happen to protect snooping sources.  

They are afraid of Russia’s influence, the expat declares in full spate. He relates to us an aspect of the World Wars little known to us: the contributions of Russia. The media spotlight is on glorious exploits of Britain or America only, as if they did it all. There is never any mention of Russia, which fought a lone hand for three years before these others came into the picture. The cold war is being revived, he says. The Western media is calculative. Its intent is to drive a wedge between friendly countries, or those not at war with each other, and destabilize regions. We do not want their democracy, either, he says. The Western misadventure in Iraq and its aftermath of present crises, is his case in point.

India and Russia are natural friends, connected by culture, he emphasizes. Those people don’t want them to get close. The claim of a "cultural connection" is a stretch to far for me. How is that even possible? I ask. Russia is a European nation, and India is in Asia. They follow the Russian Orthodox Church, while the majority religion here is Hinduism.

It seems Christianity - the Greek Orthodox Church - is a Western imposition on Russia. Before that, there was an indigenous culture that went underground. That ancient culture, is similar in philosophy to Hinduism, and believes as they do, in the swastika as a sacred religious symbol. He shows a tattoo to prove his beliefs. (I recall that many groups, including the White Supremacists also utilize swastik symbolism. Who knows, he just could be one of them!) Logically, however, if India and Germany can claim Aryan origins from around the Caspian Sea, surely Russia can too? This Indo-Ruski cultural commonality is news to me, but maybe we do share roots from ‘way back in time.

The Russian explains that the Church demands a slavish mentality, and there are many like him that believes differently. We do not need their religion, when we have our own. We are not slaves of a cruel God. We are descended from the gods. We have the gods within us. Indeed, it does sound a lot like Hindu philosophy! This face of young Russia seems quite different from the supercilious, goose-stepping regimental prototype we have so far carried in mind!

But I must own that in India, we are biased towards UK and USA, accustomed as we are to thinking by their rules. This probably follows from centuries of colonization by the British Empire. We would easily visualize ‘Michael’ or ‘Alexander’ as conditioned to. We clean forget or are unaware that ‘Mikhael’ and ‘Aleksandr’ may also exist!

Earlier, the migratory pathway of the skilled Indian workforce pointed in one direction only, towards the West. Because an adequate inflow was missing, we called it the brain drain. But in more recent times, other nationalities are winging their way into the country, bringing in with them their own unique heritage. Diversity, hopefully, gains as a result. With open interactions nurtured by India’s customary collectivistic hospitality, it may become easier for people of different cultures to get to know and understand one another’s perspective.

The pull of Indian leather

On my way out of Kolkata the other day, I got talking with a co-passenger I shall call Eric. He is from Belgium. Conversation is a bit of a feat over the general noise, and our diverse accents. I’m curious about why he is in India, because he doesn’t behave touristy. Social worker? I enquire, with only a touch of sarcasm. Truth is, I’m more than a little bugged that foreigners need to come save our souls, as if our own people cannot. But no, he is a businessman, and has been coming to India for a long time. 

I rack my brains for ‘Belgium’ but nothing surfaces from school geography. It is probably landlocked in the middle of the continent. Budapest? I hazard. No, Brussels, Antwerp… It turns out Belgium isn’t all that landlocked. Though surrounded by land on three sides, it is open on one side to the waters of the North Sea. I probably confused it with Switzerland or Luxembourg in my mind!

I tried to name to myself five Belgians of note. Hercule Poirot, but he was a figment of somebody’s imagination, so didn’t count. Mother Teresa was…Albanian. Ah, the football team, dark horses in FIFA World Cup 2014. They came unstuck against Messi magic, I think. I remember a young nun, who played the violin at assembly every morning in my elementary school, but her name was lost to me. Van Damme, the Hollywood action hero. And a former colleague, a British national had once mentioned that his mother’s ancestors were from the Belgian city of Gent… It seems a pitiful list!

I have to accept that my general knowledge is pretty poor. I didn’t know for instance, that Belgium does not have a distinct national language. Eric said that Belgium was made a buffer state, between Germany and other countries of Europe. I began to imagine a nation of human shields, but it seems to me now that something was lost in translation! He probably meant that it was neutral, like Switzerland.

Belgium also does not have an indigenous people apparently. Rather, migrants of other nations people it, and even now a language boundary runs through it. So they speak only French in the south, and Flemish in the north. I finally understand after all these years of wondering, why Agatha Cristie’s Poirot, said to be Belgian, would mutter to himself in French! Diversity somewhat like India, I nod knowingly. This country too has no single national language. However, there are twenty-two official languages and over six thousand dialects. Still, with English and Hindi, it is possible to communicate in almost all of India.

Eric says he has of French origins, and that he does not have much formal education. I ask how come then he speaks English, since he never had it at school? I learn it in India, he says. He must have been coming to this country for many, many years indeed! Nevertheless, I’m impressed with the teaching skills of the Indian business community! I notice he is carrying a book by Noam Chomsky for travel reading, so the education obviously continues. 
 

Eric is in the leather industry. It is not a family business, just something he has personally been interested in.  He started designing handbags on his own and somehow his passion grew, as did the business. Now he has aged, but he just can’t stop working, which upsets his family. In Kolkata, he buys the leather hides to be further processed and used in the manufacture of the bags back in Belgium. Why not Italy leather? I ask, wouldn’t that be cheaper to import? Leather in Kolkata, he tells me, is good. It is good, he reiterates.

If this means that the tanneries of India are able to export in bulk to another continent, then the quality of the leather must be not just good, but excellent. The next time I pass Tangra, and want to hold my nose and mutter under my breath on being overwhelmed by the stench of the raw hides, I shall remind myself that they too contribute to the nation’s economy. In fact, if more young Indians became interested in the industry, India would benefit. Designer bags that celebrities tote around seem to each cost a fortune! 

Eric must have been exhausted by my many questions about his country and his business. Eventually he confides that he is old. And old-fashioned. He says that it is easy for women to ask questions, but men are constrained by courtesy from doing so. I’m surprised. If women may interrogate, it’s only fair that men may do so too, no? I suppose he comes from a generation that lives by a code. Have you never ever asked any question of any woman in this country in all these decades? I ask incredulously. He shakes his head a touch ruefully. I could never, he says. Well, if you could, what would you have liked to ask? Eric thinks a moment, smiles and says: Are you married?

Owning Indian roads

That we are rather inconsiderate of people perceived as outsiders is, I think, the fallout of the social allegiances adhered to in India’s collectivism. These relationships of ‘us’ and ‘them’ groups are high-maintenance. In attempts to preserve their intra-group integrity, and areas of control, they are unkind to those perceived parayas (outsiders) despite the traditional culture of hospitality to all. Gender segregation is at work too. In the minds of the majority of Indian men, the external world is their preserve. They own the roads, and they may be sexist about it. It is surprising how much resentment is generated against women drivers, the outsiders. Common jibes are that these sisters-in-law should stay home and cook!

Pedestrians, however, are relieved to see women drivers coming along. They stick out an arm as a stop sign just about anywhere and begin to cross the road, confident that the women’s maternal instincts will take over, and they will stop to let them through. This happens even when the traffic signal has turned green. Men are far less accommodating; many actually speed up seeing their movement, and pedestrians, the elderly, women and children, are forced to scurry back. 
 

The common assumption is that men are born better drivers, although the evidence for it may not be particularly strong. I was in Delhi recently, and happened to be a passenger in a large sedan. I expressed the wish to drive this more powerful vehicle sometime, since my car in Kolkata is amongst the smallest on the road. The driver I shall call Prem, smiled patronizing, and I could almost see his ego inflate. Benevolently, he said he would teach me how to drive. Women, you see, just cannot drive! 

On Indian roads, size seems to matter in road hierarchy. Men at the wheels of bigger, more expensive cars, expect right of way over everybody else. As we went along, I noticed Prem didn’t much bother to watch his rear-view and wing mirrors. His trajectory seemed premeditated - he would go as he wished, and others could (or should!) drive around him. At one point, he took a turn too sharply, and sideswiped another car parked on the side of the road. Lucky for him nobody seemed to notice, and he quickly drove off in another direction.

A safe distance away, he began to boast about the long distances he drives every day without mishap. So what happened back there, I enquired. Immediately he faulted the other car for blocking the passage. We got off easy, he chortled. I was irked at his suddenly drafting me as the co-conspirator of his error. You didn’t get off easy, I emphasized, you just ran, but my disgust was lost on him. It was clear that he learned nothing from the experience, because sometime later, he left the car idling on the road and dashed into a shop nearby for supplies. Wanting to save on parking fees, he was oblivious to the fact that the car was now an impediment for other vehicles, not to mention the wastage of fuel and environmental pollution happening at the same time!

Bad driving is common and so are incidents of hit-and-run. Driving licences may be purchased under the table - without knowledge either of cars, or the traffic rules. Bystanders get het up if there is injury to people or loss of life, otherwise they gather around just to watch the drama of altercations unfold. Sometime ago, one such a rookie driver, showing off to his mates whilst his boss was away, rammed a roadside stall. He tried to flee, of course, and in his hurry, rear-ended my stationary small car. Alert locals nabbed one of the boys out that car before it sped away. The terrified youth quickly spilled the beans; the group was rounded up and hauled into the police station. Their families showed up as well. Mothers especially, wept buckets, beating their chests, begging the police and anybody else who might listen, for mercy. Because they were poor, it would naturally be cruel to book their sons. The poverty card is easily played in this country, and no compensation is ever forthcoming for the damage these ‘poor’ inflicted on others’ property! 

 

In majority, male drivers let loose on Indian roads, drive to get there first. However, they have no real answer to the question “and where to exactly?” As it is the roads rarely have lane-markings, and even if they do, few bother to keep to them. Driving is taken to mean to constantly overtake somebody else, although more often, they cause or intensify traffic jams. Sudden maneuvers are usual, and without sound or signal, an adjoining vehicle noses out diagonally, intending to force another to give way.  This when there is traffic at standstill ahead, behind and on every other side! Other vehicles, magnetically attracted by movement, invariably follow the leader to jam up the roads even more.

It sometimes feels a violation of personal space, but it makes “road sense” here to creep close to the vehicle ahead, almost bumper-to-bumper, to plug any ‘openings’! One has to be on guard against lateral encroachments, because some ambitious overtaker will soon insert his vehicle, and unceremoniously sideline the giver of space. I’ve learnt that being polite does not pay, and hoot insistently and gesticulate wildly to draw attention to the infractions that might happen relating to me. That seems to back them down. Men in India don’t want their misdeeds held up to public scrutiny, especially by brazen outsider women!