Tat’s empowerment

The meaning of empowerment changes over generations. People naturally react to circumstances; these shape their outlook, and their actions change accordingly. The sense of being and becoming, for young people especially, depends on their environment.

About four generations ago, India was a colony, struggling to throw off the yoke of servitude. The environment was uncertain, the people powerless. However, the the charismatic leaders they followed, united the young and the old as one in the independence movement. Many were child foot soldiers imbued with the fervour of patriotic freedom, unafraid to be arrested, tortured and imprisoned for their social activism. 

Innumerable numbers of these young people martyred themselves during the freedom struggle. Empowered by ideals, they sacrificed their all for the cause deemed greater than the self. Their selfless dedication to the motherland brought independence to the region against the odds. 

 

The environment appears so much more controllable today, only a few generations later. Advancement of technology moulds the youthful outlook. Young people attune to the technology rather than to the collective around them. Virtual reality trumps the immediate external environment. Technology unites young men and women of global diversity through social networking.  

Online trends that go viral attract huge following, and thence is the attraction to body art. The word tattoo has Polynesian origins – tatau, tatu, or tattaw. Among tribal cultures, of this region, those in Africa and elsewhere, the tattoo symbolises a rite of passage. It proclaims to the world that the individual has stepped into adulthood, and is ready to assume the requisite responsibilities. 

It is doubtful that most young people in India have adult reasoning behind their choices of design. Although some may be in homage to the charismatic leaders of yesteryear, social activism also is far from their minds. In reality, they say, the pain is empowering. It is a rite of passage of sorts, to do as their celebrity idols do in promoting their self online. In virtual reality, the intricacies of designing are important. It enables them to stand out from the crowd on the global platform.

There-and-then, freedom of the collectivist nation was cause. In today’s individualistic world here-and-now, the cause is freedom of self-expression.
The previous generations may perceive the youth isolated, inward looking. Not introspective, but rather self-interested, with shrunken horizons and alienation from traditions. But, the question is should they blame the present generation for the outcomes of the technological developments they themselves initiated? 

O Calcutta!

It seems to me to be disrespectful to live in a place and know little about it. The structured and the organic conjoin in Kolkata. Modernity has wrought changes, but the influences of earlier ages are never eliminated. I decide to explore why it is as it is. 

Epistemologists say the name Kolkata is likely to be a tribute to deity, the warrior goddess Kali, or Mother Nature’s bounty. However, most newcomers to the city, and especially non-resident Indians, don’t see any godly connection, and are appalled by the congestion, the pollution and the noise. It takes time to recognize the indomitable spirit of the people and to experience their selfless giving nature, but few people are that patient. To others, although difficult to stomach initially, Kolkata, nicknamed the city of joy after a French author’s book, tends to grow on you.

Travelogues of merchants and scholars from Persia and China date the region to centuries BCE. It is mentioned in the Mahabharat, one of the country’s ancient mythological epics. It was there during the Maurya and Gupta periods and in Mughal Emperor Akbar’s rent rolls in the sixteenth century. In short, this region had inhabitants for well over two millennia before Europeans appeared on the horizon. There was also an established trading post. Burra Bazar, close to the river, was probably this business hub. The old, old trading houses are still standing, although now in urgent need of repair and restoration.

The British, though, claim to have discovered the area through Job Charnock, a representative of the East India Company that came to these shores towards the end of the seventeenth century. That strikes me as absurd; just as it must have the Native American tribes when Christopher Columbus was credited the discovery of America. Like, hey, we were here first!  

True, not much concrete evidence remains of the ancient Indian architecture. This is most likely because the people of the age didn’t use brick and mortar for their dwellings. Their homes were eco-friendly, made of mud, thatch, tiles, and regularly recycled. Temples and tombs, however, were constructed with more lasting materials and they are testimony to the local talent. 

 

The British captured three villages, Sutanuti, Gobindapur and Kalikata, to create their headquarters for trading. They put their cultural stamp on their holdings razing everything else to the ground. The eastern bank of the Hoogly tributary of River Ganges bears impressive British architecture since. The roads built were named for their convenience - Dalhousie Square, Esplanade, Strand Road, Outram Ghat, Princep Ghat, Hastings, Curzon Park and so on. Being unable to pronounce the tongue-twisting Indian names, I suppose, they called the city Calcutta.

In the new millennium, this city has been renamed Kolkata. Street names change more frequently here. Whosoever comes to power in state governance, exercises the right to rename, perhaps following the British. I look up a few on a map of the city and then try to find them on the road. It turns out not such an easy task, because the same place might be referred to with different names! It can become confusing when people forget Chowringhee Road is now Jawahar Lal Nehru Road, or by habit, remember Harrington Street instead of Ho Chi Minh Sarani.

New constructions also appear atop the old, changing the faces of things quite completely. A Bank Street, for instance, is shown on a map to run alongside the waterfront on the Kolkata side for miles. But the location of this road is still a mystery to me. On every try, I am stumped at the Howrah Bridge, because the flow of traffic goes straight onto and over the bridge. I’m missing it somehow, or perhaps the newer flyovers have been built over and across it, to make ‘Bank Street’ just another discarded historical name.

Amongst the first British projects in India was the garrison to station the troops. Fort William, founded in 1702, is still there, as are the various living quarters built within, for humans, horses and armoury. Post-independence it has been taken over to serve as cantonment for the Indian Army. Although there have been later additions of housing and schools, the heritage of older structures, including the cannons, still look in top condition. The military story from inception to today is meticulously recorded in a little museum inside the Fort. 

Fort William was a strategic placement for the British. On the bank of the river, and shaped as a polygon of six or eight sides, and gateways on each side, enabled rapid deployment of their enforcers to one direction or another. The establishment of this regional military headquarters became a bone of contention between the foreign settlers, and the Muslim monarch of Bengal. Nawab Siraj-ud-daulah’s foresight of British expansionist intentions, led him to attack the Fort and succeed in driving the British out.  

But consolidation eluded him. Within a year, his own uncle betrayed him to British cunning. The bloody battle of Plassey was fought in 1757 and the Nawab was vanquished and killed. That put an end, for a while at least, to local aspirations. The Crown established Calcutta as the capital of British India. They wanted it to be known as the City of Palaces, and accordingly, the buildings constructed were massive, ostentatious displays of British architecture, high-ceiled spacious rooms, wide main roads, handsome parkways and boulevards, and deep, concealed drainage. The capital of British India flaunted imperial superiority to this part of the world. 

 

I’ve often wondered why only a part of Calcutta is so beautifully laid out, while much more was steeped in poverty and squalor. I rationalized that the Calcutta of yore must have been a pretty small place. The locations of their architecture probably demarcated the limits of the city built by the British. The population explosion thereafter must be responsible for sections to become dreadfully congested, with narrow streets, and run down structures. Pity, I thought, that the Indians had not learned from them to value space. 

I realize now that my grasp of the history is pretty weak. Calcutta had actually been bigger than what I imagined. The imperialists were not in the region to integrate cultures. They were white supremacists, here as masters.  Calcutta was developed in two distinct parts, and their names are self-explanatory - White Town and Black Town. The land, the funds utilized in the opulent construction projects of the former, as well as the human labour pressed into service were of course, taken from their new subjects in India, probably as reparation costs. 

 

They indulged racial discrimination to the hilt, relegating the natives to Black Town, north and east of the city. Dispossessed of their own lands, the Indian people were pushed further inland. The waterways and access to the river came under the aegis of the British Raj that did not hesitate to collect taxes. Deprived of their traditional livelihoods of cultivation and fishing, they huddled together in shantytowns. Poverty and squalor become their lot, and eventually the characteristic of all Black Towns held in the iron grip of the colonizers, backed by imperial military might.

Meanwhile, education was introduced in accordance with British educational standards. It raised a new class of Bengalis, the anglophiles, the educated, rich, upper caste Hindus. They were inducted into the lower levels of administration and the Baboo culture became the backbone of the bureaucracy. The Baboos profited from British presence. Their large town houses situated just outside the White Town zone probably as a buffer, shielding the masters from the serfs. Manipulated by the colonizers, many Baboos were against their own people.

However, education became a double-edged sword for the colonizers. Many Indians quickly became discerning, politically savvy intellectuals. The seeds of nationalism against British occupancy began to take root. Calcutta became the hub of the freedom movement launched within the first decade of the twentieth century. The sepoy mutiny (the upsurge of Indian soldiers), took place near the capital.  It was said that what Bengal thinks today, India thinks tomorrow. 

When the partition of Bengal was mooted in 1905, political activism gained momentum with the boycott and public burning of British goods on the streets. It forced the British to shift their capital from Calcutta to Delhi in 1911. Perhaps in retaliation, they vivisected Bengal and handed the East to Pakistan in 1947. Although the former East Bengal is now a country, Bangladesh, that physical, emotional and economic setback inflicted on the region, it is yet to recover from. 

 

But the Indian psyche is not built to hold onto grudges for too long. Through centuries of being invaded, conquered, annexed and colonized by different culture, we are able to take the worst misfortunes in strides. The sense of nationhood remains through oppression and democracy. We become comfortable with all outside influences. They are assimilated into the culture and Indianized.

The English language is now one of the twenty-two official languages in the country. The colonial architecture has been preserved in all its glory even so many decades after Independence. Buggy rides reminiscent of the British Raj continue around the Victoria Memorial even today. We own it all without prejudice. As part of Kolkata’s historical cultural inheritance, they remain, as they ever were - Black Town, White Town, and what-have-you.

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…

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?

Preservation of culture?

In categorizing people into ‘us’ and ‘them’ groups, we refer to culture a lot.  According to our standards of judgement, these others belong to cultures that may be somewhat like us, or more usually, backward to us. Individual behaviours that may differ from our own, we tend to attribute to their cultural origins, their social DNA. Obviously, the term is of great importance to determine status in the civilized world.  

Culture means different things to different people. The spectrum of definitions the ‘Net throws up is wide, including: 

• Human intellectual achievement
•  Language, religion, cuisine, social habits, music and arts
•  Quality of excellence in person or society in manners and scholarly pursuits
•  A form or stage of civilization
•  Development or improvement of the mind by education or training
•  Shared beliefs and behaviours of particular ethnic, social or age group.

However, in India, and elsewhere in the world, the administrative view of culture focuses on one aspect only – a form or stage of civilization. Accordingly, the preservation of culture is a practice. This does not apply to the mainstream, which may socialize in the global community. It is meant instead to protect uncontacted tribes located in the remotest parts of India’s vast diversity. But, does the process work?

 

No doubt the bureaucracy started out with sound rationales behind the practice.  Because they have lived so long in their own microcosms, these tribes have become endangered species. The rest of the world is toxic for them; hence the intention to save their numbers makes sense. Their physical survival is important against germs of modernity becoming life-threatening diseases.  

They are kept away on reservations of land tract, forest or islands. Their way of life of centuries continues, and that, on face value, seems logical. The social organization, their family structure, relationships and laws are to remain the same, same and same, as they ever were in the bygone days. Taxpayer monies are pumped in to maintain the appropriate ambience, and very heavy restrictions imposed on the surrounding environment. The laws strictly prohibit any interactions between mainstream society these isolated threads of humanity. Mainstream society is warned against entering their preserves, meeting the inhabitants or photographing them up close.  

I, however, find the present process discomforting. Fact is process implementation is faulty with inadequate safeguards and lax supervision. Its very purpose defeats with asphalt roads constructed around the reservations for the flow of convoys of tourist vehicles. When modernity invades their backyard, the tribes are hardly uncontacted anymore. The alien presence they are supposedly protected from is emphatically brought home to the people of the land. 

It seems to have become discriminatory, to keep the uncontacted backward, and make them anthropological attractions. Their ‘form or stage of civilization’ feeds the majority self-esteem. Tour operators rely on the greed of lower level administrative personnel to sell their tours. Their tourist convoys are little different from any jungle safari in search of exotic animals. There is folklore of their wild nature, their mistrust of outsiders, and their attacks with bows and poison-tipped arrows. They are taken as creatures of the wild and their habitats human zoos that excited tourists want to visit.  

The natural curiosity of a people is played upon. Inquisitive customers on tour crane their necks in eagerness for glimpses of their appearance with little or no clothing.  Convoy drivers are bribed to stop, and the tribals – especially women and children – to approach, enticed with food and other objects. They must then perform for the entertainments of a voyeuristic ‘superior’ civilization. The fact that they are living, breathing human beings worthy of dignity and respect, escapes attention. 

It carries the flavour of exploitation of groups unused to the culture of deception and guile. Unscrupulous middlemen take advantage of the gray areas. They grab every opportunity presented by loopholes in the system to further vested interests. Wherever there is an obstacle, bribes or favours are freely exchanged. What then is the point of laws when the measures to enforce them are weak or nonexistent?

 

In South America, watchdog organizations are able to expose the racketeering of corporate bodies that flout laws with impunity for their profits – owning land without title, deforesting without environmental licences. Because the people are isolated from modernity, and have neither the knowledge of laws, nor vigilant administrative support, they are easy prey for predatory groups unconcerned by their extinction. The spokespersons for some ancient tribes in Brazil and Peru have even claimed genocide of tribal population. 

One report from Paraguay last year says:

The secret agenda of a huge ranching firm in Paraguay has been exposed by satellite photos showing a newly-constructed reservoir. The reservoir reveals the firm’s intention to clear nearby forest belonging to an uncontacted tribe. In a pattern characteristic of the Chaco region, landowners first build large water containers before clearing tracts of forest for livestock. Carlos Casado SA’s construction of the reservoir puts neighboring Indians, especially uncontacted Ayoreo, in immediate danger.

Another report in March this year points out the growing dangers posed by unbridled industry:

Many Ayoreo have already been contacted and have been claiming title to the land owned by Carlos Casado S.A. for more than twenty years. Their uncontacted relatives who remain in the forest are extremely vulnerable to diseases brought in by outsiders, and unwanted contact could be deadly. The uncontacted Ayoreo are being forced to flee as their forest is being rapidly bulldozed to make way for cattle. … In 2009, Survival International successfully lobbied shareholders such as the Church of England and the Rowntree Trust to disinvest from mining giant Vedanta Resources, because of the company’s intention to mine the sacred mountain of the Dongria Kondh tribe.

 

It may be argued that in the Indian context, the situation is not so dire. I would add ‘yet’ since it is only a matter to time before it might be. The environment and fragile ecosystems are already endangered, as changing weather patterns testify. The lack of ethics in modern society makes illegal mining, deforestation, poaching, and industrial pollutions almost the rule. Corporate bottomlines drive the agenda, backed by powerful resources. Faced with the politico-corporate nexus, the bureaucracy falls silent, while India’s non-governmental social organizations lack bite. 

Superiority in this new age is certainly in terms of corruption. It threatens not only people groups, but also planet survival. The majority should forget their preoccupation with empty status and relearn from people backward to us a bit of forgotten ancient traditions. The uncontacted tribes have preserved a culture for centuries, that the mainstream has lost sight of – adaptability to Nature, and harmonious existence with its creations. They could ensure longevity of the planet, and yes, of our modernity.

Blessed to be born female?

Georgia O’Keefe’s early twentieth century paintings of the Black Iris flower are more readily perceived as her metaphoric preoccupation with female genitalia. It seems to me that the Nature worshipping era of the remote past would have instead perceived spirituality in her artworks. They would have definitely been taken to denote the awesome fertility powers of the Mother Goddess. However, since Freudian interpretations of sexuality impacted social knowledge, connotative associations appear to be grasped first in the global forum.   

Remnant artifacts of Nature worship have been found from the Indus Valley civilization of ancient India dated thousands of years before Christ. Several nations of the Asian sub-continent, independent in present day, share this common heritage. Excavations ongoing mainly in two countries, India and Pakistan, at Mohenjodaro, Harappa and other places, have so far uncovered only a small percentage of the buried cultural wealth. But, although the hieroglyphics of the time have not yet been deciphered, surely the art forms discovered there can tell a story of the time! They could give us an inkling of the stark social differences of mindset and value regarding gender, past to present.  

Various objects made and used by the people have been discovered. Many figurines of the artwork found have accentuated breasts and pelvis. Does this mean women were objectified then as now? No, say the fact-finders, the exaggerations are symbolic. They represent divinity, not humans - the cult of the Mother Goddess, the Earth Mother or Nature – and invoke attributes of bounty of the deity. Made of clay or terracotta, they show kinship with Earth. 

A website collecting historical information about deities explains the point:

As significant and suggestive is her iconography - the large breasts filled with milk, uncovered genital organs, beautifully dressed hair and a good number of bangles on her wrists. This is the iconic perception of the Being who bears, feeds, takes all calamities on her head and covers the born one under her protective umbrella and, at the same time, defines in the modeling of her form an absolute aesthetic beauty. As suggest her bangles, the traditional emblem of marital state, besides a mother she is also a consort. Thus, in her material manifestation, She represents, with absolute motherhood, also the absolute womanhood. She causes life and sustains it, and is also the cause of life, its inspiration and aspiration, and the reason to live.

Social demarcations would thus have dual levels to span the universe – the gods that live in the heavens, and humans on earth, descendent from them or fallen, stripped of powers. A saying in India, that what is fine for the gods is not fine for mortals, reminds the humans of their ultimate fallibility. And that the all-powerful divine beings need to be worshipped for appeasement and blessings, because the humans are too puny to manage on their own against harsh reality.

In this ancient Indian context, the female form has spiritual and religious significance. Because of the association with divine functions, women most likely enjoyed a high position in society. Perhaps to be born female was to be blessed! It is a distinct possibility that matriarchy, which now exists in pockets around the country, was far more pervasive. A ritual originating in fertility rites that to this day  initiates Hindu image worship, is the ghot puja. It is an earthenware pot filled with water and inscribed with a figure in vermilion, which symbolizes the pregnant womb. It invokes the Mother Goddess. The traditional Indian reverence for the mother figure may have its roots therein as well. 

By the third millennium BCE, the people of Indus Valley had learned to cast in metal. The bronze Dancing Girl is the most famous amongst the human and animal artifacts found. The difference from the Mother Goddess is immediately apparent - she lacks the physical exaggerations. Perhaps a little crude in face and limb technically, the statuette nevertheless indicates the status of women of the time. A quote from British archaeologist, Mortimer Wheeler, describes its form and feature:

There is her little Baluchi-style face with pouting lips and insolent look in the eye. She's about fifteen years old I should think, not more, but she stands there with bangles all the way up her arm and nothing else on. A girl perfectly, for the moment, perfectly confident of herself and the world. There's nothing like her, I think, in the world.  

Indeed, attitude is immediately apparent in the body language. The pose – the hand on hip, the cocked stance, the lifted chin, the half-closed eyes, and the slanted look exude the impudence and comfort in skin hard to find amongst women today. Some writers suggest that the figurine is transgender. It is interesting to think, in extension, that gender may not have always been the divisive social issue it is at present. Identifying as female, in the image of the divine, may well have been totally acceptable in society.

Her nudity makes no difference to our appreciation of the artwork. Perhaps we notice it only because we belong to a different era, socialized into a different value system. Maybe in the early times, women were unused to suffering body issues! In remote regions of India, in tribes isolated from the mainstream to preserve their ancient culture, nakedness is their way of life. Jarawa women, for instance, may be more comfortable in the natural than many more civilized others might be fully clothed!

During the age of Nature worship, the people lived in awe of the environment. The power of the Goddess was perceived in every creation in the environment, and they bowed in reverence. Their imagery has been in celebration of the Divine. Against the spiritual backdrop, it is no surprise that temple art - rock carvings and cave paintings - are pretty explicit on the bountiful attributes of Nature.  

From there and then to here and now, how the perspective has changed! We expect that we control the environment today; hence we patronize the past. In the process, we tend to lose awareness of the sociocultural context of the age - and the artistic intent. Women, as a group, are habitually objectified. I remember overhearing some tourists a while ago. Eyes gleaming, the young men conversed raucously about the full figure displays of chicks in the temple artworks. It is not the fault of the artists but of particular sociocultural learning that perceptions of gender channel as they do. 

Worthy of the gods

The other day, I noticed a long queue of young men outside the doctor’s chamber. I wondered what could make so many youths collectively sick. It turned out to be a recruitment drive and they awaited medical reviews. I imagined they were in the city chasing their dream job. They seemed to hail from rural areas, a little out of comfort zones in the urban surroundings. One by one they they were called into the room; some stayed there, but more returned outside. The ones returning were the ‘unfit’ group, and disappointment writ large on their faces. In their sheepish looks around, their continuity with tradition seemed imminent – that is, to abandon dreams in the face of failure. 

Indians invest huge effort in pursuing goals. The practice of rituals and identification with mythological characters is quite pronounced in this region, and so is the belief in fate. We presume to be descendants of the gods. Although lacking the requisite supernatural powers of the epic characters, we expect to be like Prince Arjuna, the archer extraordinaire of the epic Mahabharata who never missed a shot. Even through a reflection, he could pierce the eye of the fish revolving high above. Because Arjuna thus won the princess, we expect to be similarly blessed.  

We forget that as mundane humans, we have to contend with the interfering variables that mythology does not. Our talents also are not equivalent, and wins therefore, are dicey. But failure does not sit well with the heritage we claim. And when we do not succeed at the first try, we take it personal. We are shamed by failure, and do not invest in second chances. Should the one try we make hit target, we can continue to greater exploits. Should it not, we give up entirely. It is all or nothing, with no middle path. This is our morphogenetic learning, the song of culture, as it were. 

I remember being fascinated by rhymes in childhood. The cadence of similar sounding words allured me into ambitiously trying my hand at it. Like:

Donkeys can bray

Some houses are gray

Lions can roar

My pretty dress tore

Birds can fly

And I can cry.

Now, considering that English was then learned only in school, it may have been an achievement for a 5-year-old. But as ‘verse’ was probably little more than a few similar-sounding phrases strung together.  Perhaps with a few decades of honing, something impressive might have resulted. But while I quietly admired my handiwork, an English teacher of the school, noticed my childish scrawl. She was a tall, dark, severe-looking woman and we were all afraid of her. She took my little creativity and frowned at it. I awaited her response with trepidation, expecting punishment or at least a public dressing down for my temerity. Instead, she praised my penmanship as worthy of publishing in the school paper. Her intent, I am sure, was only to offer encouragement, and she probably put it out of her mind soon after. But I assumed she would make it soon happen. For days and weeks and months I waited for the word or sign of making the hit. When it never came to pass I my self-esteem so plummeted I never rhymed again.

We are not taught to handle defeat, hence the fear of public humiliation is consuming. In the school I went to as a child, getting exam results was like visiting the dentist. We could not just pick up our scores and leave – pain was inevitable! The entire class assembled, names were called one by one and performances announced. We learned early that being bottom of the class would earn sustained ridicule from peers. Chants of failure, failure would follow the unlucky everywhere, even amongst children that could hardly spell the word. I actually thought the term was ‘fail-year’, to signify unworthiness throughout the year. My anxiety was double because, at home, it was relative to the monies spent. The standard was set at first in class, and no result below that pleased the elders. So, each time, I died many deaths before I learned my fate!

Respect for elders is a strong thread of the Indian/Bengali cultural fabric. Authority figures are viewed too intimidating to question, and we tend to read divinity into their manner. Even half a century later, I recall the unwittingly effect of the Mss Broughton of the sixties that put paid to my poetic proclivity! Similarly, the group of ‘unfit’ young men would probably read one disappointing medical review as absolute rejection of worth. These Arjunas of the twenty-first century would soon pack up their dreams and fade into oblivion.  Do not give up, I exhorted forcefully in the vernacular. The bowed heads jerked up in surprise at my sudden interjection. ‘Unfit’ today does not make you unfit for life, I said. Ask to understand exactly why you fail the test today. Correct it, and make sure nobody finds you unfit the next time. I waggled a forefinger at them to emphasize the role of the social elder I was appropriating. The country wins if you win, I added, which brought reluctant smiles to their faces.

Engrossed in the mythological fantasy, the tendency with every bump on the road, is to quickly sideline opportunity as not fated for us. We need to respect our own efforts enough to change the dismissive social attitude that relegates to nothingness, genuine efforts on the learning path. To enable adaptability to a changing world, our stories must include personal experiences of failure to highlight the resilience we lack. As a people we now need to invest in new human stories from diversity to help us accept failure without shame. The historical tale of King Robert Bruce, for instance, who, inspired by the tenacity of the lowly spider, found the courage to fight again after six crushing defeats, to finally win his throne. The eye of the fish should be a guideline to focusing mind on task. We should not belittle ourselves by taking it as the only acceptable standard of achievement worthy of the gods.

Asking directions of a local

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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