Sunday was Friendship Day, and it seemed like a big deal in Bhubaneswar, although I couldn't quite figure out why or how people celebrated it. I spent the afternoon at a coffee shop called Share A Cup that was decorated with tons of balloons and had servers delivering individual cards that said "Happy Friendship Day."
Later in the evening a local radio station came by to host a special competition in honor of Friendship Day. Coffee-drinkers could compete for Mr or Miss Share A Cup. I usually love a good competition, but this one was a bit strange. The first task was to ask someone in the coffee shop to be your friend in a unique way. This resulted in a college-aged boy approaching my colleague and giving a sweet (yet awkward) speech about how she really had guts and how he wanted to be her friend. The radio mic in her face, she could do nothing else but accept his friendship.
Somehow I don't feel like this activity quite got at the heart of the holiday.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Saturday Night: The Upside of Anger
What does it look like when only men go out to bars/clubs?
Honestly, it looks kind of nice.
The whole purpose behind nightlife in Bhubaneswar is different than it is in the States. It's not about meeting girls or finding a date - which makes sense given that most boys in Bhubaneswar will opt for an arranged marriage anyway - but instead it is about hanging out with your buds.
You drink together. You dance together. You may even hold hands. And engaging in these activities don't make you less of a man, they make you a better friend. It's actually heart-warming to see how guys form relationships and bonds in India without feeling like they need to put forth a cold macho exterior.
Now there is a risk, particularly when girls enter a place where unchecked male only drinking is occurring (I certainly wouldn't go in alone). But when my co-workers and I entered Ten Downing Street at the Mayfair Hotel on Saturday night, it was like a breath of fresh air. We got on the dance floor and no one paid all that much attention to us. After all, why should they take notice of a couple of girls? They were too busy dancing amongst themselves.
Honestly, it looks kind of nice.
The whole purpose behind nightlife in Bhubaneswar is different than it is in the States. It's not about meeting girls or finding a date - which makes sense given that most boys in Bhubaneswar will opt for an arranged marriage anyway - but instead it is about hanging out with your buds.
You drink together. You dance together. You may even hold hands. And engaging in these activities don't make you less of a man, they make you a better friend. It's actually heart-warming to see how guys form relationships and bonds in India without feeling like they need to put forth a cold macho exterior.
Now there is a risk, particularly when girls enter a place where unchecked male only drinking is occurring (I certainly wouldn't go in alone). But when my co-workers and I entered Ten Downing Street at the Mayfair Hotel on Saturday night, it was like a breath of fresh air. We got on the dance floor and no one paid all that much attention to us. After all, why should they take notice of a couple of girls? They were too busy dancing amongst themselves.
Saturday: Denial
It's August 1. The night before we had sent off the first draft of our case study to the Delhi central office and presented our findings to the Orissa state office. So this was the day that we could finally celebrate after surrendering our minds to the intricacies of planning and monitoring units for seven weeks straight.
The day started off with a lovely brunch at our supervisor's home, and then my coworkers and I went off for afternoon drinks. Our destination was a place called Far Pavilion, which is a restaurant with an enclosed outdoor garden from where you cab lay back and sip inexpensive drinks. I had never been there before but it came highly recommended.
As it so happened, the garden was closed during the afternoon so we headed to the indoor bar. The inside was dully-lit, decorated in a faux Italian style with Michelangelo-inspired depictions of women on the walls. We took our seats in the corner and briefly took notice that once again we were the only females in a drinking establishment.
And this is when things took a turn for the worse. First the waiter came by and suggested that we sit in the restaurant next door. Somewhat confused, we got up ready to comply with the suggestion, but when we entered the restaurant, the lights were off, there was no A/C, and there was only one person inside - the waiter. This wasn't the sort of festive atmosphere that we were looking for. When we pointed out these obvious short-comings, the waiter said that we could return to the bar but he thought the restaurant would be a more pleasant place for women. We thanked him for his perspective and made our way back to the bar.
As it turns out, the management was not as open to us sitting at the bar as the waiter led us to believe. We attempted to seat ourselves in the bar and were denied. The next fifteen minutes were marked by heated conversations until it became clear that this bar was not willing to serve us because we were women.
At the time, I was of two minds about this. One mind was telling me that I was in a different culture, and as such I was subject to their way of doing things. But then seeing how irate my Indian co-worker had become, I realized that deferring to cultural relativism isn't necessarily the right thing to do. At that moment, I saw that I was in the middle of a struggle - the struggle in India of young women fighting for their rights to be treated the same way as men. I saw in my co-worker that it was not enough to walk away and say that we wouldn't spend our money there. This was an opportunity to make an argument - to change minds. That day she showed me that even in a place you don't call home, you cannot accept being treated as a second class citizen.
And as an American girl in India, all I can say in response is "I'll drink to that."
The day started off with a lovely brunch at our supervisor's home, and then my coworkers and I went off for afternoon drinks. Our destination was a place called Far Pavilion, which is a restaurant with an enclosed outdoor garden from where you cab lay back and sip inexpensive drinks. I had never been there before but it came highly recommended.
As it so happened, the garden was closed during the afternoon so we headed to the indoor bar. The inside was dully-lit, decorated in a faux Italian style with Michelangelo-inspired depictions of women on the walls. We took our seats in the corner and briefly took notice that once again we were the only females in a drinking establishment.
And this is when things took a turn for the worse. First the waiter came by and suggested that we sit in the restaurant next door. Somewhat confused, we got up ready to comply with the suggestion, but when we entered the restaurant, the lights were off, there was no A/C, and there was only one person inside - the waiter. This wasn't the sort of festive atmosphere that we were looking for. When we pointed out these obvious short-comings, the waiter said that we could return to the bar but he thought the restaurant would be a more pleasant place for women. We thanked him for his perspective and made our way back to the bar.
As it turns out, the management was not as open to us sitting at the bar as the waiter led us to believe. We attempted to seat ourselves in the bar and were denied. The next fifteen minutes were marked by heated conversations until it became clear that this bar was not willing to serve us because we were women.
At the time, I was of two minds about this. One mind was telling me that I was in a different culture, and as such I was subject to their way of doing things. But then seeing how irate my Indian co-worker had become, I realized that deferring to cultural relativism isn't necessarily the right thing to do. At that moment, I saw that I was in the middle of a struggle - the struggle in India of young women fighting for their rights to be treated the same way as men. I saw in my co-worker that it was not enough to walk away and say that we wouldn't spend our money there. This was an opportunity to make an argument - to change minds. That day she showed me that even in a place you don't call home, you cannot accept being treated as a second class citizen.
And as an American girl in India, all I can say in response is "I'll drink to that."
The Final Chapters
So the last two weeks I was in Bhubaneswar, I fell off the blogging wagon. But there are stories to be told from that time - stories of festivals and friendship, dancing and denial. And so even though I am back in the U.S. I will offer up a brief retrospective of my closing days in India.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
Our Case Study in Numbers
Members of research team: 4
Total number of people interviewed: 52
Days till first draft is due: 2
Hours spent working in the office yesterday: 12
Maximum page length: 35
Current page length: 47
Times I threatened to kill a co-worker: 1
Total number of people interviewed: 52
Days till first draft is due: 2
Hours spent working in the office yesterday: 12
Maximum page length: 35
Current page length: 47
Times I threatened to kill a co-worker: 1
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Dalma
One of my good friends and fellow bloggers asked me why I don't write about food in my blog. This is a good question. Food is such a huge part of culture, and normally it is my first entry point into a country that I visit. Dumplings in Hong Kong. Pho in Vietnam. Pisco sour in Peru. My feet tend to follow where my stomach wants to go. However, since i'm living on a university campus, a few kilometers from the main action of the city, it is most convenient to just eat in the canteen.
Make no mistake, the canteen is the epitome of uninspiring food. Its shortfalls are similiar to those of most eateries that mass produce food. When you try to accommodate to a variety of tastes for the cheapest price, you get medicore results. Not terrible. Certainly edible. But pretty boring. Every day we have yellow daal (lentil soup), rice, some kind of mixed vegetable curry, a chutney and cucumber salad.
But all the while that I have been enduring the canteen, I've been trying to hatch a plan to get authentic Oriya food. I have asked people on campus where I can get it, but they mostly point me in the direction of five-star hotels (which, by the way, don't have Oriya food) because they are the most hygenic. Then I found out there is a restaurant called Kalinga Cottage. Since "Kalinga" is a former name for Orissa, I thought I'd have luck there. That thought was absolutely incorrect. The restaurant has a nice assortment of North Indian dishes. But then two friends from Bhubaneswar and my supervisor recommended a place called Dalma to have Oriya food. Apparently, dalma is a special Oriyan dish, often called the poor man's food, which mixes daal with veggies.
So tonight we went to Dalma for the first time. On the waiter's recommendation I ordered the veg thali (a plate with a small selection of a variety of dishes), as it was meant to be the most authentic. I was nearly giddy for it to arrive. The service was fast and within 10 minutes or so, the waiter placed my meal in front of me. It was yellow daal, rice, mixed vegetable curry, a chutney and cucumber salad...oh and a small helping of dalma.
That's right, I've been having Oriya food the whole time and didn't know it. The saddest part is that I think the food at the canteen is actually a bit tastier.
Make no mistake, the canteen is the epitome of uninspiring food. Its shortfalls are similiar to those of most eateries that mass produce food. When you try to accommodate to a variety of tastes for the cheapest price, you get medicore results. Not terrible. Certainly edible. But pretty boring. Every day we have yellow daal (lentil soup), rice, some kind of mixed vegetable curry, a chutney and cucumber salad.
But all the while that I have been enduring the canteen, I've been trying to hatch a plan to get authentic Oriya food. I have asked people on campus where I can get it, but they mostly point me in the direction of five-star hotels (which, by the way, don't have Oriya food) because they are the most hygenic. Then I found out there is a restaurant called Kalinga Cottage. Since "Kalinga" is a former name for Orissa, I thought I'd have luck there. That thought was absolutely incorrect. The restaurant has a nice assortment of North Indian dishes. But then two friends from Bhubaneswar and my supervisor recommended a place called Dalma to have Oriya food. Apparently, dalma is a special Oriyan dish, often called the poor man's food, which mixes daal with veggies.
So tonight we went to Dalma for the first time. On the waiter's recommendation I ordered the veg thali (a plate with a small selection of a variety of dishes), as it was meant to be the most authentic. I was nearly giddy for it to arrive. The service was fast and within 10 minutes or so, the waiter placed my meal in front of me. It was yellow daal, rice, mixed vegetable curry, a chutney and cucumber salad...oh and a small helping of dalma.
That's right, I've been having Oriya food the whole time and didn't know it. The saddest part is that I think the food at the canteen is actually a bit tastier.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
A Total Eclipse of the Heart
According to NASA, this morning from 5:28am to about 7:40am, the moon would cast its shadow over the sun creating an eclipse that could be seen in India, Nepal, Bangladesh, Bhutan, Myanmar and China. In some areas in India - Gujarat, Madhya Pradesh, Bihar - a total solar eclipse would be visible for six minutes and 39 seconds. But here in Orissa, we would only be able to see a partial eclipse.
We had heard that the peak of the eclipse would be from 6:26 to 6:30. So even though we had a late night last night, we set our alarms for 6am for what was billed as the longest solar eclipse that we would be able to see in our lifetimes.
After some small hiccups, including waking up the warden to unlock the gates of the nunnery and walking around in circles trying to figure out which way was east, we found the best place possible to watch the eclipse. Unfortunately,the best place possible had some buildings obstructing our view, but it wasn't a big deal. The big deal came around 6:20 when we noticed dark storm clouds coming towards us - completely eclipsing our eclipse.
More than a little disappointed, we made our way back to the hostel and climbed back into our respective beds for a few more hours of sleep.
"Once upon a time there was light in my life
But now there's only love in the dark
Nothing I can do - a total eclipse of the heart"
We had heard that the peak of the eclipse would be from 6:26 to 6:30. So even though we had a late night last night, we set our alarms for 6am for what was billed as the longest solar eclipse that we would be able to see in our lifetimes.
After some small hiccups, including waking up the warden to unlock the gates of the nunnery and walking around in circles trying to figure out which way was east, we found the best place possible to watch the eclipse. Unfortunately,the best place possible had some buildings obstructing our view, but it wasn't a big deal. The big deal came around 6:20 when we noticed dark storm clouds coming towards us - completely eclipsing our eclipse.
More than a little disappointed, we made our way back to the hostel and climbed back into our respective beds for a few more hours of sleep.
"Once upon a time there was light in my life
But now there's only love in the dark
Nothing I can do - a total eclipse of the heart"
Bangles
I wish I could say that the New Year's Resolution I made this past January was lofty and inspiring. I wish I could say that I vowed to volunteer more or be kinder to friends and family. I wish I could say I decided to spend this year devoting my energy towards world peace or fighting to end hunger. But the truth is that my resolution for 2009 was to accessorize more. Seriously.
The good news for my silly resolution is that in India accessories rule. Earrings, nose rings, bindis, bangles, necklaces, anklets, toe rings, regular rings...you name it, Indian women wear it. Of course, there are some rules. No gold below the waist. And some things - like toe rings or anklets on both legs - may be signalling that you're married. But for the most part, everything else is fair game.
When a friend from Bhubaneswar left last week, I inherited her glass bangles. I had previously only worn the metal variety. I know this should go without saying, but the glass ones are significantly more fragile.
The First Attempt
I tried to slip on the first bracelet but it wouldn't move past my knuckles. I told my coworkers that they were too small, but they insisted that they would fit. I gave a bit more of a tug and the whole thing shattered in my hands.
The Second Attempt
Saryu told me that I just needed to be more gentle. She said that the bangles would easily fit if I positioned my hand correctly. She then demonstrated by folding her fingers into her palms in such a way that her hand shrunk to half its size. She then slid all four bangles past her knuckles and onto her wrist in 3 seconds flat.
It was then my turn. This time she would help me. She tried to inch the bangles past my knuckles. No luck. She gave the instruction to squeeze my fingers in. I did my best to imitate her incredible shrinking hand trick. She said "no, hold it like an Indian." Not surprisingly, this direction did not produce the result she was looking for. She slapped the backside of my hand. "Keep your knuckles flat. Like a girl. Hold it like a girl." Failure again. After 15 minutes of her coaxing the bangles and admonishing me for my poor hand posture, all four bangles found a place on my arms.
The Third Attempt
I got the bangles off with the help of soapy water. But then the following day, we were dressing up to go out, and I wanted to wear them again (this is how resolutions go). Focused, I greased my hands and wrist with a copious amount of body lotion, pinched my fingers together, while attempting to prevent my knuckles from jutting out, and with some manuevering got the bangles on in just a few minutes. Success. And I had thought garbha pindasana was difficult.
The good news for my silly resolution is that in India accessories rule. Earrings, nose rings, bindis, bangles, necklaces, anklets, toe rings, regular rings...you name it, Indian women wear it. Of course, there are some rules. No gold below the waist. And some things - like toe rings or anklets on both legs - may be signalling that you're married. But for the most part, everything else is fair game.
When a friend from Bhubaneswar left last week, I inherited her glass bangles. I had previously only worn the metal variety. I know this should go without saying, but the glass ones are significantly more fragile.
The First Attempt
I tried to slip on the first bracelet but it wouldn't move past my knuckles. I told my coworkers that they were too small, but they insisted that they would fit. I gave a bit more of a tug and the whole thing shattered in my hands.
The Second Attempt
Saryu told me that I just needed to be more gentle. She said that the bangles would easily fit if I positioned my hand correctly. She then demonstrated by folding her fingers into her palms in such a way that her hand shrunk to half its size. She then slid all four bangles past her knuckles and onto her wrist in 3 seconds flat.
It was then my turn. This time she would help me. She tried to inch the bangles past my knuckles. No luck. She gave the instruction to squeeze my fingers in. I did my best to imitate her incredible shrinking hand trick. She said "no, hold it like an Indian." Not surprisingly, this direction did not produce the result she was looking for. She slapped the backside of my hand. "Keep your knuckles flat. Like a girl. Hold it like a girl." Failure again. After 15 minutes of her coaxing the bangles and admonishing me for my poor hand posture, all four bangles found a place on my arms.
The Third Attempt
I got the bangles off with the help of soapy water. But then the following day, we were dressing up to go out, and I wanted to wear them again (this is how resolutions go). Focused, I greased my hands and wrist with a copious amount of body lotion, pinched my fingers together, while attempting to prevent my knuckles from jutting out, and with some manuevering got the bangles on in just a few minutes. Success. And I had thought garbha pindasana was difficult.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Sunday, July 19, 2009
I Just Might Be Famous
After visiting the Tribal Museum in Koraput last week, I was approached by two men with video cameras. They were from a local news station and wanted to ask me about my experience of the museum. Normally, I would turn down such a request as impromptu interviews are not a part of my skill set. However, I got the distinct sense that they wouldn’t really take “no” for an answer.
I can only hope that my fumbling, wandering , incoherent responses have not been broadcast all over Koraput. Just as I can only hope that the snapshots that people take of me (either by request after a brief interaction or surreptitiously by passersby on their cell phones) have not found themselves all over the Internet.
I understand why I get so much attention in Orissa. I look different. I’m an oddity. There’s something very normal and usual about wanting to take photos of the abnormal and unusual. To be honest, it’s actually not very different from how I take pictures. I rarely click photos of streets in Orissa that look like the ones I see in the U.S. My lens is drawn to that which is different or surprising.
And this is part of the reason why I am nervous about photography and film as mediums. Perhaps my image is now being used as proof that Orissa does attract foreign tourists, which I suppose wouldn’t be a terrible thing even though it’s not particularly true. More troubling for me is that the pictures I take may be understood by others as a generalization of what India is like. This would also be misleading as my job here for the summer is to document the schools and health facilities that are struggling the most – the things that are in some ways atypical.
So what do I do? For now the best compromise I can come up with is to only post photos of the cute and the beautiful. For other pictures, you’ll have to come and visit me so I can give you the entire context behind each image. As for addressing my new found fame, the best course of action for now seems to be to double check before going out that there isn’t food wedged between my teeth or toilet paper stuck to my shoe.
I can only hope that my fumbling, wandering , incoherent responses have not been broadcast all over Koraput. Just as I can only hope that the snapshots that people take of me (either by request after a brief interaction or surreptitiously by passersby on their cell phones) have not found themselves all over the Internet.
I understand why I get so much attention in Orissa. I look different. I’m an oddity. There’s something very normal and usual about wanting to take photos of the abnormal and unusual. To be honest, it’s actually not very different from how I take pictures. I rarely click photos of streets in Orissa that look like the ones I see in the U.S. My lens is drawn to that which is different or surprising.
And this is part of the reason why I am nervous about photography and film as mediums. Perhaps my image is now being used as proof that Orissa does attract foreign tourists, which I suppose wouldn’t be a terrible thing even though it’s not particularly true. More troubling for me is that the pictures I take may be understood by others as a generalization of what India is like. This would also be misleading as my job here for the summer is to document the schools and health facilities that are struggling the most – the things that are in some ways atypical.
So what do I do? For now the best compromise I can come up with is to only post photos of the cute and the beautiful. For other pictures, you’ll have to come and visit me so I can give you the entire context behind each image. As for addressing my new found fame, the best course of action for now seems to be to double check before going out that there isn’t food wedged between my teeth or toilet paper stuck to my shoe.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
For Anjali
A good friend of mine from Bhubaneswar is leaving today for a few weeks of traveling and then a return to the States. As sad as I am to see her go, I’m also excited for her future adventures in D.C. and beyond. In honor of her, I have created a top ten list of things I miss about the States and hence things that she will soon be able to enjoy.
10. 24-hour diners and all-day breakfast
9. Wearing spaghettis (tank tops) in public
8. Co-ed dance clubs
7. Toilet paper in public bathrooms
6. Roll-on deodorant
5. Fahrenheit
4. Drinking from the tap
3. Anonymity
2. Hot showers
1. Eating sushi, berries and other un-peelable and un-boilable foods
Farewell Anjali. Bhubu will miss you.
10. 24-hour diners and all-day breakfast
9. Wearing spaghettis (tank tops) in public
8. Co-ed dance clubs
7. Toilet paper in public bathrooms
6. Roll-on deodorant
5. Fahrenheit
4. Drinking from the tap
3. Anonymity
2. Hot showers
1. Eating sushi, berries and other un-peelable and un-boilable foods
Farewell Anjali. Bhubu will miss you.
Friday, July 17, 2009
Tradition
I often travel in social circles where people have a respect and even reverence for tradition and rituals. I often hear arguments about how mankind flourished for millennia before modern medicine was invented. Or maybe more accurately, there are treatments and practices that have been passed down –tested and re-tested – for centuries that can just as effectively cure people as pills, procedures and PhDs. I have heard and seen much denigration of mainstream medicine in favor of alternative medicine. And in some cases, it seems right and necessary to question whether MDs are too quick to prescribe a drug or focus too much on treating symptoms over root problems.
However, traveling to Koraput it’s clear that tradition alone is inadequate to treat a population. Koraput has the highest infant and maternal mortality rate in Orissa – a state that has one of the highest IMR and MMR rates in India (71 out of 1000 children do not reach their first birthday; an additional 50 do not reach their fifth). Most of these deaths are entirely preventable through things like immunizations (i.e. TB and polio) or behavior change (i.e. regular hand washing to prevent communicable diseases or stopping children from playing in stagnant water to decrease incidences of malaria). One of the biggest public health pushes right now is to encourage mothers to breastfeed within an hour of giving birth. The yellowish breast milk that is produced during that time contains nutrients and antibodies that can significantly boost child survival rates. But tradition dictates that mothers refrain from feeding the child until the milk is a more whitish color, even if it takes days.
While in Koraput I talked to doctors, midwives and health workers asking them what they think is the biggest roadblock to reducing IMR and MMR. As I am researching government support mechanisms (and because everyone likes to blame the government for problems), I expected answers like insufficient supplies of medicine, delays in the receipt of funds or inadequate trainings. But time and time again, the workers mostly pointed to tradition itself as the biggest challenge to saving lives.
However, traveling to Koraput it’s clear that tradition alone is inadequate to treat a population. Koraput has the highest infant and maternal mortality rate in Orissa – a state that has one of the highest IMR and MMR rates in India (71 out of 1000 children do not reach their first birthday; an additional 50 do not reach their fifth). Most of these deaths are entirely preventable through things like immunizations (i.e. TB and polio) or behavior change (i.e. regular hand washing to prevent communicable diseases or stopping children from playing in stagnant water to decrease incidences of malaria). One of the biggest public health pushes right now is to encourage mothers to breastfeed within an hour of giving birth. The yellowish breast milk that is produced during that time contains nutrients and antibodies that can significantly boost child survival rates. But tradition dictates that mothers refrain from feeding the child until the milk is a more whitish color, even if it takes days.
While in Koraput I talked to doctors, midwives and health workers asking them what they think is the biggest roadblock to reducing IMR and MMR. As I am researching government support mechanisms (and because everyone likes to blame the government for problems), I expected answers like insufficient supplies of medicine, delays in the receipt of funds or inadequate trainings. But time and time again, the workers mostly pointed to tradition itself as the biggest challenge to saving lives.
The Backward Classes
This past week my coworkers and I spent three days in Koraput doing fieldwork for our case study. From what I can gather, Koraput is most known for two things: being astonishingly beautiful and being one of the most “backward” places in India.
Fifty percent of Koraput’s population belongs to scheduled tribes. Scheduled tribes are aboriginal groups that the government of India has identified as having been socially and economically discriminated against and in need of social welfare assistance. An additional, 13 percent of the population belongs to scheduled castes. These are essentially people who were untouchables under the caste system and are now afforded special privileges under the constitution. On top of that, there is a small percentage of the population who have been recognized as “other backward classes.” These people may belong to smaller or hardly known tribes who also have not benefitted from India’s economic boom.
There are quite a number of cultural differences between the backward classes and mainstream Indians. To name a few: they wear different clothing and jewelery, celebrate different festivals, adhere to different belief systems and the norm is to have love marriages.
For tribal people, the main industry is agriculture. However, this has been difficult to sustain in the industrial world as they have been stripped of a lot of their land. Also historic discrimination has created a population that is ripe for revolution. Koraput in particular has been a stronghold for Naxalites, a Maoist group that is using violent means to promote change. In the last year, they have targeted government offices and uniformed officials. These safety concerns make it difficult to get qualified people to stay in the area to do development work.
The government of India has partnered with a number of external agencies to design interventions in Koraput to accelerate the delivery of services. These interventions are in sectors ranging from education, to health, to nutrition, to rural infrastructure to water and sanitation. Part of our job as researchers is to look at some of these interventions to see how they are fairing. I guess I’ll let you know what we find in August.
Fifty percent of Koraput’s population belongs to scheduled tribes. Scheduled tribes are aboriginal groups that the government of India has identified as having been socially and economically discriminated against and in need of social welfare assistance. An additional, 13 percent of the population belongs to scheduled castes. These are essentially people who were untouchables under the caste system and are now afforded special privileges under the constitution. On top of that, there is a small percentage of the population who have been recognized as “other backward classes.” These people may belong to smaller or hardly known tribes who also have not benefitted from India’s economic boom.
There are quite a number of cultural differences between the backward classes and mainstream Indians. To name a few: they wear different clothing and jewelery, celebrate different festivals, adhere to different belief systems and the norm is to have love marriages.
For tribal people, the main industry is agriculture. However, this has been difficult to sustain in the industrial world as they have been stripped of a lot of their land. Also historic discrimination has created a population that is ripe for revolution. Koraput in particular has been a stronghold for Naxalites, a Maoist group that is using violent means to promote change. In the last year, they have targeted government offices and uniformed officials. These safety concerns make it difficult to get qualified people to stay in the area to do development work.
The government of India has partnered with a number of external agencies to design interventions in Koraput to accelerate the delivery of services. These interventions are in sectors ranging from education, to health, to nutrition, to rural infrastructure to water and sanitation. Part of our job as researchers is to look at some of these interventions to see how they are fairing. I guess I’ll let you know what we find in August.
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
The Vanishing Sea
Chandipur is said to have one of the longest beaches in the world. But this is only partially true. To be precise, for 12 hours a day it has one of the longest beaches, and for the other 12 hours it has probably one of the shortest. Following the cycles of the moon, the sea recedes five kilometers each day unveiling long stretches of sand. Later, the sea returns to cover it all up again.
Apparently there are only two other beaches in the world like this: one in Norway, the other in California.
When we first visited the beach, we had to walk a kilometer from the guesthouse before the water reached knee level. But then in the evening, after dinner when we were playing cards, we had as our background music the sound of waves crashing against nearby rocks.
Apparently there are only two other beaches in the world like this: one in Norway, the other in California.
When we first visited the beach, we had to walk a kilometer from the guesthouse before the water reached knee level. But then in the evening, after dinner when we were playing cards, we had as our background music the sound of waves crashing against nearby rocks.
A Weekend Holiday
This was the plan.
My four co-workers plus a good friend of ours from Bhubaneswar were going to take a 6am train to Balasore together. Then we would split up: our friend to her family friend’s home, my coworkers and I to the beach at Chandipur to find a place to stay for the night. Several people had suggested we stay at a government-owned hotel called Panthniwas, but one of my coworkers had found on the Internet that there were many guest houses, hotels and resorts in the area. She insisted that it would be better to pick among them when we arrived for the option that was nicest and closest to the beach.
Well plans have a way of unraveling. Here’s what acutally happened.
Groggy after a three-hour early morning train journey, we exited the station not quite knowing where to find a taxi. Our friend had a car waiting for her and casually suggested that we join her for tea.
Now, quick-decision making in a group of four can be tricky, especially when an invitation is given. You usually need to exchange furtive glances to attempt to gage each person’s preference. I, however, skipped this step and impulsively announced that I would love to see an Oriya home. And with this we were locked in.
We rode 15 minutes before coming up to these large white gates. As they swung open, they revealed a bright white house standing squat and wide in a sea of green. The extensive front lawn had trees bearing jackfruit and coconut, and there were vibrantly colored plants lining the edge of a large veranda. We found out later that the husband of the family friend had a prestigious and lucrative job with the police.
Our hostess greeted us at the car and escorted us into her living room. She brought us all tall glasses of water and we took our seats on the couch. It was at this moment that a small bit of dread started forming in my stomach. I had forgotten till that second that tea = awkward small talk. The conversation started blandly as we explained where we were from and what we were doing in Orissa. Then it turned to our plans for the weekend. Our hostess asked us if we had booked at Panthniwas. When we told her we hadn’t, an expression of shock and surprise took over her face. "But what will you do if it’s booked,” she blurted out. She went on to explain it was second Saturday – a day when government offices were closed and getaway areas become packed. We explained we thought we’d try another place. To which she said: “there is no other place!” Talking out loud to herself she said, “I mean worse comes to worse you can stay here."
But then she composed herself and told us not to worry. She ushered us outside for a tour of the grounds. As we walked out we heard her well-connected husband on the phone clearly inquiring about accommodations for us in Hindi.
By the time we had seen her massive kitchen garden with vegetables ranging from okra to corn and took a look at her two cows gorging themselves on bushels of hay, a new plan had been arranged for us.
We walked in to find an elaborate breakfast spread out for us. As the couple was originally from South India the breakfast included idlis (a bread that I had previously thought I didn’t like as the canteen manages to make them taste like vegetarian chik nuggets), sambhar (a kind of curry), homemade papad (think paper-thin, large crispy crackers) and two Oriya desserts. My favorite was a version of rabdi, a pudding-like dessert made of condensed milk, sugar and honey. As we ate, we were informed that her husband had found us a place as the sole guests at Forest Guesthouse, a secluded house right on the beach. They had also booked a car to bring us there.
When we arrived at the guesthouse it was much more beautiful that we could have imagined. We were offered two high ceiling rooms with queen-sized posted beds. Attached to each room was a dressing room and a bathroom (with hot water!). The bedroom doors could open up to the front porch for a clear view of the sea. As we took our self-led tour, the caretaker was busily picking up things here and there. He apologized that he hadn’t had a chance to fully clean up from the last guests. I quipped that they probably got kicked out when he got a call from a top official about our need for a room. But then later, when we had our swimming gear on and were walking towards the water, we passed by a few people sitting by a vehicle. There were in fact the previous guests who were asked to vacate the guesthouse 30 minutes earlier.
My four co-workers plus a good friend of ours from Bhubaneswar were going to take a 6am train to Balasore together. Then we would split up: our friend to her family friend’s home, my coworkers and I to the beach at Chandipur to find a place to stay for the night. Several people had suggested we stay at a government-owned hotel called Panthniwas, but one of my coworkers had found on the Internet that there were many guest houses, hotels and resorts in the area. She insisted that it would be better to pick among them when we arrived for the option that was nicest and closest to the beach.
Well plans have a way of unraveling. Here’s what acutally happened.
Groggy after a three-hour early morning train journey, we exited the station not quite knowing where to find a taxi. Our friend had a car waiting for her and casually suggested that we join her for tea.
Now, quick-decision making in a group of four can be tricky, especially when an invitation is given. You usually need to exchange furtive glances to attempt to gage each person’s preference. I, however, skipped this step and impulsively announced that I would love to see an Oriya home. And with this we were locked in.
We rode 15 minutes before coming up to these large white gates. As they swung open, they revealed a bright white house standing squat and wide in a sea of green. The extensive front lawn had trees bearing jackfruit and coconut, and there were vibrantly colored plants lining the edge of a large veranda. We found out later that the husband of the family friend had a prestigious and lucrative job with the police.
Our hostess greeted us at the car and escorted us into her living room. She brought us all tall glasses of water and we took our seats on the couch. It was at this moment that a small bit of dread started forming in my stomach. I had forgotten till that second that tea = awkward small talk. The conversation started blandly as we explained where we were from and what we were doing in Orissa. Then it turned to our plans for the weekend. Our hostess asked us if we had booked at Panthniwas. When we told her we hadn’t, an expression of shock and surprise took over her face. "But what will you do if it’s booked,” she blurted out. She went on to explain it was second Saturday – a day when government offices were closed and getaway areas become packed. We explained we thought we’d try another place. To which she said: “there is no other place!” Talking out loud to herself she said, “I mean worse comes to worse you can stay here."
But then she composed herself and told us not to worry. She ushered us outside for a tour of the grounds. As we walked out we heard her well-connected husband on the phone clearly inquiring about accommodations for us in Hindi.
By the time we had seen her massive kitchen garden with vegetables ranging from okra to corn and took a look at her two cows gorging themselves on bushels of hay, a new plan had been arranged for us.
We walked in to find an elaborate breakfast spread out for us. As the couple was originally from South India the breakfast included idlis (a bread that I had previously thought I didn’t like as the canteen manages to make them taste like vegetarian chik nuggets), sambhar (a kind of curry), homemade papad (think paper-thin, large crispy crackers) and two Oriya desserts. My favorite was a version of rabdi, a pudding-like dessert made of condensed milk, sugar and honey. As we ate, we were informed that her husband had found us a place as the sole guests at Forest Guesthouse, a secluded house right on the beach. They had also booked a car to bring us there.
When we arrived at the guesthouse it was much more beautiful that we could have imagined. We were offered two high ceiling rooms with queen-sized posted beds. Attached to each room was a dressing room and a bathroom (with hot water!). The bedroom doors could open up to the front porch for a clear view of the sea. As we took our self-led tour, the caretaker was busily picking up things here and there. He apologized that he hadn’t had a chance to fully clean up from the last guests. I quipped that they probably got kicked out when he got a call from a top official about our need for a room. But then later, when we had our swimming gear on and were walking towards the water, we passed by a few people sitting by a vehicle. There were in fact the previous guests who were asked to vacate the guesthouse 30 minutes earlier.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Mind Your Head
Indians are very expressive with their heads. They have head movements to say yes. Head movements to say no. Head movements that mean probably yes. And head movements that mean most likely no. There are head movements to show that you're paying attention. And head movements to show ok, ok it's time to move on. Head movements for hello. Ones for goodbye. Ones that approve and ones that disapprove.
I've ordered items like club soda in a restaurant and got in response a friendly bobble of the head. I'd then have to wait five or ten minutes to figure out whether that meant that he was going to the fridge to get me one or I was out of luck for the day.
The best advice I have probably received since arriving was that if I want a clear answer to any question, don't look at the head.
I've ordered items like club soda in a restaurant and got in response a friendly bobble of the head. I'd then have to wait five or ten minutes to figure out whether that meant that he was going to the fridge to get me one or I was out of luck for the day.
The best advice I have probably received since arriving was that if I want a clear answer to any question, don't look at the head.
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
An Entry From the Indian Slang Dictionary
get down intransitive verb : to undergo menstruation : to have one's period. Not to be confused with the American slang meaning to dance infectiously as in the 1997 Backstreet Boys song "Get Down (You're the One for Me)" ::I must go to the toilet because I got down::
Monday, July 6, 2009
Monsoon!
Last week, Bhubaneswar was a pressure cooker. The temperature was escalating every day, the sun was unforgiving and the air had become suffocating from the humidity. Going outside midday was not an option. Power outages were occurring daily. Newspapers were reporting of villagers performing special rituals that haven't been done since 1987 in order to coax the rain to come.
And then the monsoon finally arrived. When it first started pouring, people on campus cheered. Honestly, I wanted to run outside myself and get cooled by the water. It was a relief. Almost instantaneously, the temperature dramatically dropped, and I could wear jeans in the evening again. I started to wonder why everyone warned me against coming to India during monsoon season. It was wonderful.
Then today I began experiencing in earnest some of the problems with monsoon season.
Problem 1: The shower
I have failed to mention that the campus, like most places in Bhubaneswar, does not have hot water. I am the first to admit that I am a big baby about taking cold showers. However, when the thermometer was reading 44 degrees Celsius, it was tolerable - sometimes even pleasant- to be soaked in the icy water. Now that we're at 30 degrees Celsius, I have to give myself a pep talk to turn on the tap and then brace myself for the shock of the frigid water.
Problem 2: Walking at night
There are hardly any sidewalks in Bhubaneswar and most of the small roads are unpaved. As a result big muddy pools of water form in the street, and walking home at night is like navigating a minefield. In slippery sandals, we try to dodge the camouflaged mud puddles, while at the same time being mindful of the crazed traffic. Risks abound as motorbike drivers balance umbrellas in one hand as they speed by and cars and trucks transform into the enemy that at any moment can wield its power by charging a puddle and spraying you with dirtied rainwater.
Problem 3: The mud
It's everywhere. Caked on my feet. Splashed on my pants. In the bathrooms. Tracks running down the hallway. It cannot be escaped. The mud gets so bad (and the water levels so high) that some areas in Orissa become completely inaccessible.
This just might have something to do with why people prefer to visit India in the fall.
And then the monsoon finally arrived. When it first started pouring, people on campus cheered. Honestly, I wanted to run outside myself and get cooled by the water. It was a relief. Almost instantaneously, the temperature dramatically dropped, and I could wear jeans in the evening again. I started to wonder why everyone warned me against coming to India during monsoon season. It was wonderful.
Then today I began experiencing in earnest some of the problems with monsoon season.
Problem 1: The shower
I have failed to mention that the campus, like most places in Bhubaneswar, does not have hot water. I am the first to admit that I am a big baby about taking cold showers. However, when the thermometer was reading 44 degrees Celsius, it was tolerable - sometimes even pleasant- to be soaked in the icy water. Now that we're at 30 degrees Celsius, I have to give myself a pep talk to turn on the tap and then brace myself for the shock of the frigid water.
Problem 2: Walking at night
There are hardly any sidewalks in Bhubaneswar and most of the small roads are unpaved. As a result big muddy pools of water form in the street, and walking home at night is like navigating a minefield. In slippery sandals, we try to dodge the camouflaged mud puddles, while at the same time being mindful of the crazed traffic. Risks abound as motorbike drivers balance umbrellas in one hand as they speed by and cars and trucks transform into the enemy that at any moment can wield its power by charging a puddle and spraying you with dirtied rainwater.
Problem 3: The mud
It's everywhere. Caked on my feet. Splashed on my pants. In the bathrooms. Tracks running down the hallway. It cannot be escaped. The mud gets so bad (and the water levels so high) that some areas in Orissa become completely inaccessible.
This just might have something to do with why people prefer to visit India in the fall.
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Thursday, July 2, 2009
Matters of the Heart
When I was in Kolkata I invented a game for my colleagues and I to play. Now this game isn't particularly original - or fun for that matter - but it is a game none the less. The rules are simple. You see a couple while you're out and you ask: arranged marriage or love marriage? Then everyone has to give their guess.
Arranged marriages and love marriages exist side by side in India today. I liken the relationship to that of radio and television. Radio may be the older medium but it has not been supplanted by television. There are people who fervently argue that one is better than the other. There are also those who may change their opinion on the topic depending on the circumstances. And then there are those who couldn't care less between the two as long as they get their entertainment.
Even though I invented the marriage guessing game, I am really bad at it. Horrible, actually. Here's why. I had this assumption that just because you haven't chosen who you will marry that somehow you'd be paired with someone that you would never want to marry. I imagined that talented, pretty young women would be arranged with guys who were three times their age or who had severe flatulence problems and diagnosed halitosis.
But that's actually not the norm. At least from the outside, on a purely superficial level, couples who are the product of arranged marriages seem perfect for each other. After all, these couples are matched based on similar levels of attractiveness, education, family income and social status, with the guy usually two to three years older and two to three inches taller. In other words, they are mainly matched on the criteria that from the outside they look like a good fit.
Love marriages are a whole lot messier than that. Love is not bound by caste or class, religion or age, horoscope or height. Love is what makes you see beyond flatulence and bad breath. Love is what accounts for the lopsided couples I see around.
Now if you want to ask me which of these couples I think are the happiest or are the most likely to stand the test of time, I cannot say. I'm still trying to figure out the strategy to that game.
Arranged marriages and love marriages exist side by side in India today. I liken the relationship to that of radio and television. Radio may be the older medium but it has not been supplanted by television. There are people who fervently argue that one is better than the other. There are also those who may change their opinion on the topic depending on the circumstances. And then there are those who couldn't care less between the two as long as they get their entertainment.
Even though I invented the marriage guessing game, I am really bad at it. Horrible, actually. Here's why. I had this assumption that just because you haven't chosen who you will marry that somehow you'd be paired with someone that you would never want to marry. I imagined that talented, pretty young women would be arranged with guys who were three times their age or who had severe flatulence problems and diagnosed halitosis.
But that's actually not the norm. At least from the outside, on a purely superficial level, couples who are the product of arranged marriages seem perfect for each other. After all, these couples are matched based on similar levels of attractiveness, education, family income and social status, with the guy usually two to three years older and two to three inches taller. In other words, they are mainly matched on the criteria that from the outside they look like a good fit.
Love marriages are a whole lot messier than that. Love is not bound by caste or class, religion or age, horoscope or height. Love is what makes you see beyond flatulence and bad breath. Love is what accounts for the lopsided couples I see around.
Now if you want to ask me which of these couples I think are the happiest or are the most likely to stand the test of time, I cannot say. I'm still trying to figure out the strategy to that game.
Fourth of July
A friend from New York asked me last night if I was planning on celebrating the Fourth of July while in India. The thought had never occurred to me. I usually celebrate the day by going to a barbecue and watching fireworks. Neither of these activities are particularly feasible here. However, I figured I would ask the readers of this blog if they have any Fourth of July traditions that I can share with my international colleagues. Leave a comment with your ideas.
Setting the Record Straight
We haven't moved. We're still at the nunnery.
I should have mentioned it earlier. People have been asking. But the truth is, I didn't have the heart to tell the story till now.
We had found the perfect little house in Bhubaneswar. It had two bedrooms that were bigger than New York City studio apartments, an additional small bedroom, two bathrooms, our own kitchen, a sizable living room and a terrace. The whole place was newly renovated with brightly colored walls, and we were going to be the first tenants. The rent plus made-to-order meals plus a cleaning service for two months was $8,750 rupees per person (that's approximately US$194).
We informed our supervisor. We informed the UNICEF office. We wrote letters to the university acknowledging that we were taking our safety into our own hands by moving. It was all arranged. On moving day, two drivers came to the hostel, and we packed all of our luggage into the backseat. We handed over our keys to the warden, said a quick goodbye, and piled into the car.
Four staff members, our supervisor, and our UNICEF rep all came to help us settle into our new place. When we and our entourage arrived, the landlord opened the gates, and the staff members started unloading our bags.
Joyously, we entered our new house ready to live like adults again. But then we looked around only to find that the house was completely empty. No dining room table. No stove. No beds. No nothing. Empty. Well, with the exception of the seven witnesses to our aborted plans.
Now just to be clear the place was empty when we first visited it. But the landlord assured us during several conversations that occurred over five days that it would be ready in time for our arrival. That clearly was not the case.
Feeling like the air was sucked out of our bodies, we did the only thing that we could do. We loaded our bags back into the cars, sat down, and had them drive us back to the hostel. The warden met us at the door, handed us our keys and we dragged our stuff up the stairs to the rooms we will inhabit for the rest of the summer.
I should have mentioned it earlier. People have been asking. But the truth is, I didn't have the heart to tell the story till now.
We had found the perfect little house in Bhubaneswar. It had two bedrooms that were bigger than New York City studio apartments, an additional small bedroom, two bathrooms, our own kitchen, a sizable living room and a terrace. The whole place was newly renovated with brightly colored walls, and we were going to be the first tenants. The rent plus made-to-order meals plus a cleaning service for two months was $8,750 rupees per person (that's approximately US$194).
We informed our supervisor. We informed the UNICEF office. We wrote letters to the university acknowledging that we were taking our safety into our own hands by moving. It was all arranged. On moving day, two drivers came to the hostel, and we packed all of our luggage into the backseat. We handed over our keys to the warden, said a quick goodbye, and piled into the car.
Four staff members, our supervisor, and our UNICEF rep all came to help us settle into our new place. When we and our entourage arrived, the landlord opened the gates, and the staff members started unloading our bags.
Joyously, we entered our new house ready to live like adults again. But then we looked around only to find that the house was completely empty. No dining room table. No stove. No beds. No nothing. Empty. Well, with the exception of the seven witnesses to our aborted plans.
Now just to be clear the place was empty when we first visited it. But the landlord assured us during several conversations that occurred over five days that it would be ready in time for our arrival. That clearly was not the case.
Feeling like the air was sucked out of our bodies, we did the only thing that we could do. We loaded our bags back into the cars, sat down, and had them drive us back to the hostel. The warden met us at the door, handed us our keys and we dragged our stuff up the stairs to the rooms we will inhabit for the rest of the summer.
Monday, June 29, 2009
\
Food Glorious Food
Since arriving in Orissa I have eaten almost exclusively in the canteen at the university. Like most cafeterias, it doesn't merely serve regional food. Instead the menu draws from a variety of Indian cuisines, with each dish prepared in such a way that everything tastes almost exactly the same. For this reason, I have very little idea of what Oriya food tastes like, or for that matter, what any Indian food tastes like other than the north Indian-inspired meals that I've found at restaurants in Jackson Heights, NY or Edison, NJ.
In Kolkata I had an Indian food experience that was radically different from the previous Indian food experiences I've had. My coworkers and I went to a small Bengali restaurant called Kewpie's. Even though it is located in a dimly lit alley far from the glitz and glamour of the restaurants on Park Street, everyone we asked seemed to know of and recommend it.
When we found the place we felt more like we were visiting a traditional Bengali home than a restaurant. The dining area was nearly empty with a few tables placed in what would otherwise have been a living room. We scanned the menu and after a few false starts in ordering, we managed to find a few dishes that we wanted to try that the restaurant actually had the ingredients for.
Bengalis are known for their seafood and I must say that the fish I ordered was the main event (it's the second one listed under fish on the menu if you ever go). It was served inside a banana leaf, lightly crusted in some undecipherable but purely delectable spices. We ate in the traditional Bengali fashion: drizzling the sauce over rice, breaking off a piece of our main course, rolling it all into a ball with one hand and then popping the whole mess into our mouths.
In Kolkata I had an Indian food experience that was radically different from the previous Indian food experiences I've had. My coworkers and I went to a small Bengali restaurant called Kewpie's. Even though it is located in a dimly lit alley far from the glitz and glamour of the restaurants on Park Street, everyone we asked seemed to know of and recommend it.
When we found the place we felt more like we were visiting a traditional Bengali home than a restaurant. The dining area was nearly empty with a few tables placed in what would otherwise have been a living room. We scanned the menu and after a few false starts in ordering, we managed to find a few dishes that we wanted to try that the restaurant actually had the ingredients for.
Bengalis are known for their seafood and I must say that the fish I ordered was the main event (it's the second one listed under fish on the menu if you ever go). It was served inside a banana leaf, lightly crusted in some undecipherable but purely delectable spices. We ate in the traditional Bengali fashion: drizzling the sauce over rice, breaking off a piece of our main course, rolling it all into a ball with one hand and then popping the whole mess into our mouths.
Kolkata in Pictures
Kolkata (Calcutta) is often called the intellectual capital of India. And while this may be true, the most striking parts of the city for me was the energy, the movement, the dynamism. Just to get into the city from the bus station, we had to cross the most traveled bridge in the world. Over the course of the weekend we rode in cars, buses, boats and subways, and in each mode of transportation we were caught up in a flurry of people and activity.
In Bhubaneswar students on campus and some residents of the city seem to speak with a bit of distrust of the outside. Not many students come from "outside." "Be careful of outside food." When we ride through the main drag of Bhubaneswar, we see few crowds and even fewer women. In Kolkata, on the other hand, residents seem to embrace the outside with tons of people out and about shopping, eating, selling, and more. Also, Bengali women are dominant on the scene and make their presence known with their fiery fashion sense. Bangles, large bindis, nose rings and red-painted feet are just a few adornments the women were sporting.
We visited Dakshineswar Temple, one of the most famous temples in Kolkata, which is meant to honor the goddess Kali. The building was red and white, which are colors favored by Bengalis. In fact, married women traditionally wear these colors only.
We followed this with a visit to Belur Math, a monastery and temple complex that was created in 1938 in homage to Sri Ramakrishna Paramhansa by his student Swami Vivekananda. Sri Ramakrishna Paramhansa is a respected social and religious reformer that helped advocate for the rights of women. Most notably, he rejected the practices of child marriage, widows being denied the opportunity to remarry, and dowry deaths (the murdering of wives whose parents have not paid their dowries in ways that are meant to look accidental, usually occurring in the kitchen).
On our second day, we visited Victoria Memorial, probably the most recognizable landmark in Kolkata. It was built between 1906 and 1921 in honor of Queen Victoria, also known as the Empress of India. It is currently an art museum, which houses a small section that details India's colonial past (curated somewhat strangely from a British historian's perspective...at least that's how it seemed to me). The grounds around the memorial are vast and provid a nice oasis of calm in the middle of the frenetic city.
In Bhubaneswar students on campus and some residents of the city seem to speak with a bit of distrust of the outside. Not many students come from "outside." "Be careful of outside food." When we ride through the main drag of Bhubaneswar, we see few crowds and even fewer women. In Kolkata, on the other hand, residents seem to embrace the outside with tons of people out and about shopping, eating, selling, and more. Also, Bengali women are dominant on the scene and make their presence known with their fiery fashion sense. Bangles, large bindis, nose rings and red-painted feet are just a few adornments the women were sporting.
We visited Dakshineswar Temple, one of the most famous temples in Kolkata, which is meant to honor the goddess Kali. The building was red and white, which are colors favored by Bengalis. In fact, married women traditionally wear these colors only.
We followed this with a visit to Belur Math, a monastery and temple complex that was created in 1938 in homage to Sri Ramakrishna Paramhansa by his student Swami Vivekananda. Sri Ramakrishna Paramhansa is a respected social and religious reformer that helped advocate for the rights of women. Most notably, he rejected the practices of child marriage, widows being denied the opportunity to remarry, and dowry deaths (the murdering of wives whose parents have not paid their dowries in ways that are meant to look accidental, usually occurring in the kitchen).
On our second day, we visited Victoria Memorial, probably the most recognizable landmark in Kolkata. It was built between 1906 and 1921 in honor of Queen Victoria, also known as the Empress of India. It is currently an art museum, which houses a small section that details India's colonial past (curated somewhat strangely from a British historian's perspective...at least that's how it seemed to me). The grounds around the memorial are vast and provid a nice oasis of calm in the middle of the frenetic city.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The River Ganges
The Ganges is one of the major rivers in India flowing east from the Himalayas to the Bay of Bengal. The 2,510 km river is linked to the goddess Ganga and is considered holy by Hindus. The water is said to have purifying qualities and pilgrims come to bathe in the river in hopes of washing away their sins.
The Ganges is also the site of many religious ceremonies and rituals. As the river is considered a pathway to heaven, families spread the ashes of the deceased there. Believers may also come to the Ganges with water bottles in tow to capture some of the river water and bring it back to their ailing loved ones to help them along the journey to heaven.
One of the cities that the Ganges flows through is Kolkata. On our first full day, we traveled to the edge of the river and dipped our feet in. As our next stop was on the opposite side of the city, we then took a thirty minute boat ride across the river.
A Passage From India
My coworkers and I decided to go to Kolkata (Calcutta) for the weekend. We arrived at the Bhubaneswar train station Friday afternoon at around the same time as the sky opened up and thick sheets of rain furiously came falling down. It was under a cold and gray backdrop that I first caught sight of the blue train that we would be traveling on for seven and a half hours. It reminded me of those trains you see in black and white films in the scene where the starlet's scarf covered head leans outs of the window calling to her lover as he endeavors to out run the train.
This romantic image quickly faded once I entered the non-AC chair car of the train. Replacing it was the odor of frying oil mingled with the faintest smell of chai and something a bit sour, like stale public toilets. The inside had a dingy, fallen look. The formerly white walls were a muddied grayish color accented with a dull peeling blue paint. Six or seven fans were creaking overhead, and small pools of water were gathering on the hard, inflexible train benches as the windows stubbornly stayed open.
We tried to find our seats through the parade of people coming down the aisle. One man selling pakoras out of a flimsy metal plan, another man urging you to buy a bag of potato chips from the crate he was carrying. More men shouting out the goods they were offering: chai, bottled water, and packets of gum dangling from a carrier as if the whole structure were a mobile that belonged in some baby's crib. There were also the travelers, of course, with their overstuffed bags pushing their way toward their seats. And then there were the blind, the one-armed, the crippled, reaching out their hands for just a few coins.
We found our places and squeezed into seats 97, 98, 99 and 100. After settling our belongings, we waited for the train to depart.
Anyone who has ever been on public transportation with me can guess that I was asleep within moments of the train moving. When I awoke, the rain had dissipated and the train car was filled with heavy, clingy air. As best as they could, my fellow passengers had contorted themselves into rest-like positions, mouths half-open and a sheen of sweat on their faces. I was pressed against the window, but when I turned around I saw huge expanses of green land. As the train continued chugging along, I focused in on the leaves and grass holding on to the last droplets of rain.
This romantic image quickly faded once I entered the non-AC chair car of the train. Replacing it was the odor of frying oil mingled with the faintest smell of chai and something a bit sour, like stale public toilets. The inside had a dingy, fallen look. The formerly white walls were a muddied grayish color accented with a dull peeling blue paint. Six or seven fans were creaking overhead, and small pools of water were gathering on the hard, inflexible train benches as the windows stubbornly stayed open.
We tried to find our seats through the parade of people coming down the aisle. One man selling pakoras out of a flimsy metal plan, another man urging you to buy a bag of potato chips from the crate he was carrying. More men shouting out the goods they were offering: chai, bottled water, and packets of gum dangling from a carrier as if the whole structure were a mobile that belonged in some baby's crib. There were also the travelers, of course, with their overstuffed bags pushing their way toward their seats. And then there were the blind, the one-armed, the crippled, reaching out their hands for just a few coins.
We found our places and squeezed into seats 97, 98, 99 and 100. After settling our belongings, we waited for the train to depart.
Anyone who has ever been on public transportation with me can guess that I was asleep within moments of the train moving. When I awoke, the rain had dissipated and the train car was filled with heavy, clingy air. As best as they could, my fellow passengers had contorted themselves into rest-like positions, mouths half-open and a sheen of sweat on their faces. I was pressed against the window, but when I turned around I saw huge expanses of green land. As the train continued chugging along, I focused in on the leaves and grass holding on to the last droplets of rain.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Rath Yartra
Yesterday was one of the biggest and most famous festivals in Orissa. The Rath Yatra - the pilgrimage of chariots - is held in Puri and is meant to honor Lord Jagannath (also called Krishna). Thousands of devotees gather under the June/July sun in order to offer prayers and gain a glimpse of the gods.
In order to beat the heat, which gets unbearable at around 10am, we arrived in Puri at 8:30. Cars are stopped at the main part of town, and crowds of people make a 4 km walk to the temple that houses Lord Jagannath, Lord Balabhadra and his sister Subhadra. Saffron is a color of worship so many of the walkers were donned in bright yellow-orangish clothing. Some worhippers were also doing the walk completely barefoot.
Typically, the three gods are worshipped within the Jagannath Temple, but during this festival a richly decorated and bright chariot is constructed for each. The gods are then removed from the temple, placed in their respective chariots and taken on a journey to their aunt's temple - the Gundicha Temple located 2km away.
Apparently, touching the chariot or seeing one of the gods is meant to be very auspicious, and people face sun, suffocation and potential stampedes for the chance. The pilgrimage of the chariots begins at 4pm, but we didn't think it was wise to stick around for the main event. Even still, in the early morning there were tons of people.
Over the sound of the swarms was a microphoned man leading prayers. At certain points, devotees would reach their arms up to the sky. Throughout the crowd were also men giving out sweets and other foods for pujas, or offerings to the gods.
As we made our way around the festival we found various pockets of activity.Like a minister leading around a sacred cow.
Hare Krishna devotees uniting their voices in sacred sounds.
Volunteers offering spritzes of water to help mitigate the heat.
Men squatting down to get close shaven haircuts.
A coconut seller cracking the fruit open against the ground.
And a costumed man performing a sword dance, until he sees a certain American girl taking pictures and decides to pause and sing her a song.
In order to beat the heat, which gets unbearable at around 10am, we arrived in Puri at 8:30. Cars are stopped at the main part of town, and crowds of people make a 4 km walk to the temple that houses Lord Jagannath, Lord Balabhadra and his sister Subhadra. Saffron is a color of worship so many of the walkers were donned in bright yellow-orangish clothing. Some worhippers were also doing the walk completely barefoot.
Typically, the three gods are worshipped within the Jagannath Temple, but during this festival a richly decorated and bright chariot is constructed for each. The gods are then removed from the temple, placed in their respective chariots and taken on a journey to their aunt's temple - the Gundicha Temple located 2km away.
Apparently, touching the chariot or seeing one of the gods is meant to be very auspicious, and people face sun, suffocation and potential stampedes for the chance. The pilgrimage of the chariots begins at 4pm, but we didn't think it was wise to stick around for the main event. Even still, in the early morning there were tons of people.
Over the sound of the swarms was a microphoned man leading prayers. At certain points, devotees would reach their arms up to the sky. Throughout the crowd were also men giving out sweets and other foods for pujas, or offerings to the gods.
As we made our way around the festival we found various pockets of activity.Like a minister leading around a sacred cow.
Hare Krishna devotees uniting their voices in sacred sounds.
Volunteers offering spritzes of water to help mitigate the heat.
A coconut seller cracking the fruit open against the ground. 
And a costumed man performing a sword dance, until he sees a certain American girl taking pictures and decides to pause and sing her a song.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
The White Tiger
When I travel I like to read novels about my destination. It's nice to be able to place the characters within the appropriate context, and I enjoy when the book mentions a village or a city where I've actually been. Novels also offer a little preview of some of the things that I might encounter during my visit.
On the plane to India, I started the Man Booker Prize winning novel _The White Tiger_ by Aravind Adiga. It reminded me of a darker version of _Remains of the Day_. Told from the perspective of an Indian servant, the author reveals the excesses of the upper class and gives voice to a group of people who are often ignored in conversations about India's economic boom. Put another way, it highlights how the poor have to live in order for the rich to live as they do.
This book has provided a backdrop for me to understand some of the luxuries that have been afforded to me here at this gorgeous university campus in Bhubaneswar. Sometimes I think of this place like a shiny, gilded watch. On the outside, everything is beautiful, golden, simple, clear. But what is masked is the messy, yet intricate dealings on the inside that makes everything work. No one seems to care a whole lot about the inside stuff unless the timing gets a little off.
The four of us have a go-to-guy named Gopal for all of our needs here on campus. He delivers us our drink preferences and biscuits twice -sometimes thrice- a day. When we need office supplies or our Internet isn't working or we have to see someone at a part of campus we haven't been to, he's the one to ask for help. And when our supervisor was off on vacation last week, it was Gopal that made sure that we got to our appointments and that everything was running like clockwork. Honestly, I'm uncomfortable with all of this attention, but as this is the way of life here, I feel like my only option is to make clear my gratitude for everything that he does.
But there is a risk here that I cannot ignore. If I were to get into some sort of mishap, I would not be held responsible. There's a reason why the warden is so strict with us. There's a reason why Gopal is so attentive. Because if the timing gets a little off, no matter whose fault it is, their jobs are on the line. And in a economically depressed place like Orissa, even a bad job is a good one.
On the plane to India, I started the Man Booker Prize winning novel _The White Tiger_ by Aravind Adiga. It reminded me of a darker version of _Remains of the Day_. Told from the perspective of an Indian servant, the author reveals the excesses of the upper class and gives voice to a group of people who are often ignored in conversations about India's economic boom. Put another way, it highlights how the poor have to live in order for the rich to live as they do.
This book has provided a backdrop for me to understand some of the luxuries that have been afforded to me here at this gorgeous university campus in Bhubaneswar. Sometimes I think of this place like a shiny, gilded watch. On the outside, everything is beautiful, golden, simple, clear. But what is masked is the messy, yet intricate dealings on the inside that makes everything work. No one seems to care a whole lot about the inside stuff unless the timing gets a little off.
The four of us have a go-to-guy named Gopal for all of our needs here on campus. He delivers us our drink preferences and biscuits twice -sometimes thrice- a day. When we need office supplies or our Internet isn't working or we have to see someone at a part of campus we haven't been to, he's the one to ask for help. And when our supervisor was off on vacation last week, it was Gopal that made sure that we got to our appointments and that everything was running like clockwork. Honestly, I'm uncomfortable with all of this attention, but as this is the way of life here, I feel like my only option is to make clear my gratitude for everything that he does.
But there is a risk here that I cannot ignore. If I were to get into some sort of mishap, I would not be held responsible. There's a reason why the warden is so strict with us. There's a reason why Gopal is so attentive. Because if the timing gets a little off, no matter whose fault it is, their jobs are on the line. And in a economically depressed place like Orissa, even a bad job is a good one.
More on Birthdays
Last night we went to the four-star hotel Mayfair Lagoon to celebrate Saryu's birthday. The Mayfair is home to one of three clubs in Bhubaneswar willing to serve alcohol to women. As this was a special occasion (and because we sweetened her up a bit with leftover birthday cake), the warden agreed to grant us a curfew-free evening.
Now don't get too shocked/excited about this leniency. Everyone in Bhubaneswar knows that night-life completely shuts down by 11:30 pm.
We left our hostel around 8pm and arrived at the club about twenty minutes later. The first thing we noticed when we walked through the door was a conspicuous absence of women. Best estimate, I would say that the room was 87% filled with men. One of my coworkers quipped to the host that we'd like to be seated in the female section. This gender imbalance was a stark reminder of how other women in the city living in hostels or with their families also have curfews, and some of them are as early as 7pm.
Despite being in a definite minority at this club, we had a nice time. We danced, ate dinner, and, most importantly, didn't worry about the time. When the bill came, Lisa paid and we decided to settle who owed what later.
Then this morning came and we got hit over the head with another cultural difference. Lisa and I thought we'd be splitting the bill three (possibly four) ways, whereas the Delhi girls thought Saryu would be footing the bill. The debate about the bill went around in circles for awhile with one side making arguments like "Of course, we would pay for you, it's your birthday." And the other side making arguments like "Of course I'd pay. It was my birthday."
When it was clear that this conversation was going nowhere fast, I was schooled in how birthdays are celebrated in India.
So at midnight, all your friends and extended family members call you. You say a quick thank you for their calls and then tell them that you will call them back later. In the meantime, your immediate family and very close friends gather around with birthday cake and gifts. This is the first round of celebrations.
After the Happy Birthday singing and the gift opening, you begin calling everyone back. You may be up till about 5am returning phone calls and sharing your birthday plans for the following day. Then you sleep for a couple of hours before you begin the next rounds of celebration.
During the day you may cut cake and open gifts with coworkers, different groups of friends, and possibly also a significant other. It is not uncommon to cut cake three or four times on your birthday. Then in the evening, no matter your age, you have a big dinner to which you invite everyone that you would like, and in gratitude for all of the gifts, you pay for dinner.
I said it before, and I'll say it again. Birthdays are serious business here.
Now don't get too shocked/excited about this leniency. Everyone in Bhubaneswar knows that night-life completely shuts down by 11:30 pm.
We left our hostel around 8pm and arrived at the club about twenty minutes later. The first thing we noticed when we walked through the door was a conspicuous absence of women. Best estimate, I would say that the room was 87% filled with men. One of my coworkers quipped to the host that we'd like to be seated in the female section. This gender imbalance was a stark reminder of how other women in the city living in hostels or with their families also have curfews, and some of them are as early as 7pm.
Despite being in a definite minority at this club, we had a nice time. We danced, ate dinner, and, most importantly, didn't worry about the time. When the bill came, Lisa paid and we decided to settle who owed what later.
Then this morning came and we got hit over the head with another cultural difference. Lisa and I thought we'd be splitting the bill three (possibly four) ways, whereas the Delhi girls thought Saryu would be footing the bill. The debate about the bill went around in circles for awhile with one side making arguments like "Of course, we would pay for you, it's your birthday." And the other side making arguments like "Of course I'd pay. It was my birthday."
When it was clear that this conversation was going nowhere fast, I was schooled in how birthdays are celebrated in India.
So at midnight, all your friends and extended family members call you. You say a quick thank you for their calls and then tell them that you will call them back later. In the meantime, your immediate family and very close friends gather around with birthday cake and gifts. This is the first round of celebrations.
After the Happy Birthday singing and the gift opening, you begin calling everyone back. You may be up till about 5am returning phone calls and sharing your birthday plans for the following day. Then you sleep for a couple of hours before you begin the next rounds of celebration.
During the day you may cut cake and open gifts with coworkers, different groups of friends, and possibly also a significant other. It is not uncommon to cut cake three or four times on your birthday. Then in the evening, no matter your age, you have a big dinner to which you invite everyone that you would like, and in gratitude for all of the gifts, you pay for dinner.
I said it before, and I'll say it again. Birthdays are serious business here.
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Birthdays
Today was Saryu's birthday. As she hates the food served in the canteen, we made her a little gift basket of her favorite food-like substances, including Maggi noodles, Cerelac baby food, Hide & Seek biscuits and masala-flavored Lays potato chips. Deepika insisted that we present the...um...present at midnight. Thinking that Deepika was really gung-ho about birthdays, I agreed.
But it turns out that everyone in Saryu's circle of friends (and possibly in all of Delhi) are mad about birthdays. Once the clock struck midnight, Saryu was bombarded with phone calls from friends and family. At 12:10 Saryu commented that her parents were terrible for not calling her. I thought she was joking as I don't know of anyone whose parents would call them at midnight on their birthday. But then at 12:12 her parents did call.
Birthdays are serious business here.
The celebration continued during the daylight hours as well. Saryu's sister surprised her by having a cake and flowers delivered to our office. After taking some pictures of the goodies, we ate the cake in the traditional Indian fashion. Saryu dipped her knife into the cake, separating out the first slice. Scooping the slice up with her fingers, she fed one bite to Deepika, then to Lisa, then to me. In turn, Deepika cut out a second slice of cake and fed it to Saryu. She then passed along that slice to Lisa who offered Saryu a second bite. And I, after receiving the hand off from Lisa, fed Saryu the final bite.
But it turns out that everyone in Saryu's circle of friends (and possibly in all of Delhi) are mad about birthdays. Once the clock struck midnight, Saryu was bombarded with phone calls from friends and family. At 12:10 Saryu commented that her parents were terrible for not calling her. I thought she was joking as I don't know of anyone whose parents would call them at midnight on their birthday. But then at 12:12 her parents did call.
Birthdays are serious business here.
The celebration continued during the daylight hours as well. Saryu's sister surprised her by having a cake and flowers delivered to our office. After taking some pictures of the goodies, we ate the cake in the traditional Indian fashion. Saryu dipped her knife into the cake, separating out the first slice. Scooping the slice up with her fingers, she fed one bite to Deepika, then to Lisa, then to me. In turn, Deepika cut out a second slice of cake and fed it to Saryu. She then passed along that slice to Lisa who offered Saryu a second bite. And I, after receiving the hand off from Lisa, fed Saryu the final bite.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Cultural Festival
So I promised details on the cultural festival, but then I wasn't going to give them because the event was kind of a flop. However, a good friend and fellow blogger encouraged me to write something about it, so here it goes.
The main downfall of the event was that it was poorly organized. It was designed around many competitions like henna designs, tattoos and hair. However, it took place in an outside auditorium with an audience looking on to a stage. The organizers understood that it would be really boring to watch people from afar apply henna, draw tattoos or do their hair for 20 minutes. In order to side step this problem, they decided to have the competitors work backstage, and provide alternate entertainment for the audience to kill time until the competition could be judged. This entertainment came in the form of round after round of musical chairs with ten people going each time.
Now it's been a long time since I played musical chairs, so I can't say with certainty that students at Kiit campus have more intense rules than we do in the States, but I can be sure that they monitor the rules with more rigor. Three people were policing the event, and people were eliminated for touching chairs and running in the wrong direction. After the fifth round or so, I couldn't take it anymore and didn't stick around for the results of the competition.
To be fair, the event started off decently. The MC, who talked a little bit longer than necessary, called people out from the audience to sing traditional Oriya songs. This was followed up by a dance performance that included several female students. The MC then gave a really nice speech about community and the students who contributed to the cultural night. He then asked for all of the international students - the new members of the community - to come to the stage and share a little bit about their cultural festivals.
At this point, I began looking around to see if the other international students would stand up and get on stage. But then as I scanned the audience, looking from one Indian face to another, I realized they were talking specifically about us.
Lisa and I refused to go up by ourselves, so Deepika and Saryu joined us. A microphone was shoved in my hand, and my mind instantly went blank. What on earth could I say about American culture and the festivals that we have to a group of Indian graduate students? I said my name and where I was from and stammered something about how I didn't know what to say. Then I quickly passed the mic onto Lisa.
At this point, Lisa transformed into a Miss Universe contestant. She talked brightly about how she was from Austria and how the film _The Sound of Music_ was set there and showed her culture (which, by the way, is a film she has never seen). She then kicked off her shoes and announced that she would perform an Austrian dance. And the next thing I knew, she was doing a little Austrian jig to Bollywood music. Unbelievable.
The main downfall of the event was that it was poorly organized. It was designed around many competitions like henna designs, tattoos and hair. However, it took place in an outside auditorium with an audience looking on to a stage. The organizers understood that it would be really boring to watch people from afar apply henna, draw tattoos or do their hair for 20 minutes. In order to side step this problem, they decided to have the competitors work backstage, and provide alternate entertainment for the audience to kill time until the competition could be judged. This entertainment came in the form of round after round of musical chairs with ten people going each time.
Now it's been a long time since I played musical chairs, so I can't say with certainty that students at Kiit campus have more intense rules than we do in the States, but I can be sure that they monitor the rules with more rigor. Three people were policing the event, and people were eliminated for touching chairs and running in the wrong direction. After the fifth round or so, I couldn't take it anymore and didn't stick around for the results of the competition.
To be fair, the event started off decently. The MC, who talked a little bit longer than necessary, called people out from the audience to sing traditional Oriya songs. This was followed up by a dance performance that included several female students. The MC then gave a really nice speech about community and the students who contributed to the cultural night. He then asked for all of the international students - the new members of the community - to come to the stage and share a little bit about their cultural festivals.
At this point, I began looking around to see if the other international students would stand up and get on stage. But then as I scanned the audience, looking from one Indian face to another, I realized they were talking specifically about us.
Lisa and I refused to go up by ourselves, so Deepika and Saryu joined us. A microphone was shoved in my hand, and my mind instantly went blank. What on earth could I say about American culture and the festivals that we have to a group of Indian graduate students? I said my name and where I was from and stammered something about how I didn't know what to say. Then I quickly passed the mic onto Lisa.
At this point, Lisa transformed into a Miss Universe contestant. She talked brightly about how she was from Austria and how the film _The Sound of Music_ was set there and showed her culture (which, by the way, is a film she has never seen). She then kicked off her shoes and announced that she would perform an Austrian dance. And the next thing I knew, she was doing a little Austrian jig to Bollywood music. Unbelievable.
Pure Veg
Last night we were working late and decided to treat ourselves to delivery. Deepika was taking our orders and translating it over the phone to the nearby Indian place. This is more or less how part of the ordering conversation went down.
LISA: I'd like chana masala [translation: chickpea stew] and garlic naan.
DEEPIKA: They don't have it; this is a veg place.
LISA (confused): The garlic naan?
DEEPIKA: Yeah, this place is pure veg.
You may be thinking, "since when was garlic naan made from an animal?" Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction too.
In India, people who are pure veg don't eat meat, eggs, dairy, honey, onions or garlic. It's like veganism squared. From what I gathered from talking to my Delhi coworkers, people who are pure veg are typically religious folk. The rationale for them not eating meat is that it is impure or corrupt to harm animals for food. The explanation behind the onions and garlic, however, is a little less clear.
At first I was told it was because onions and garlic are thought of as dirty foods because they are taken from the ground. However, this didn't make much sense to me as pure veg restaurants often serve root vegetables.
The next theory thrown at me was that onions and garlic were considered impure because of their pungent odor. I was willing to buy this argument, but then decided to do some quick, unscientific follow-up research to double check.
The result? Well, according to Lonely Planet, Jains and Hare Krishna are generally the ones who are pure veg, and they may also abstain from root vegetables as they do not believe in doing harm to any living things, including plants. Any other thoughts on this?
LISA: I'd like chana masala [translation: chickpea stew] and garlic naan.
DEEPIKA: They don't have it; this is a veg place.
LISA (confused): The garlic naan?
DEEPIKA: Yeah, this place is pure veg.
You may be thinking, "since when was garlic naan made from an animal?" Yeah, that was pretty much my reaction too.
In India, people who are pure veg don't eat meat, eggs, dairy, honey, onions or garlic. It's like veganism squared. From what I gathered from talking to my Delhi coworkers, people who are pure veg are typically religious folk. The rationale for them not eating meat is that it is impure or corrupt to harm animals for food. The explanation behind the onions and garlic, however, is a little less clear.
At first I was told it was because onions and garlic are thought of as dirty foods because they are taken from the ground. However, this didn't make much sense to me as pure veg restaurants often serve root vegetables.
The next theory thrown at me was that onions and garlic were considered impure because of their pungent odor. I was willing to buy this argument, but then decided to do some quick, unscientific follow-up research to double check.
The result? Well, according to Lonely Planet, Jains and Hare Krishna are generally the ones who are pure veg, and they may also abstain from root vegetables as they do not believe in doing harm to any living things, including plants. Any other thoughts on this?
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Playing Dress Up
Last night on campus, there was a cultural night organized by the students to celebrate the Rajo festival. The flyer for the event described a night of entertainment with songs, dance, and henna/tattoo/hair competitions. The only catch was that you had to come in traditional dress, which for girls meant saris.
Now in India most women in their twenties who are studying in school or are working at casual offices are not likely to be wearing saris day to day. More often than not they'll be wearing a kurta (longish loose-fitting tunic-like top) with a salwar (breezy draw string pants), a churidar (a tighter pant that is tapered but has scrunched up rings of material at the bottom), or a patiala (think MC Hammer pants made of natural fibers). Among the younger generation, saris are generally reserved for weddings, festivals and other special occasions.
My coworkers and I didn't have saris so we went shopping for them on Monday. It was a dizzying experience that involved going from store after store to choose from an assortment of fabrics the perfect material, color and design. Then we had to go to other shops to find matching petticoats and blouses (usually women will get these specially made but we were short on time). By the end of the night we made our choices: Lisa was to be in dark purple, Saryu in light purple, me in green. Deepika decided to wear a fancy churidar kameez she had packed.
Apparently, there are more than one hundred ways to drape a sari. Between the four of us, we didn't even know one. So we had no choice but to ask for help from the only person we knew who could do it: the warden. We told the security guard that we were looking for her and asked that she come to our room as soon as possible. She arrived at our door within five minutes only to find me standing in the middle of the room in a blouse and petticoat hopelessly holding onto an endless piece of green fabric.
She gave the signal for five minutes and went rushing off. She came back later with another member of the staff who we had never met before. As we would later find out, she was an expert with saris.
So first she checked that the petticoat was pulled and tied tightly around my waist. This is important because if the petticoat comes undone the whole sari falls off. Then she wrapped the fabric around my waist tucking it into my petticoat.
Then she tossed one end of the fabric over my shoulder and pinned it into place. 
The most impressive part came next, as she neatly folded pleats in the front and then tucked the rest of the fabric into the petticoat.
The whole process took about 15 minutes.
It was actually kind of a bonding moment, too. The warden sat there with all of us and we actually laughed and had fun. It just might have been a turning point.
Now in India most women in their twenties who are studying in school or are working at casual offices are not likely to be wearing saris day to day. More often than not they'll be wearing a kurta (longish loose-fitting tunic-like top) with a salwar (breezy draw string pants), a churidar (a tighter pant that is tapered but has scrunched up rings of material at the bottom), or a patiala (think MC Hammer pants made of natural fibers). Among the younger generation, saris are generally reserved for weddings, festivals and other special occasions.
My coworkers and I didn't have saris so we went shopping for them on Monday. It was a dizzying experience that involved going from store after store to choose from an assortment of fabrics the perfect material, color and design. Then we had to go to other shops to find matching petticoats and blouses (usually women will get these specially made but we were short on time). By the end of the night we made our choices: Lisa was to be in dark purple, Saryu in light purple, me in green. Deepika decided to wear a fancy churidar kameez she had packed.
Apparently, there are more than one hundred ways to drape a sari. Between the four of us, we didn't even know one. So we had no choice but to ask for help from the only person we knew who could do it: the warden. We told the security guard that we were looking for her and asked that she come to our room as soon as possible. She arrived at our door within five minutes only to find me standing in the middle of the room in a blouse and petticoat hopelessly holding onto an endless piece of green fabric.
She gave the signal for five minutes and went rushing off. She came back later with another member of the staff who we had never met before. As we would later find out, she was an expert with saris.
So first she checked that the petticoat was pulled and tied tightly around my waist. This is important because if the petticoat comes undone the whole sari falls off. Then she wrapped the fabric around my waist tucking it into my petticoat.
Then she tossed one end of the fabric over my shoulder and pinned it into place. 
The most impressive part came next, as she neatly folded pleats in the front and then tucked the rest of the fabric into the petticoat.
The whole process took about 15 minutes.
It was actually kind of a bonding moment, too. The warden sat there with all of us and we actually laughed and had fun. It just might have been a turning point.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Rajo Festival
For the last three days, the people of Orissa have been celebrating the Rajo festival - a festival for girls. During this time all women get to take a break from their daily work, including Mother Earth (there is no sowing or plowing during these days). Typically, families hang make-shift swings from trees and the eldest unmarried daughter comes out to swing on them. Girls of all ages are also celebrated with new clothes and sweets.
Like many cultural festivals, this one is laden with symbolism. Rajo means both dust and menstruation. So the idea is that during the festival the earth experiences her menstruation and then soon after the monsoon rains will come and she will become fruitful and fertile.
As we are on a university campus in a capital city, we have not seen any examples of these swinging girls. In fact, the campus has been pretty empty as girls returned back to their home villages for the festival. However, there is a cultural festival tonight. Details on that to come later.
Like many cultural festivals, this one is laden with symbolism. Rajo means both dust and menstruation. So the idea is that during the festival the earth experiences her menstruation and then soon after the monsoon rains will come and she will become fruitful and fertile.
As we are on a university campus in a capital city, we have not seen any examples of these swinging girls. In fact, the campus has been pretty empty as girls returned back to their home villages for the festival. However, there is a cultural festival tonight. Details on that to come later.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
And That's Why You Don't Ride the Bus in India
I love taking public transportation in new places that I visit. I think it's a great way to connect with the natural rhythm of a city. It gives you the opportunity to do some serious people watching, chat with locals and begin chipping away at the invisible wall between tourist and resident. So when my colleagues and I were deciding whether to take the bus or a cab to the village of Konark yesterday, I was the biggest cheerleader for taking the bus.
Now I recognized that there would be some down sides to taking the bus in India. I knew it was going to be very crowded, which opens you up to the possibility of theft or harassment. And I knew that all of the bodies crammed into a non-air conditioned vehicle midday was going to be oppressively hot. And then of course there is the issue of the quality of the roads themselves, which would make the whole experience feel like a never-ending ride on Rolling Thunder at Great Adventure. But it all seemed worth it for the chance to actually feel like I lived in Orissa.
What I didn't factor in while doing my mental calculus, however, was small children. Small children with weak stomachs. Small children with weak stomachs who puke all over my co-worker one and half hours into our three hour bus ride.
And that's why you don't ride the bus in India.
To her credit, my co-worker handled the ordeal like a champ. She cleaned herself off as best she could with bottled water and agreed to continue on with our day trip as planned.
Our first destination was the Sun Temple, which is actually a temple complex made up of three buildings. As our tour guide told us the three signified the life cycle (child, adult, elder); the cycle of the day (morning, afternoon, evening); the seasons (summer, winter, monsoon); and Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva (the creator, the sustainer and the destroyer).
Each temple had carvings all along the outside. We had hired a tour guide to give us some context to understand the images. The tour started off benign enough. Our guide showed us the dancing hall where there were images of Shiva dancing and the young Krishna being very naughty by stealing and eating butter.
But then the carvings got a bit naughtier than that. It turns out that majority
of the images depicted on the Sun Temple are drawn from the Kama Sutra. So as the images became more amorous, our tour guide became more succinct. He'd point at carvings, mutter something quickly, and then walk as far away as possible as we took a look. Towards the end, he gave up all pretenses of giving this kind of tour to four women. He just borrowed our cameras and clicked photographs of the carvings he'd normally give details about to his groups. As we said our goodbyes, he was very kind and encouraged us to come back again some day....with our husbands.
We followed up the tour with a walk on a nearby beach where a bunch of families were milling around. By this time it was 5 o'clock and the weather was perfect. The sun had gone down and there was a breeze coming up from the bay. We rolled up our pants and splashed around in the warm water. As we were drying our feet and getting ready to go, my co-worker, who still had dried vomit visible on her white top, said "I don't mind taking the bus back."
So we headed to the bus depot, and I sat in the last row of the bus next to the window. As we made our way back to Bhubaneswar, I leaned out the window, letting the wind rush across my face, and watched as scenes of Orissa flickered past.
Now I recognized that there would be some down sides to taking the bus in India. I knew it was going to be very crowded, which opens you up to the possibility of theft or harassment. And I knew that all of the bodies crammed into a non-air conditioned vehicle midday was going to be oppressively hot. And then of course there is the issue of the quality of the roads themselves, which would make the whole experience feel like a never-ending ride on Rolling Thunder at Great Adventure. But it all seemed worth it for the chance to actually feel like I lived in Orissa.
What I didn't factor in while doing my mental calculus, however, was small children. Small children with weak stomachs. Small children with weak stomachs who puke all over my co-worker one and half hours into our three hour bus ride.
And that's why you don't ride the bus in India.
To her credit, my co-worker handled the ordeal like a champ. She cleaned herself off as best she could with bottled water and agreed to continue on with our day trip as planned.
Our first destination was the Sun Temple, which is actually a temple complex made up of three buildings. As our tour guide told us the three signified the life cycle (child, adult, elder); the cycle of the day (morning, afternoon, evening); the seasons (summer, winter, monsoon); and Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva (the creator, the sustainer and the destroyer).
Each temple had carvings all along the outside. We had hired a tour guide to give us some context to understand the images. The tour started off benign enough. Our guide showed us the dancing hall where there were images of Shiva dancing and the young Krishna being very naughty by stealing and eating butter.But then the carvings got a bit naughtier than that. It turns out that majority
of the images depicted on the Sun Temple are drawn from the Kama Sutra. So as the images became more amorous, our tour guide became more succinct. He'd point at carvings, mutter something quickly, and then walk as far away as possible as we took a look. Towards the end, he gave up all pretenses of giving this kind of tour to four women. He just borrowed our cameras and clicked photographs of the carvings he'd normally give details about to his groups. As we said our goodbyes, he was very kind and encouraged us to come back again some day....with our husbands.
We followed up the tour with a walk on a nearby beach where a bunch of families were milling around. By this time it was 5 o'clock and the weather was perfect. The sun had gone down and there was a breeze coming up from the bay. We rolled up our pants and splashed around in the warm water. As we were drying our feet and getting ready to go, my co-worker, who still had dried vomit visible on her white top, said "I don't mind taking the bus back."So we headed to the bus depot, and I sat in the last row of the bus next to the window. As we made our way back to Bhubaneswar, I leaned out the window, letting the wind rush across my face, and watched as scenes of Orissa flickered past.
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