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washed out and walled in
Entry 3 of 4 | show all | print this entry |
this city is a lake.
no, i haven't eaten any strange little mushrooms i found growing along the side of the road. this desert city has really become a lake.
i'm crosslegged, sticky with sweat, my sheer chiffonlike magenta sari clinging to my skin like it's the last lifeboat launching off a fast-sinking ship. i have it hiked up around my knees, exposing my shins in a rather un-indian-ladylike fashion, seated on the plush covered mattress which rests on the floor of our office (a feature which every office should have). my grimy greyish mac is open in front of me, a half-completed hindi worksheet staring back at me from the screen. i knit my eyebrows, scanning my mind for the word for "bucket" ("...baalti!"), not even entirely sure what business i have producing a hindi worksheet for others given that my own hindi is embarrassing at best. a plump black ant emerges from under the command key and makes a mad dash across the touchpad, a noble but ultimately futile attempt at escape from my vengeful thumb, which comes down on it just as it's almost cleared the mouse button. these despicable ants are omnipresent in this office, seemingly unorganized but appearing in perplexingly equal distribution across the floor, on the mattress, and now, under my sari. and they're not the sweet little innocent ones that are only after sugar, either. every 15 minutes or so i'm reminded of this fact by a sharp stabbing sensation on my toe, ankle, or somewhere along the length of my legs. i loathe them with a passion bordering on mania.
i sigh and shift positions, stretching out my right leg just in time to catch an alarmingly cool cross-breeze that comes streaking across the feverish room. i allow myself one split second of enjoyment before hoisting myself up off the mattress to peep out the open window. as i suspected, a brownish-greyish haze has covered half the sky that's visible from the narrow space ahead. it's 7 o'clock in the evening, and prime time for a sandstorm to come rolling through. au revoir, hindi worksheet. i'm getting out of here before i don't have the choice of leaving anymore. walking the 15 minutes home through a raging wall of sand isn't exactly my favorite activity to partake in while carrying a thousand-dollar piece of sensitive electronic equipment on my body. my laptop looks up at me in relieved gratitude as i begin packing up. padding to the back room in my bare feet, i snatch the chai pot off the hot plate, knocking the residue of afternoon tea leaves into the sink before filling it with a little water and chucking it on the marble counter. dishwashing doesn't take priority over avoiding total sandstorm immersion. i gather up my papers in a hurry, scores of handwritten documents from this morning, when the power was out for 3 hours and my computer battery was dead (20 months of life in the developing world still haven't taught me to plan ahead), toss them into a folder, grab my laptop, swing my kenyan sling bag cross-wise over my be-saried chest, slip into the black strappy sandals which are already falling apart 6 days after their purchase, and fly out the door.
saris aren't exactly marathon wear, mind you (although during my daily 6 AM jog, i do frequently see indian women in saris and sneakers doing their panting power walk rounds). i shuffle along as quickly as the long stretch of tie-dyed cloth will allow me, half-jogging in a scissorlike fashion, making a small detour across the road to avoid the death glare trajectory of a massive grey bull evidently in the midst of angry hour, stepping gingerly over a heap of trash which has spilled over from (or perhaps was never actually deposited into) a big green garbage receptacle, swerving to avoid yet another set of licenseless preteens on a motorcycle which is clearly driving them. i weave my way across several backstreets, passing in front of my former gym, "superbodies," where the aerobics instructor would drudge in each morning 43 minutes late, cheerful as an african honey badger roused from a peaceful afternoon nap, flop down on a step in front of the eager class, flip on some bollywood film music which in no way was conducive to rhythmic, coordinated motions, and proceed to shriek out to the class what made-up aerobics move we should be performing, all the while remaining firmly seated in front, scowling and pointing out the errors of certain individuals from time to time without over rousing herself from her throne of black doom. i stopped going there after the fourth class, but to be fair that was partially due to the illness i had acquired that eventually required a hospital visit. even so, the sweet memory of that glowering face in front of me at 7:43 each morning did little to entice me to return. there goes my $12 monthly membership fee.
just as i'm scissoring past the ever-present group of scrawny indian dudes trying desperately as always to appear beefy by leaning against their motorcycles in front of the gym, i feel the first drop. ah. so that's the kind of storm this is going to be. my laptop, clinging nervously to my side, is not relieved. i look down and try to sympathize. i'm doing the sari-scissor-shuffle just as fast as i possibly can! drip, drop, splat. the sweat has soaked through my sari blouse and my face has gone from dewy to slick in the muggy heat. but i'm on the home stretch. around the corner where a few months back some construction worker deposited a giant mound of dirt in the middle of the road for no apparent reason and left it there, forcing everyone to drive a new road into existence across someone's lawn; past the home and proud hand-painted sign of DR. (MRS.) VIJAY LAXMI SHARMA, COMPUTERISED HOMEOPATHIC TREATMENT; past the latest in emerging sandstone mansions, with its small village of slight-bodied brown-skinned construction workers living within, toiling away 14 hours a day, 7 days a week; and at last my apartment building springs into view, all four stories of hideous blue-and-red striped glory of it. all the mansions here have giant ornate gold and silver letters stuck to their otherwise beautifully crafted facades proclaiming the owner's name, which i suppose is like the show-off equivalent of having a big gold grill installed in your mouth, but in a country where dental work is so cheap that no amount of oral modification could possibly convince anyone that you're rich. certain buildings, though, have a nickname instead of the owner's name, and that which my landlord has chosen for the pride of all his tenants, who by the way are all, without exception, female college students, is "prem bhavan," or "love palace." did i mention that all my neighbors already think i'm a russian prostitute? i get the feeling, as i approach my circus-tent-like building for the thousandth time and shudder for the thousandth time at that glaring silver sign, that my apartment block's name isn't helping my image.
by now the drops are falling at steady intervals, and it is with immense relief (on the mac's part) that i bound through the front gate and into the open stairwell, edging as always past the moped that's perpetually parked in the middle of the entrance, up four flights of stairs, carefully holding up the front pleats of my sari so as not to take a face dive into pure marble pain, arriving at last to the door of my apartment, which is very classily adorned with a life-size brightly colored decal of a highly stylized indian woman engaged in joyful dance. as always, fumbling for my keys, i take a bemused moment to ponder where one would even begin to look for such a thing. oh yeah, in india, and once found, i slip the key in the padlock and unbolt the slide, entering, kicking off my shoes at the door, and tossing down my laptop just as the bottom drops out of the imposing mantle of clouds outside.
after just a few moments, though, the thick drops of rain abate into a mild drizzle, having swept through my neighborhood just long enough to blanket the dusty roads in moisture and chill the 104-degree air by a couple degrees. now in my home gear, a loose cotton tank top and a brown elephant-print sarong, i peer suspiciously out the window into the falling dusk, expecting evidence of some new impending weather disaster. but looking out into the dwindling day, the sky seems suddenly light, a beam of sunlight breaking through some white fluffy clouds to the west. from my 4th-story vantage point, i can see that traffic on the large 4-lane road a block away is buzzing along at its typical chaotic pace, reckless autorickshaws veering around motorcycles piled high with 5-member families, bubbly new marutis flying by at an autobahn-appropriate speed with their teeth-grindingly shrill horns steadily compressed in unending cacophony, two-story sleeper buses blaring their creatively programmed melodic horns while narrowly missing vendors shuffling along behind their ware-piled wooden carts. everything seems to be back to normal. it seems like a good time to head over to paratha house to grab some food.
three minutes and another costume change later (now adorned in a public-appropriate pair of trousers and a long kurta (tunic) and scarf, i slip into my rubber market flip-flops, put the padlock on my front door, assure the frozen dancing-lady that i'll be right back, and bound down the stairs. just 150 meters away, across the same main road of which my balcony affords such clear view, is smita's and my favorite dining establishment, paratha house. as always, the 8'x10' space constituting the dining area is packed with hungry customers clustered around two slim flimsy tables and a smattering of aluminum chairs. mr. singh, standing as every day behind the small glass case in a long maroon tunic, greets me with a broad smile, exposing a row of perfectly white teeth parted like curtains by a modest gap in the front. his plump face is wound tightly underneath an immaculately tied navy blue turban which compressed the edges of his eyebrows slightly and accentuates the size of his deep-set glassy brown eyes. his beard is as reassuringly perfectly trimmed and groomed as every day, not a single black hair out of place. he is a perfect portrait of sikhdom, standing tall behind the counter from morning til late night with an ever-present smile of welcoming. sikhism isn't the dominating faith here in jodhpur, but a fairly large number of the businessmen i come into contact with on a daily basis are indeed sikhs, each as dignified, poised, and yet as warm as friendly as mr. singh, here.
to be honest, i've never met a sikh i didn't immediately like. back in november, traveling by motorcycle through punjab with a friend, we stopped at a little roadside eatery for a bite. exhausted from the 6 hours of riding through dusty, hill-punctuated terrain, scraping the sand and grit from the corners of our bloodshot eyes, we tumbled into a couple of plastic chairs at one of the tables off to the side of the small building. our backs were to the road, and off to the left the sun was a blazing orange orb setting over a ridiculously picturesque field of emerald green. we sank into silence, absorbed by this unusually peaceful scene of indian beauty and abundance. naturally, it couldn't last. a husky voice suddenly called to us from a few tables away. "hello!" we tried to ignore it. "hello! come join us!" i warily turned my head towards the source of the intrusion. three sikh men were seated around a table, three ill-matching glasses and a bottle of whisky set between them, wagging their heads in synchronized invitation as the outspoken one waved us over with rigorous insistence. we politely refused a couple times before at last giving in to the imposing hospitality of the trio, hoisting our tired bodies from the plastic chairs and transplanting ourselves over to their table.
they won us over immediately. within about thirty seconds, several plates of piping hot food and a couple of cold beers had appeared in front of us, which one of our jovial turbaned shiny-faced new friends insisted on spiking with an extra shot of whisky (for good measure). within another 5 minutes, we'd been invited, or rather forced to promise, that we would be staying with the family of another man, whose wife and 2 kids were awaiting him back in amritsar, the sikh capital of india, where we were also heading. although the whisky-touting gentleman was clearly the conversational ringleader, each of the three was exceptionally learned and was extremely interested to hear our views on india, punjab, our education and careers, and the politics of our own nations. we passed a long time chatting with them, eating, drinking (not too much...), and soaking up the unconventionally wholesome atmosphere. in the end, back on the road in the evening dust and rolling into amritsar, the city of the sikh's stunningly beautiful golden temple, we decided not to take our newfound friend up on the offer to stay at his house. but the slightly hazy memory of that afternoon of sikh hospitality in punjab has stuck with me.
i've been fascinated by sikh history ever since reading salman rushdie's midnight's children while trucking across the desert plains of namibia (an unlikely match) back in september. two months later, the afternoon following our encounter with the overwhelmingly hospitable sikh trio, i found myself cross-legged, head-covered, and necessarily bare-footed (men and women alike have to cover their heads and check their shoes before entering) at the edge of the marble ghat (step)-lined lake enveloping the blindingly beautiful gold-leafed temple in amritsar. staring at the intricately-embellished explosion of gold under the blazing indian sun, i tried to mentally wipe away the thousands of pilgrims and visitors who now milled about its splendor in amazed delight. ignoring the slow fluid motions of a cloud of plump languorous goldfish skirting along the edges of the shallow stepped lake, i tried to imagine this peaceful place of pious devotion back in early june 1984, occupied by sikh militants in a dangerous stand-off with the indian government. after a series of failed negotiations with the radicals, then-prime minister indira gandhi had finally set "operation bluestar" into motion, a military invasion of the temple, the holiest of sikh sites, to flush them out. while the indian army still claims that the total number of civilian (including militants as well as innocent men, women, and children) lives lost were 492; independent observers placed the figure closer to 5000 (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Operation_Bluestar). whatever the exact death toll, this unfortunate strategic move cost mrs. gandhi her life at the hands of her sikh bodyguards on october 31, 1984, after which several days of retaliatory anti-sikh rioting in delhi and bombay saw the brutal murders of thousands of innocent sikhs. william dalrymple's brilliant 1994 book city of djinns provides an excellent, though horrifying, account of the barbarous bloodletting in delhi in those days following mrs. gandhi's assassination, as told by the sikh survivors themselves.
"namaste, baia," ("hello, brother"), i say this evening as i approach the counter of peaceful-looking mr. singh's paratha house, "aj kaunse sabzi hai?" ("which vegetables are there today?"). he takes the half-step from the far right side of the counter where he is currently standing to the far left side where the containers of vegetables are kept warm, lifting each metal cover and stirring the simmering dish inside with a little flourish of the metal serving spoon as he announces each vegetable in indulgent hindi (he speaks excellent english), "chola (chickpeas)...mattar paneer (unfermented cheese with green peas)...kathal (curried jackfruit)...and rajma (red beans)." it all looks frightfully tasty. my stomach rumbles a little as i place my regular order for the 50-rupee ($1.25) "executive thali," consisting of 2 vegetables, raita (yogurt with chopped raw vegetables and spices), 2 roti and a handful of rice. just as the word "thali" is leaving my lips, though, the single flourescent light above flickers out, the black dust-streaked fan ceases to turn, and consequently the little green pineapple windchime above the counter falls into silence. the cramped tiny cube of eating space is instantaneously transformed into a dark, stuffy little cave smelling of frying onions and bodies following a full day of 108-degree heat. turning around to face the front glass wall, i'm shocked to see that not only has it commenced raining again, but that within the 3 minutes since i entered the shop, the sky has become drenched in inky black and the suddenly materialized sheets of rain are blowing horizontally across the sky. a flash of lightning fills our little observation space with a second's worth of cool white light, sending a frisson of excitement through the clutch of bodies pressed within. as we watch, a medium-sized limb snaps off a sturdy-looking tree outside the door and comes crashing to the ground, narrowly missing someone's honda two-wheeler parked outside.
unable to take the clammy proximity any more, i sidestep several young working men, their laminated name tags hung around their necks, expensive trendy cell phones clutched in their hands, to reach the door and squeeze myself through it onto the small porch. i arrange myself into place next to a classically beautiful woman in her late 20s whose startled 3-year old is clinging with manifest alarm to her mother's sari-clad leg. the mother fixes me with an interested look as i attempt to wedge myself into the 13-square inch space to her left which is neither out under the driving rain nor under the dozen or so tiny waterfalls which are now coursing at full speed through the holes in the awning. "andar bahut garam hai," ("it's really hot inside,") i attempt in explanation, motioning to the tight-packed cluster of bodies pressed together inside the shop, which with its full glass facade is beginning to resemble a fish tank. "ah, you speak hindi!", she replies in english, delighted yet, as is typical, unwilling to sacrifice her own opportunity to show off her linguistic skills. she introduces me in perfect english to her sister-in-law and daughter, both of whom smile widely and wave at me enthusiastically from 3 feet away. behind us, the grease-smudged glass door swings open and two immaculately trendy 20-something young indian men in matching modern-indian-man uniforms of dark blue jeans, black collared shirts, black leather belts, and black leather shoes come tumbling out into the storm like a couple of downy soft puppies let loose from their leashes in the park. the young mother and i watch with bemused smiles tacked on our damp faces as the pair proceeds to frolic in the pouring rain. once outside and soaked to the bone, though, they're not too sure what to do with themselves, so they run out in the road and stand in the median waving their arms for the benefit of no one, as far as i can tell - the roads are deserted. still smiling with a hint of diversion, i turn to the woman with a little gesture of my arm and say, "pagal hai, na?" ("they're mad, huh?"). she looks back at me with a wistful sigh and says in english, "i wish i could do that." a deafening crack of thunder sends her toddler, who had by now ventured a few steps away, flying back to her anchoring point against her mother's right leg.
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in spite of the unfulfilled longing of this sari-clad middle-class mother to abandon her dignified poise and run amok in the thunderstorm, it is all too clear that she's got it better than most of her female compatriots. women's empowerment is as tricky an issue in india as it is in other developing nations where women have long been the less-privileged sex, and an issue that is all the more complicated by the rigidly oppressive caste system. in spite of increasing reports in the outside world that the complete dissolution of the caste system is imminent in india, from within the borders it's clear just how absurd this supposition really is. in one of our first meetings with host organization UNNATI (www.unnati.org), which works on social inclusion and dalit ("untouchable") rights among other topics, the organization supervisor briefed us on the state of dalit rights in rural areas of rajasthan and neighboring gujurat. "in one case that we were working on," he began, pausing to take a sip of his tea, "a 19-year-old just-married dalit girl was raped by 3 teachers from a nearby primary school. only after three days, with counseling and support, was she able to report what had happened." (the stigma surrounding rape cases and the difficulty in prosecuting rapists here causes many victims to think twice, and thrice, before speaking up). "in the first court proceeding, she won and the rapists were each given 10-12 year sentences plus a 50,000 rupee fine ($1250). they immediately appealed and came to the victim's father and offered him 8 lakh rupees ($20,000) to drop the case. he refused." listening to this account, we nodded in affirmation, relieved and encouraged up to this point by the proceedings. "but in the end, they simply bribed the prosecuting attorney with 5 lakhs ($12,500) and he removed the medical exam from the files. the case was dismissed on lack of evidence." several more stories similar to this one followed, all centered around discrimination against dalits and subsequent lack of legal action (he reported that the prosecution rate for dalit-related cases is a mere 4%), and particularly the plight of dalit women throughout. this NGO works to bring these cases to light, assists with legal fees, and takes a community-based approach in the fight for justice when the court system fails.
the rights of harijan ("untouchable") women are also being addressed in a very different style by another much smaller, homegrown non-profit organization working in jodhpur. sambhali trust was founded just 2 years ago by a young local man, govind singh rathore, who was appalled by the treatment of harijan women living in jodhpur slum areas. the efforts of his organization now revolve around empowering these women through vocational training (their sewing initiative is producing beautiful handbags, clothing, scarves, and other cloth items), basic academic classes (most were unable to afford any schooling), and the creation of an atmosphere which builds confidence and trust between them, a luxury which few are afforded in their homes. i could go on for ages about this initiative, which through its sewing project is on its way to self-sustainability, but the organization itself maintains an amazing website which provides a comprehensive and very clearly-laid out synopsis of its activities: www.sambhali-trust.org. govindji also keeps up a blog of the organization's activities, which lately have included some very interesting high-profile meetings with important local government officials: www.durag-niwas.blogspot.com. a few of these news clippings are features on FSD, our work here in jodhpur, and our "interest in indian culture" (as concluded by the journalist by the fact that we all appeared in saris for our meeting). the latest entry (as of now, may 31) was written by an FSD intern who's working there now and provides her very interesting impressions of the organization so far.
.............
back in front of the paratha house in the unusual may thunderstorm, the rain appears to be thinning out. i imagine by this time that my food will be ready, so i squeeze back behind the daydreaming indian housewife and her child and back into the sticky little space inside. mr. singh is just spooning out the last bit of my mattar paneer into a little foil container and places it into the plastic bag which holds the rest of my promising executive thali. i hand over my slightly damp, lavender 50-rupee note and take the bag with a smile. i step back out the door, smug and happy with my dinner in hand and the rain at least temporarily quelled, only to note with apprehensive amazement that the big four-lane road in front of the little shop has been transformed into the nile's only slightly lesser sibling. it is solid water, and not like a thin slick layer rushing across the asphalt, but a veritable body of water that appears deep enough to harbor the hull of a 40-foot sailboat. a little whimpering sound is subconsciously generated in the back of my throat. i carefully pick my way across the hard-packed dirt embankment in front of the shop down to the edge of the abyss. what i am observing in this moment with a growing sense of dread is a liquid manifestation of everything that is unwholesome and insalubrious in this world, a chunky minestrone of every indian roadside ingredient that's ever been counted on a list of things that should never make intimate contact with human epidermis, including but far from limited to: organic and chemical detritus of every imaginable form and level of toxicity, blatant samples of human feces, bloated dog carcasses, dirty blood-streaked syringes, heavily used and discarded feminine products, and of course enough animal effluent to put every pig factory farm in america to shame. okay, so i'm not actually watching all these items float by in the sludge in this very moment, but based on the fact that i have personally seen each of these things on the side of this same road sometime over the course of the past 7 days, i feel comfortable assuming that they're all part of the simmering stew at this point. the love mansion's comfortingly hideous facade is just on the other side of this river of doom, teasing me in its nearness. in the twilight, it's impossible to tell how deep it really is. my dinner feels deliciously heavy in the bag clutched in my left hand. if ever there was a time to bite the bullet, this is it. i can always burn these pants.
with a cringe, i gingerly place my flip-flopped right foot down into the grease-streaked fluid. i'm encouraged not only by the fact that my skin doesn't instantly burn off upon contact with it, but that the level of it only reaches to the bottom of my ankle. emboldened, i take a big step forward with my left foot, shocked (a good indicator of my level of inflated optimism at this point) and repulsed by the sensation of the unnervingly warm liquid shooting up to mid-shin, and even more so by just how squishy the bed of this waste river is, my rubber flip-flop sinking with alarming ease into a level of muck the composition of which i force from my mind with the velocity of a crash-test dummy being ejected from a crumpling vehicle. the third step with my right foot, though, is the fatal blow to my hopes of living a long and cancer-free life - by now i'm standing stock still in a lake of indian roadside discharge which fully reaches my knees, waiting in shocked alarm for a suddenly-appearing wall of vehicular traffic to pass before being able to dislodge myself from what i am suddenly sure is the most unsavory bath ever taken by anyone, ever. tim robbins in the shawshank redemption notwithstanding.
at last the untimely surge of traffic passes, and with some difficulty i unearth my feet from the subaqueous sludge to which they are now cemented. over the median, across the other side of the 4-lane road (mercifully not as flooded as its counterpart), and onto my street. i break into a full run, "chariots of fire" booming through my conscious mind as i bound towards my apartment gate. up the stairs, into the apartment, hurling my dinner on the granite-topped kitchen counter and throwing myself under the shower. i spend the next 17 minutes or so in the dark (the electricity still hasn't come back on), repeatedly soaking and washing out my thankfully not too absorbent pants and scrubbing off the top 4 layers of skin on my legs.
mr. singh's dinner was even more delicious than usual. and now this city is a lake.
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