Reporting Lost Phone to Police

Having lost my cell phone, I was advised repeatedly to make a police report, so with great trepidation and considerable rehearsal in my head, I went to the cop shop.  See, my phone is provided by my office, and technically non-Indians are not allowed to have Indian phones, plus, my office is hated by the police for several reasons, starting with them trying to end torture in India, virtually all of which is inflicted by the police. But, into the local police station I go, speak to the big fellow looking not friendly standing in the alleyway/entrance, saying I'd lost the mobile phone my friend had lent me for my little holiday, and began to weep profusely, apologizing, crying and crying, "so sorry so sorry" I'm saying, "it's not mine, oh dear it's not mine".  He is obviously accustomed to people crying, because he didn't soften, but did tell me to write out my complaint - this is beiing helpful for him - so I tear a page out of my little spiral notebook that I always have with me, and write in block letters the phone number, that it was lent to me by a friend, lost on the road between Trivandrum and Kanyakumari and that I am Laura Stevens U.S.A. He directs me to "the writer".  This is a fellow who actually stops what he's doing - drinking tea and writing something - reads my piece of paper, asks that I add my signature and the name and address of the owner of the phone. "Ms Veena, 6 Vallabai Rd. Madurai"  All true, just without the office's name.  (No issue about just one name - lots of people have just one name.) Meanwhile, I'm looking around at his office, which is fully out of Dickens. Shelves and shelves and surfaces everywhere covered with papers tied with string, all handwritten, foolscap size (11 x 14), many ledgers with dates showing: ""93, '94, '95"  "'02, '03, '04"  Nothing more recent that '04. My complaint is written out with carbon paper, handed over to another fellow who has two stripes on his sleeve, tho' they are patched and stiched, having been laundered to near-death.  This officer has the power of the ink pad.  He stamps my complaint with a police seal in lurid purple ink, gives me the original and keeps the copy.  Now I have proof of what?  I try to go to the phone company's office to report the number should be turned off, but this is a vain search.  After lots of round and round I give up, decide I'll do it in the next town where there are more tourists and maybe more help.  At the last, I discover that my phone company, Airtel, is also Aircel and I did see an Aircel office that probably would have been sufficient.  Basically no one knew that the 2 companies are the same, maybe 2 divisions of one entity, no effort by them to advertise this fact.  Instead it always seems from the signs and ads that they are competitors and I wondered how it was possible for such confusion to be allowed.  Bleech!

Erotic Carvings at Suchindram Temple

This could be a long tale about losing my cell phone, retracing my steps to find it, to no avail, but that's not why you're reading this, let's be honest.  The title says "erotic" and that's what made you stop and read it. This temple isn't even listed as one of the erotic temples of India, as far as my searches show, but there are 1108 pillars with carvings of all sorts of people and animals (I didn't count them, I believe what I read) and I'd estimate 25% are sexual, but not as in people doing it.
A brief listing of some show stoppers:  figure with elongated breasts, sort of trumpet shaped (wide end on the chest) ending in penis-head-nipples; a woman with an ecstatic expression, standing with legs apart, knees bent, dog between her legs, snout in her yoni (vagina);  figure sucking on its own long curvey lingum (penis) emerging from its big-lipped yoni, no breasts.
Plenty of run-of-the mill figures with erections, some large enough to go 'round their necks and then some.
A few couples coupling.
Every animal figure has an identifiable gender: testicles, udders, some erections.
The manner of worship in the temples includes much rubbing of statues, carvings, objects generally, including applying ghee, rose water, garlands, (all sold in the temple if you didn't bring it along) then touching oneself around the face that is reminiscent of crossing oneself.  Sometimes the ghee is lit, so things are flaming too.  The figure sucking its own long long dick is especially dark from ghee around the mouth and all along the shaft; the woman and dog is heavily rubbed on the breasts but nowhere else.  The breasts cum penises is untouched.
What does it all mean???
(One unconvincing explanation is that it teaches young monks who will leave the temple priesthood after some years about what to expect in life outside. What? Let me know if you've got a lingum coming out of a yoni that you suck, please. I'll keep it confidential, promise.)

Thiruvananthapuram

This is a town in southern Kerala, the Indian state on the southern west coast; it is also called Trivandrum, because westerners can't pronounce the real name.  This is the start of my December holiday, a little tour 'round the south, some off the beaten track (here) and some on (Kochin, Bangalore, Mysore).  The much touted local zoo, called by Lonely Planet one of the very best in the nation, is a horrid prison for animals with pleasant leafy walkways and the omnipresent garbage.  The two also-touted art museums similarly disappoint - especially the one closed for renovations. And wouldn't you know, there's been an auto(taxi) strike, making me walk more than I wanted in the blazing sun, and then being seriously ripped off by a scab.  I knew he was a scab, rather than an owner of his own taxi (who are not on strike) when he wouldn't take me all the way down the road to my hotel, making me walk the last 100 yards, to avoid being seen by the other drivers.  After charging me Rs. 100 for a Rs. 30 ride.  ($2.25 instead of 70 cents) The nerve!
Then today was a long jaunt out of town to another destination hailed as lovely - Neyyer Dam Park - and it was, again except for the garbage.  Really a lot of garbage!  Walking around a big lake formed by a dam, with little rest stops and various sights, piles of styrofoam take-out boxes.  And plastic bottles and cigarette packs and on and on.
The forest that circles most of the lake includes a big rubber plantation so I saw hundreds of trees with little cups and spouts attached, dripping white goo into the cups, and pretty spiral scoring all up the trees.  Inside the plantation itself, fenced from the path, was no garbage; just piles up against the fence.
As I learned from my Urban Studies majored daughter (Rachel) garbage on the ground is a direct result of absence of garbage cans.  And it's true.  There are virtually none anywhere I've been.  I look for them; my family laughs at me for this, saying of course there aren't any, and they freely throw their trash on the ground, laughing even more as I put mine in my bag to take home.  I suspect my trash receptacle from my room gets emptied into the road too, after a brief stop in a larger receptacle in the back area of the house.
Meanwhile, my very pleasant and clean hotel ($17 per night) has a tv with HBO but no BBC or CNN, so I watch Bruce Willis movies and an Indian news channel that is allegedly in English.  Listening very carefully I get the gist, especially since they are quite repetitious, so there are several chances to catch their meaning.  Some of it is too obscure and local to understand, but some is grimly understandable.  The big news is that a man who was the Inspector General of the Police of India molested a 14 year old girl in 1990; she killed herself in 1993; he was promoted many times while the case was pending (from 1990) and now has been sentenced to 6 months in jail. The case is now on appeal.  He is shown sitting in the sun in his villa's large garden (I hope he burns to death in this sun) and is quoted as saying, "Forget it; it's so long ago."  Much breast beating in the media and by the prosecutor about the light sentence.  Bare mention of the 19 years, thus far.
Tomorrow a long day to palaces, temples, the tip of India where 3 oceans meet, no television, and I'll bet anyone Rs. 10 lots more garbage.

Yet Not

"Are the glasses ready for me to pick up?"
"Yet not."

Police Complaint Experiment

A newspaper article from 2007 reported an experiment ordered by the Director General of Police for the state of Tamil Nadu in which 85 policemen were sent as complainants to police stations where they were unknown.  They reported back that "some of them were abused, some others beaten up."  The purpose of the study was to improve the image of the police.  The Director General said that "...if the police deviate from the principle as to what they should do...", "...they would tarnish the image of the force...", and '...realising that image of the force had taken a beating [pun intended?], a 'police image project' was launched." They also decided to create a course at the Police Training College on human rights and police image.  Emphasis on image in the original.  (This article was in one of the police torture files I've been reading at my office, which has a special emphasis on ending torture in India, where it is estimated 1.8 million people are tortured every year, mostly by the police.)

Photo Blog Address: RCOBO2.blogspot

So twice I gave the wrong address for my photo blog and have now fixed it - smart Rachel found the errors - and I so want people to see the pictures, I make this special post repeating the information:  RCOBO2.blogspot.com.  The pictures may not be great art but they are fine anthropology.

Gujarati Ladies' Sarees

Downtown shoping yesterday, near the big temple where both tourists and pilgrims in great numbers can be found, two women are coming towards us and Premi, my host mom, says "Those ladies are from Gujarat."  As some of you may know, sarees are wrapped differently in different regions, and Premi recognizes everything about sarees, so I take a closer look, and damned if one of the women isn't basically naked above the waist. A very flimsy ladoo (the part of the saree thrown over the shoulder) covers an even flimsier little blouse, with no undegarment, so not only is her whole midriff bare (which is standard for most saree wearers all over India) but the blouse doesn't conceal anything either.  Perky little breasts pointing right at me, everything clear as a centerfold, but sexier because of the hint of coverage.  I exclaimed, "But she's naked!" and Premi laughed, "Yes amah [mom], that's the way they do there."

Verbatim Quote from a Divorce Case

4. The husband in his plaint alleged infidelity and loose moral character on the part of wife and that was the principal ground for seeking divorce. It was further alleged by the husband that despite the fact that he had not visited the wife for more than a year and was on duty in the Army where he is a Sepoy and yet a son was born and the husband emphasised this circumstance as proof positive of the illicit relations of his wife with others. It was also alleged that the behaviour of his wife towards his parents left much to be desired.
5. The wife in her reply contradicted and condemned all the aforesaid allegations of the husband and maintained that the son born to her was the legitimate child of the plaintiff-appellant and the vicious allegations made by the husband against her are all totally false. She denied that she had been rough and rude to her in-laws.
6. The couple have an 11 years old daughter and she is admittedly a legitimate daughter of the plaintiff-appellant.
...
8. It may be mentioned at the outset that the approach of the trial Court to the case was misconceived. The trial Court should have realized that in cases of such disputes between the husband and wife, the approach should not be the same as in property disputes. The matter should be dealt with as relating to animate and not inanimate objects. Instead of trying to resolve the dispute firmly and finally, the trial Judge just dismissed the suit with the findings that the allegations of the husband had not been proved.
...
10. In cases of this nature, it should not be deemed necessary to give categorical findings with regard to illicit relations of the wife. For the family and the society as a whole, such matters need to be kept under wraps to avoid discomfiture and disgrace, particularly, when the Court can do without being specific in this regard.
11. What the Court needs to see is vicious and violent allegations of illicit relationship are being hurled by the husband with impunity. If divorce is refused, the husband and wife will not be able to live together, because, the scars inflicted by such cruel allegations will never heal and the husband and wife will never remain united hereafter because of the dissentions and disputes.
12. It is not the policy of law to break up homes but a house which is torn asunder by constant strifes and bickerings is a hell and must be broken up. It is in this perspective that the dispute should be visualized. Looked at, from this point of view, the only remedy which seems appropriate, is to grant divorce.

What is Your Good Name?

The opening remark for most people trying to have a conversation, or just have some little interaction with the foreigner, is this quaint question. Quaint, until it becomes boring, intrusive, interrupting, or rude, depending on the circumstances and the questioner. But now I've found a satisfactory answer when the question annoys: "Angelina Jolie". Everyone knows that name; everyone. I thought of this after a shop keeper, in all apparent sincerity, asked, after "Where are you coming from?" ("USA", my stock response), "You are a filim [sic] actress-star?" Pause, consider, what would be the international implications of saying yes? I just couldn't bring myself to this particular outrageous lie, so I told the truth: "No, advocate." Turned out to be almost as impressive to her. So satisfying!

Trying on Sarees

Check out the pictures of me in a couple of sarees at my photo blog (RCOBO2.blogspot.com) My host mom & daughter have HUNDREDS of them, both being avid collectors, from finest silks to trashy synthetics. Mostly they wear the latter, which are the equivalent of house dresses, for doing housework. But they always wear the gold chain, which is, among other things, the equivalent of a wedding ring. Under the saree is a cotton skirt with drawstring, tied tightly, for tucking in the yardage (6 meters)and the blouse is meant to be tight also. Under all that are a bra and underpants too, and the modern secret is safety pins: a pin at the shoulder to keep the long end in place and usually a pin at the front of the waist, to prevent the tucked-in material from coming untucked. Before safety pins, a woman was always having to adjust the material to prevent it all falling apart. The underskirt is quite narrow, preventing any long strides; indeed, causing quite a hobbling effect. This should be the worst thing women here endure! Oh yes, and the spelling "saree" is pretty universal here, so I've adopted it for now.

False Consciousness

In reading about the history of the movements to end caste abuse I came upon the following: “The Mahar [the highest rank of Untouchable] takes pride in the duties required of him as government messenger; for he is often entrusted with the transport of large sums of money remitted to the district treasury and he has inherited from his fathers a tradition of faithfulness in the discharge of such duties.”
Meanwhile, the Mahar also traditionally was required to wear an earthenware pot around his neck into which he would spit, to prevent defiling the ground upon which a Brahmin might walk, and “…had to sweep the earth behind him to erase his footsteps or at least maintain a good distance from Brahmins to avoid contaminating them with his shadow."

The Offending Hole, Partly "Repaired"

The slab on the right was not there when I stepped into the hole.  Now I've found they move these things off and on all the time.  I actually saw some men pushing this into place as I turned the corner, looking for the culprit. And I've also now noticed that the edges of the paved roads are always dirt, compounding the problem.

Floods in the Road, Swimming Lessons

The rains keep pouriing down and the roads quickly flood.  Mostly they're paved, but there also are dirt paths leading off the main streets, and there are many big holes in the roads - construction projects of unclear purpose.  The "sidewalks" are large paving stones quite a bit higher than the road level - curbs as high as a foot up - but with many of the stones missing or removed for who knows what reason.  Last night it began to pour just at 6 pm, when I planned to leave the office, so I waited and waited, listening to the roar of the water, but finally I got fed up and went down to see how bad it would be to walk home.  At the front of the office there are 3 small steps up, and the water was up to the third step, making it about mid-calf deep. I waited some more, with a nice young German fellow who has a 15 minute bike ride home, discussing our options.  The rain lightened, I turned my pant-legs up to my knees and set off, leaving him behind.  Slosh slosh, trying not to think about what was in the water (of course making that the only thing I could think of), passing a cow right outside our gates which was mooing unhappily.  I commiserated briefly and kept going. I congratulated myself on remembering the big hole in the intersection down the road a piece, which was totally covered in water.  Another few hundred yards along I was attracted to the sidewalk, because it was above the water level, so I stepped up onto it, and walked another few feet, and then came to some water at the level of the stones, just too wide to step over.  So I stepped into it...and fell into a hole up to my chest.  In my alarm I instinctively raised my arms up high, saving my bag with my laptop from going in as well, (shrieked, no one came) and I'm not sure how I got out, but I did, very quickly, with the help of lots of adrenaline.  My fears about the computer trumped my disgust with the contents of the water.  As soon as I got home, in another 3  minutes, all at the same time the clothes came off, the computer got wiped down and turned on (Yes!) and I ran to the bathroom to shower off.  This morning, all the water is gone and I inspected the hole, confirming that it's really a sewer, and finally really noticed the configuration of the sidewalks. The place to walk is down the center of the road.  And the laptop should always be in a couple of plastic bags, though that would not have saved it if it really had gone down with me.  Through the night I had bad dreams with swimming pools prominently featured.  (The malaria meds cause nightmares; oh happy day.)  Also on the way to work this morning a large coconut fell out of a tree, landing a couple of feet from me, causing quite a fright.  Wouldn't that be a shitty way to go?

Going to the Dentist

I need a crown and an implant and I decided to get them here, for a fraction of the cost, after researching Indian dentistry and seeing totally modern, clean, Western offices, in Madurai, on-line. Off I went today for my first appointment with a highly qualified fellow (lots of letters after his name, lots of memberships and fellowships listed on his card) recommended by one of the lawyers here. Well, the office looked mostly OK, and he certainly seemed to know what he was talking about as he looked in my mouth and expressed concern about whether or not he could find an implant compatible with the threading of the post I already have embedded in my upper jawbone. Then he called in his assistant, a pretty young woman, and directed her to take an x-ray. Upstairs to the x-ray room, an old-fashioned looking machine, young woman puts on big lead apron, does not drape me with any such thing, and then, before I knew it, she sticks the little card thing in my mouth, and HOLDS IT IN PLACE WITH HER RUBBER GLOVED THUMB and takes the x-ray. I was so upset at what this means for her I couldn’t care about what it might mean for me. I told her, ‘’This is very bad for you – very bad to give so much x-ray to your thumb.” [I talk this weird simplified English which seems to help communication.] She understood I was concerned about her and replied something like “Oh no matter but thank you for concerning of me.” I said “Yes it does so matter; please please, you must stop this. You must protect your whole body. You should go out of the room for each x-ray.” That was lost on her. I keep thinking of the dentists in the ‘50s who did the same thing and lost their thumbs, and sometimes their lives. What to do?

Dr. Bhimrao Ambedkar

Anyone ever hear of Dr. Ambedkar? I certainly hadn’t before I got to India and he was a marvelous man!Born an Untouchable in 1891, he became the first leader of any movement to end caste discrimination. He invented the term “Dalit”, meaning “low caste” although it’s usually translated as “former Untouchable”. He got a masters degree in economics from Columbia in 1915ish, and a law degree at Gray’s Inn soon thereafter, but when he tried to pursue a law practice in India no one would retain him because of his caste, so he became a political activist. He and Gandhi did not agree on much: he wanted separate electorates, which would have given Dalits real political power, but Gandhi feared this would impair “Hindu unity” (a fiction when you consider caste abuse), and when the British were agreeing to Ambedkar’s position, Gandhi went on a fast. (The only one he ever used against another Indian, knowing Ambedkar was also a believer in non-violence.) Ambedkar gave in to prevent the Mahatma’s death, signing the Poona Pact in 1932, which promised no separate electorates, just “reservations” for low caste people, which are not places for them to live off on their own (after all, who would do the work?) but are seats in the legislature, jobs in the civil service, places in schools and universities, reserved for people of low caste origin. Sometimes it’s called Indian affirmative action, but that’s a serious misnomer. The reservation system continues today, and is a fine tool to divide and rule: most caste violence is by the low upon the lower. Meanwhile, Ambedkar converted to Buddhism shortly before he died unexpectedly in 1956, having asserted he would not die a Hindu, with its “vile” [his word] caste system. He also rejected as patronizing Gandhi’s term “harajin” (children of god) for Untouchables. The more I read about Ambedkar, the less I care for Gandhi. How come Ambedkar has been lost to history in the West?

Photo Blog

I've created a second blog, for pictures, because there are too many I want to post for this one.  Check it out at www.RCOBO2.blogspot.com

Quiz

Who knows the reference "Rootless Cosmopolitan of Bourgeois Origin"?  There have been several queries.
Answer:  It was Stalin's pejorative for Jews, which I always felt was a compliment, in fact, and fits me very well.

AND THEN THE RAINS CAME

Buckets, pails, tubs, jugs, ewers, all at once, first intermittently, then steadily, on and on, delightful! Amazing! Temperatures actually in the 70s, not the 90s any more.Fresh air, good smells (well, not in some places – cows win out when there have been enough of them standing around doing what they do). Amidst the deluge we went off to Pondicherry for the weekend, for me to train another group of human rights activists, at a beautiful conference center outside town, by the ocean (the Bay of Bengal to be precise).Banana groves, coconut palms, frangipani in full bloom (one of the best smelling flowers ever) little ponds, little lizards (so much nicer than the thumb-sized cockroaches at the other place), thatched roof, bamboo-siding meeting room with giant rooks (a very big crow) flying in and out.Of course the roads are flooded something fierce, making the already crazy driving even crazier. Dark night, no street lights, everyone keeps their brights on all the time, except for when they turn off the lights altogether. The explanation for this strange behavior had something to do with “macho”, but I didn’t get it, so mostly I closed my eyes.Finally out of the car, barefoot, walking in deep water on sandy paths, warm, sweet, the Indians laughing at me for enjoying it so much. Lots of people on motor scooters with plastic bags on their heads, some covering their faces too, just like the warnings say you shouldn’t.One scooter with a family of 5, entirely covered in a plastic sheet with a hole cut out for mom’s face – the driver. After an apparently successful day of training I went off to town (the poor trainees had more meetings they had to attend) to see this former French colony’s attractions: shopping, cheap alcohol, and sweet pastries, none of which do I enjoy. But the few hours were great fun, because in fact there was some brie and baguette, and ridiculous sights. Several shops affiliated with Auroville, a nearby sort of ashram community full of westerners seeking freedom from their cellular nature, selling products labeled “Eco-Chic”. Several things with six-pointed stars on them, I’m guessing to appeal to the large number of Israeli tourists.The most unusual thing about these shops was the prices: could’ve been home. No bargaining, boring bags for $35, even worse jewelry for same. Better stuff in Madurai for $5, (or if you’re Indian, $3.)And raingear, for adults, covered in Disney characters: Mickey Mouse is everywhere!

Menachi our Fish Monger

As thin as a rail, carries on her head pounds of prawns and something that looks like barracuda and a balance to weigh it out, laughing at my interest to take her picture. 

Whose Job Is It?

A two day training for human rights monitors, investigators and activists in mediation and negotiation skills turned up some really interesting material, but the most interesting of all had nothing to do with the training. After each meal (delicious!) each person clears and washes their own plate – takes it into the sink area, dumps any bits left into a bucket, then washes under the tap, using a plastic scrubby with soap, leaves plate in the drying rack. After lunch on the second day I came to the sinks – 4 of them – and found them all filled almost to overflowing with dirty water. For a moment I thought there must be something wrong with the drains, but then reached into the first one with my already food-covered right hand and found that the drain was merely stopped with little neem leaves (like bay leaves but smaller) that were in something we'd had for lunch. In a second I’d cleared the drain, the sink emptied, and my plate was done. I then did the same to the other three sinks. As this was happening, quite a few of the others saw me and a couple commented “social service”, with the perpetual big smiles. I thought nothing of it (except a vague feeling that others were rather passive to have left the problem unattended) until the end of the day, when they were giving “feedback” - heaping praise and thanks. One woman said how great I was, even to have shown them that such an important person could have cleaned the sinks! She had learned that they must be prepared to address ANY problem!! [applause] Then I remembered something I’d read about the hierarchical society of India: cleaning is for cleaning people [low caste people] and higher-ups will not clean anything, to such an extent that if something is spilled in the office in the morning it will be left, walked through, dirt spread everywhere, for the cleaners to deal with in the evening when they arrive. Likewise this group of social activists, strugglers for equality, were ready to have the sinks overflow rather than clean. My example impressed them beyond imagining. Here I was the most important person in the place – Madam – and I had cleaned!

Transportation Choices

Bicycle rickshaws very common; intensely thin, sinewy men drive them.  Auto rickshaws also abound, making smelly exhaust.

Divali Hands

Henna decorations, wonderful, dramatic, mostly left hands because they do it themselves and everyone is right handed.

Temple Tower

Menakshi Temple is the major sight of Madurai, and quite a sight it is!  Four of these towers loom over a large temple complex, with elephants, camels and supplicants.  Also the only place in town where one sees foreigners.

Divali Dress-Up

Everyone gets new clothing for Divali and the little girls are the best.

Fast Food In Madras

Madras has lots of interesting colonial-era architecture and some unfortunate British habits.  Truth is, though, Indian hot chips are better than English ones.

Winter Fairness Cream

Made by Vaseline. One of dozens of skin bleaching products filling many shelves in the supermarket. The commercial for Winter Fairness Cream on t.v. wasn’t in English, not exactly, but is fully understandable: pretty young woman looking dejected in her family home, where mom and dad are smiling about her “model contract”, but she got the contract with pictures when her skin was lighter (dark shadow passes over her face) and the happy solution is “Winter Fairness Cream” (shadow diminishes stage by stage) leaving her practically as pale as me, except of course no disfiguring freckles.
Oddly, after a long search of those same supermarket shelves, I find there is only one choice of sun screen, “Lakme Ultra Matte, super light sunscreen, insta [sic] oil absorb complex” [huh?] SPF 30. Further reading of the package turns up several typos, and the explanation that unlike most sunscreens, this one absorbs excess oil from the skin surface, “leaving your face matte and shine-free” and “…not feeling oily and sticky”. Hmmm, never believe anything until it’s officially denied: I’ve just opened the tube, put it on my arm, and it’s the stickiest stuff! Ick! At least it only cost $2, for 50 grams. And smells vaguely like something I’ve eaten recently. Made by Hindustan Unilever. Gotta go wash my hands before I gum up the keyboard.

Clothing

Owning very few things for hot weather, I arrived with only 3 outfits and a plan to shop for clothing immediately. Right near my house is “Eve’s Era”, women’s clothing emporium. Nothing ready-made is big enough in the shoulders and chest (a surprise, since the affluent women are very busty, pot-bellied, and definitely bigger than me, but they wear saris mostly, not salwars). So I buy a set of material to take to the tailor for “stitching”: custom made salwar kameez – tunic top down to mid-thigh, many choices of neckline, baloony pants with draw-string closure, fitted at the ankle, in contrasting or complimentary color and pattern, never the two pieces the same, and a large shawl that matches both parts. Went downtown to the enormous store full of these sets of fabric, and saris, and various combinations I don’t understand, in cottons, polys, silks and blends, some fabulously expensive ($500+ for exquisite silk saris). I’ve been twice now, bought 7 sets, all light-weight cotton, taken them to the tailor right by my office, who does a fine job. Total cost of final outfit around $15. No use for the shawls, though, because they make an otherwise rather cool outfit rather suffocating. And the fitted ankle is great in the bathrooms – the trousers don’t fall onto the always-wet floors, whether clean or not. All that water slopping about because of the different personal hygiene practices. More on that some other time, perhaps.

Mediation Centre Inauguration

On Monday, after I gave a 3 day mediation training, People’s Watch inaugurated its Mediation Centre – a major project they’ve been wanting to launch for some time – with a top justice of the Tamil Nadu High Court coming to cut the ribbon. To my surprise I was a star participant – the American lawyer with 35 years’ experience, come to train the Indian human rights advocates, so appreciated, etc etc. The ceremony started a mere 50 minutes late, considered basically on time, with all of us milling about while we waited for the judges to appear. Little pots of ground sandalwood and poppy petals for putting bindi spots on the forehead are part of the ceremony preparation. So sure, put one on my forehead too, especially after being told the sandalwood is cooling, which it is. The judges arrived, cut the ribbon, the important people went into the director’s office for cake, sweet tea, a tour of the offices, then to the auditorium sort of place with everyone there for the speeches, two hours of Tamil, including many mentions of “Madam Laura” (or just plain “Madam”) including Madam presenting Justice Akbar Ali (a lovely man) with a gift. So here I’m posting 2 photos of me – at the cake moment (I passed on the cake, drank the tea), and just after the gift giving. See the bindi, see the outfit. See the next post about the clothing.

Divorce

My first mediation training turned up a big surprise for me. Twenty eight lawyers, some with 15 – 20 years experience, only a couple with any experience of mediation in any regard, got thoroughly hung up in a “Matrimonial Dispute” problem I set. I chose this subject because I’d learned in my visit to the Tamil Nadu High Court Mediation & Conciliation Centre (established in 2006; the first of its kind in the country) in Madras (now called Chennai) that the vast majority of matters they handle are “matrimonial”. The given facts were a husband and wife are divorcing after 18 years of marriage. Both want the divorce. Both want custody of their 2 teenage daughters, who refuse to choose between the parents. They own some good property; the husband had a good job for the first ten years, then had an injury and hasn’t worked for 8 years. The wife became a lawyer while the husband still worked. He hopes for $1,000,000 from the injury (someday, given the average of 25 years for resolution of such a case). The wife’s family gave a big (illegal) dowry at the start. What are the issues to settle in the mediation? It was obvious to me that custody and property were the answer, with some subtlety being thrown in by the fact of contingent compensation in the distant future and the dowry in the distant past. Boy was I wrong! Everyone said the issue was “reunion” – reconciliation of the couple. Everyone KNEW that property was no problem, the wife would walk away with nothing, not an issue, only the imperative to make them not divorce. I repeated several times “Look at the facts given: they both want the divorce; they both are adamant that they will not stay married. Probe them about the property; draw them out about the welfare of the children in the custody discussion.” (Two participants were acting as the couple, doing a decent acting job.) Most people could not do it; to the very end, after agreements were reached about the property division and custody/visitation arrangements, (largely achieved by the actors without mediator help) the people playing mediator were literally saying to the couple “I do not approve of divorce; you should stay together, you do not need to live apart.” We had talked about how mediators need to be aware of their biases, so I finally interjected that there was a big bias in the room, against divorce, against the given fact which the couple brought to them, that they wanted this divorce. Made no difference; the men all agreed trying to get them to stay together was what they should do. Two of the four women present seemed to get it, that the couple gets to make this decision. In further discussion, they repeated how much it was wrong to divorce and argued with me about the welfare of the children, etc. etc. and could not get off the dime. And p.s. they were right that the wife gave up all property rights just so she could get away from the husband. And p.p.s. after an agreement was written, the husband started to sing to the wife and she changed her mind, and they reconciled. I’m not in Kansas any more, much less California!
And they pronounce it “DIworce”, confusing me at first that they were saying “diverse”. One man started to adopt my pronunciation; he’ll have an American accent before I leave.

My Ahkah

The lovely woman who is my host, in our front room where I sit and read directly under the ceiling fan.  We call each other "ahkah" - sister.

No Juries

India eliminated all juries in 1955. The criminal lawyer who told me this, a senior advocate by title and a man with two Mont Blanc pens in his pocket, explained that it was preferable to have judges decide cases where it was necessary to apply a statute, because non-lawyers would never be able to understand written laws. He asserted that in my country we apply the common law, which was appropriate for the common man to apply, and therefore US juries make sense. I was so open-mouthed, I didn't correct him.
He also is very proud of the Indian Penal Code, a slim volume (he gave me a copy) not much changed from when it was written in 1860 by Lord Macaulay, who Mr. Lawyer Sir admires. Apparently he is unaware of Lord Macaulay's disdain for India and Indians: Macaulay wrote that the entire body of Indian literature and philosophy was not worth a single bookshelf of western writing. (Churchill, who was stationed here in the 1890's, said India was "a beastly country with a beastly religion", and "no more a country than the equator".)
The average length of time to resolve a case in court is about 20 years. The oldest pending case, not yet gone to trial, is 60 years old; the next oldest is 50 years. My host family's 19 year old son was run over when he was 4 and unconscious for 3 days. The case is still pending; their lawyer says "What's your hurry, we'll get money in 10 years, for his wedding." I told them to insist he take the case to mediation, and the big revelation for them was when I said "He's your servant; you're the master. Insist." Premie, the mom, said "Really?? With this knowledge, now I can talk to him without being afraid. This is such a new idea!" I said that if the case is resolved while I'm in India, I will have achieved something amazing.

Elephants

In Menakshi Temple, give him a coin, he sucks it up and taps your head in blessing.

High Court Library

No computers, shelves full of books from the 1940s, pre-statehood.

Food

The food is delicious and keeps giving me indigestion. I get lunch at work, and have a heap of lime pickle with the various unidentifiable but tasty mishmashes offered, and have decided that’s the source of the post-lunch agitator in my stomach, so today I will try to hold off. At home, my host, “sister” (pictured posted today) is an excellent cook, with the only flaw being her wish for me to eat as if I were a 16 year old boy – mountains of food, which I am assured is eaten by others after I leave it in the serving dishes. It’s very impolite to put food on your actual plate and leave that behind, so I’m alert to putting my hands over the plate before she can dole out more. She wags her head (a practice I am adopting to be more understood, I imagine) and says “Eat eat eat ahkah [sister], good good good.” “Too much ahkah”, I reply. “No no no, you are too thin, eat eat eat.” Damn, I’m finally a size I like and they all think I must be poor because I’m not nearly fleshy enough. She and her daughter are quite plump, especially big bellies, of which they are very proud. Proves they are rather affluent, which they are, with the two sons in the US, probably sending home pots of money.
I’ve only eaten in one restaurant so far, where there was a basic meal for Rs 15 (about 30 cents) all you can eat, served on a banana leaf. See the photo also posted today. Delicious!

White Skin Privilege

The crowds in the store stare at the towering white lady wearing a big brimmed hat, and as I move down the packed aisles, they make way with palpable deference. Mothers shove their children aside, saying something sharp sounding; the children look up and seem amazed at the sight. Brave schoolgirls (maybe ten years old) rush over to shake my hand, always saying the same thing: “Hello what is your name which place are you from?” without taking a breath. “USA”, I say, never mind about the name, they laugh and run away.
All the people are very dark and all the images in ads, on billboards, in the shops, and certainly on tv are very white, even being fair haired. In the toy store (air conditioning break on my walk) all the dolls are white and I ask the young saleswoman if they have any with dark skin. Her English is ok but she is mystified by the question, can’t believe she understands, so gets the manager (a bit lighter-skinned than average) and I ask again: “Any dolls with dark skin? You know, dolls that look like people, not mythical creatures (what else is Barbie, after all?)?” He wags his head, purses his lips thinking, finds some little rubber novelty figures with dark skin, and explains “No, this is all. People prefer white.” I reply “Well, maybe the grown-ups do, but the children…it would be good for them to have dolls that look like them, don’t you think?” (As if he could disagree with me. Ha!) “Oh well madam, oh well, so sorry, this is all we have.” “Tell the buyer he should try to find some dark skinned dolls.” “Sure sure good idea.” Ha!

The Weather

The heat is something else; I'll start to sweat as I dry myself after my shower at like 6 am. I can feel the difference between the wet and the sweat and then scurry off to my air conditioned room, where the contrast makes it way cold, so there's a little dance of stepping out of the sauna, back into the fridge and back and forth and putting on one piece of clothing after another, taking it off,too hot, too cold, then, for a moment, just right. Go for a walk at 7 am, it should be some sort of mild, right? Wrong. Blazing sun, makes my skin prickle instantly. I cross and re-cross the street, seeking the shade, but this requires serious alertness because of the crazy driving, including they are on the wrong side of the road (why they hold on to so much British legacy is supposedly Nehru's fault, but more on that some other time). Mustn't step into the path of a bus in an effort to be more comfortable.

English?

"Conscientizing" = making people conscious, as e.g. "Conscientizing the community about human rights is the mission of the education department."
On t.v. this morning I watched several news programs I had a hard time following - not just accents, things like stressing a different syllable, such as "The US wants to dump its haZARdous waste in India." Some toxic ship they want to dismantle here instead of there.
And at the office, oh dear, I'll have to concentrate very hard with some speakers.

Arrived

I'm sitting in my office at my desk, with my laptop all set up, the air conditioning blasting away, with my headphones on listening to WWOZ (my New Orleans radio station) and feeling very happy indeed. The room has 10 desks (and ten people) but I've just been told I'll be moved upstairs to a more prestigious group, all women. Don't know what that means, but ok, fine, I'm very tractable.
Last night I went to the famous temple which is quite amazingly fabulous and which I will post photos of later today when I have my camera with me. One thing I saw which I couldn't take a picture of was a group of people prostrated in front of an altar covered in flaming butter. Sellers offer pots of butter for this purpose, but my home-stay hosts couldn't explain it to me because they are Christians and know very little about Hindu practice, generally scorning it as "idol worship". Their home is full of Jesus pictures, including having provided my room with a rosary, though they are not Catholic. They are an older woman (67) with whom I live and her daughter (45) next door, who has another home-stayer, a nice young man (20) Ari, from Portland who goes to Whittier College and is here on an exchange program and has been a great help in orienting me immediately. He has dreads, wears a man-skirt most of the time and generally feels very familiar. More later.

A Place to Live and a Plan for Work

They've found me a place to live, with air conditioning and its own place to cook, but with full board too. About $177 a month for lodging and meals, ten minute walk to the office, "very fine" they say. ("They" are the people I will be working with at the human rights organization in Madurai.) They also seem to have scheduled a 6 day training for me to give to lots of staff just ten days after I arrive. Sure, why not, I've got a 2 page outline we could spend weeks on.

In the Beginning

Going away for five months is complicated. There's all the business things to cover - musn't fail to pay my property taxes, but much more mysterious is what to bring for being in a place and living a life I can't imagine, no matter how many pictures and descriptions I see on-line and people I talk to who've done it themselves.
I'll do what? Teach mediation skills to Indian lawyers - lawyers who do human rights advocacy. Sounds straightforward, sort of, but everything I imagine about it brings me to a complete puzzlement. Who would be the neutral in an Indian mediation? How does caste figure into it? I know it figures in, but haven't a clue how.
And how will I function in a place where the weather is like "85 feels like 91" all the time? Madurai is in the far south and never gets cool, just less hot. Does it ever get less humid? don't know, I'm counting on the air conditioning to smooth it all out.
What will be the hardest thing, I'm guessing, will be waiting - waiting while things are late: offices opening hours after the posted times, trains, buses, planes, inevitable delays. And maybe the crowding...