For the last 35 years I have firmly held onto a rather common notion among women in modern America. Each and every major decision involving my adult life has been made by me. I chose to go to college at the University of New Orleans. I chose to stay in New Orleans, the city of my birth, after college and work a variety of jobs until I chose to leave New Orleans and move to New York City. I chose to passively pursue a career in stand up comedy. I just as passively chose to forsake ambitions as an entertainer and continue to develop as a writer. I, then, chose to go to graduate school. Somewhere around this time, I decided I needed to see more of the world. So, I chose to spend any large amounts of extra money I had on plane tickets. To Mexico. To Morocco. To Europe. To India. Eventually, I chose to be an "adult," taking on the rather traditional female profession of school teacher and buying an apartment. Yes, I even chose to acquire a mortgage. My belief has always been that I am satisifed with my life as a direct result of having CHOSEN my life. It has been an ideal fit for me. The setting of my life. The characters involved in the plot of my life. The narrative arcs, the conflicts all have been chosen by me. And this is the sole reason why I am so at peace with my life. Because I chose it, right?
I did not realize how much I assumed the ability to chose one's life circumstances played a key role in how well one accepted or even felt satisifed with one's life. If the conversations I had with the women here in Delhi taught me one thing, it is this: Western women such as myself place too much value on this notion of choice.
None of the women I talked to chose the circumstances of their lives. No, their families did not forbid them to go to school, bringing some random fellow to the house and forcing them to marry him. The families didn't have to do that. The women I talked to knew they would reach a certain point in their schooling before their parents began taking proposals for their marriage among worthy boys. Eventually, their parents would select young men who were appropriate and the young women would marry them. These young women would then move into their husbands' families' homes, taking care of their husbands, in laws and the children that they would definitely produce within a reasonable amount of time. This would be their lives.
"We raise our daughters with this custom," the women kept repeating. "They don't think about what they want because they already know what they will get." I asked the 19 year old daughter of one of the women how she thought her mother would react if she respectfully said: "Mom, I don't want to get married in the next few years. I may want to just do something else first. Or I may not want to marry at all." The daughter looked quizzically at me and calmly responded: "I wouldn't say that to my mother." When I asked her why not, she asked me: "Why would I tell my mother I didn't want to get married?" I didn't have an answer to her question. So, I asked her mother: "Can she put in requests for the TYPE of husband she wants? Qualities she'd like in the man she's going to spend the rest of her life with?"
All of the women in the room chuckled. One of the younger women said she wouldn't request any qualities in a husband. It seemed to be my understanding that there weren't any specific qualities or special "personality" traits that went into the selection of a husband. Her parents would, of course, only entertain proposals from boys who were respectful, kind, caring and had good earning potential. What need would she have for a "list" of qualities? I kept waiting for someone to voice dissatisfaction with this major life decision being made by other people, even if those other people were your parents. I kept waiting for one of the ladies to speak to the unfairness of such an arrangement. For some woman to ruefully wonder how different her life would have been if she had stayed in school longer, travelled or pursued some other dream besides family.
I waited in vain. From the older women (late 30s to early 40s), to the younger women (late teens and early 20s), no one questioned fairness. Even Hema Lata, the 46 year old woman who had to quit school at 19 to take on her deceased sister's husband and son, never spoke of what could have been or how her lack of choice left her resentful of her life. It was certainly not Hema's idea to marry her sister's husband. I am certain it would not have been her preferred route to the life as wife and mother she knew she would eventually take, anyway. Her family chose for her and she honored the choice they made. Although Hema resigned herself to the duty she did not really choose for herself, she expresses satisfaction with the life that duty has brought her. She has steadily built up her beauty salon, the business once only consisting of Hema going from house to house in her neighborhood and giving her friends facials. "My husband is a good man," she confirms. "I have a nice home. I have raised decent, respectable children." Hema seems just as satisfied with her life as my friend, Rhonda, who chose to marry at an age and time in her life that seemed right to her and eventually chose to put her career and needs on the side to support her husband's career and to raise her children.
Rhonda made a decided choice. Hema did not. Both proudly chatter on about their children. Both go about their daily duties of caring for their husbands, compromising when necessary to keep the family in tact. And both Rhonda and Hema have their own personal pursuits - Rhonda is working on her doctorate through an online course and Hema earns extra money for her family through the beauty salon she runs out of her home. These personal pursuits obviously come second to the needs of the family, but the women do pursue them with gusto.
Does it really matter that Rhonda chose her husband? Chose to be a wife and mother when her family would have respected (and allowed) any other lifestyle she thought best suited her? At the end of the day, both women seem to have ended up with very similiar lives. I asked Hema and her neighbors if they were happy. While none of them seemed to put much value in what I, as an American woman, count as "personal happiness," all of them expressed a sense of satisfaction. "I am content with the life my husband has given me," I heard on several occasions.
In the western world, which offers a malaria-like dizziness of choices, how many women can even claim contentment, let alone something as difficult to define as happiness?
I have immensely benefited from this luxury of choice. I do not distance myself from my appreciation of and desire to maintain it. In one short generation, the lives of women in the west have afforded them with this luxury of "not being so sure if I want to _______." This not being sure, this rather adolescent ability to explore one's self and reinvent the wheel of an adult life is what I most appreciate about my life. It is why I have comfortably chosen to live in an American city where on any given block you will find hundreds of people choosing hundreds of variations of an adult life. But, I now question if we are assuming that this luxury of choice is our special little key to happiness. That today's generation of American women are somehow luckier than their mothers who can probably identify more with the 19 year old girl in Delhi than they can with their 35 year old daughters here in the states.
And here is the funny part: most of us women who "choose" our lives eventually end up choosing what the women in Delhi do not have a say in. The road to our version of it seems to take longer and is often more complicated and requires more negotiation than sometimes seems neccesary. In two days, I will be leaving this country, wondering why we are so smug about this benefit we have. Questioning if choice alone is why I am happy with my life. Had I been raised without the expectation of making these life choices on my own, would it have made any difference in the end?
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Savitri's Dreams
although I try not to dream
I sometimes do
when my husband drinks more than he works
I remember my girlhood in the village
I pretend I can run away
go back to my family
I pretend I was not married to this nuisance
when I was only 15
when a girl marries
she does not return home
if not the village, then where will I go
when he broke the beer bottle over my arm
I remembered my old dreams
fantasies of my husband
a good boy from the village
a caring man who would take me to the city
I look forward to the next day's work
so I do not have to dwell on these dreams
My daughter has already begun to dream
I will drink poison
she says
if I marry someone like my father
I dream
her husband will be a good man
the opposite of mine
Sunita Rhandelwal's Joy
at thirty I lost my husband
I was prepared to raise my boys alone
although he is dead
my sons' father is still my husband
I will never remarry
to live is to struggle
to struggle is to have stress
to be content is the only option
I have only known a life of work
selling sweets
teaching girls to cook
managing my house
my days begin early and end late
To be idle is to be unhappy
To work is to have joy
What Hema Lata Had To Do
when my sister left this earth
she didn't take her family
she left
a husband and son
at 19 I took over her family
I thought then
what I think now
This has to be done
This is what I must do
I do not wonder what it would have been like to finish school
or if I am happy
in my shop
when I am working on my clients
the cold water washes the beauty cream from their faces
what is left is what was always there
the face that God gave them
My sister's death
washed away my dreams of school
what was left was my life
what God gave me
my daughter already knows the design of her life
she is familiar with its fabric, its shape, its color
her life will look like mine
she will do what she has to do
never leaving her husband
accepting the life he gives her
she will set up her own house
never returning to mine
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Delhi: Tourist in the Temple!
Yesterday, I was reading a story in the Hindustan Times about a school principal who was in serious trouble for CANING a kid in front of the school. According to the story, the pre-teen had broken school policy by going into another part of the school when he did not have permission and talking to one of the girls. Harsh, no? Well, the kid explained how unfair it was to be caned especially since the girl he was talking to was his sister. "I kept trying to tell the teachers she was my sister, but they would not listen," the kid said.
The principal had a very reasonable defense for his extreme disciplinary measure. "He broke the rules," Dude is quoted as saying. "Every student must be in the place he has been assigned at each moment of the day. There are no exceptions to this. He did not have permission to go to the room where the girl was; he broke the rules." And then, Mr. Principal says: "We must strictly enforce the rules because it is very difficult to keep track of 2,000 students with only 22 teachers."
What. The. Hell? Somewhere in Delhi, there's a school building housing 2,000 children with barely two dozen adults to keep them from declaring mutiny?
I don't know if this school is representative of the school system here, but I did think of that 90 to 1 student-teacher ratio this afternoon when my guide took me on a tour to the latest Hindu temple, just opened a few years ago. Apparently, several school groups decided to take a field trip to the temple today as well.
It rained off and on this afternoon so at a certain point in my tour, the guide and I were waiting out the rain in the corridors surrounding the temple. While we waited, one of the school groups was preparing to leave.
First of all: Elementary school children are so pure in their every way of being. They do not have the sophistication yet to morph into the person you need them to be or the person who it is more appropriate to be at the moment. Seeing this displayed today still puts a smile on my face.
The line the kiddies were forming to get on their bus was in front of me. As the kids passed, they ALL stared at me. A few stopped in their tracks and caused a little bottle neck in the line behind them. At first, many of them were too shy to say anything. How the scene transpired: The little 7 year olds walked nosily to the bus in their inattentive, uncoordinated manner and at a certain point, they just happened to look to the right AND... a tourist in the temple! The first 50 or so kids looked in disbelief and turned to their friends in line behind them, rapidly chattering and giving their peers a heads up on who to look out for as they neared the bus. By the 75th kid, I started waving at them and I think this gave them absolute relief! They gleefully waved and shouted eagerly: "Hello!" As the line progressed, more kids built up courage. After five or so minutes of waving like Princess Di and saying: "Hello," a few asked: "Where are you from?" My casual: "U.S.A." was often met with giggles and claps and a series of words that sounded a little bit like English and a little bit like Hindi and a little bit like the incomplete, choppy thoughts characteristic of children who are still trying to master ANY language.
It occured to me that I had been standing there waving forever and had only seen like 3 teachers (who looked a lot like I do when I take my students out; let's just say the temple was not a peaceful place for the adults that day!) I remembered the story from the Hindustan Times and thought: Now, see...this is exactly how kids end up getting caned! A hundred ELEMENTARY SCHOOL KIDS out in the open in the middle of the rain and three exhausted looking teachers. I see about five or six kids right now who might end up being caned before the bus even pulls off!
I asked the guide if these kids were from a public school and he quickly responded: "No, they are definitely private school children." From what my friend/guide in Kolkata had told me, parents such as himself who sent their kids to private schools paid anywhere from $50 - $100 dollars a month (which is quite a bit of money, actually). I found it difficult to believe that THESE children - the offpsring of the business class - would be in a school environment where the student to teacher ratio was so high.
When I finally spotted a fourth teacher, I walked over to her (much to the delight of the children who were surrounding her). After I said hello and told her where I was from, I asked her how many students she had in her classroom. "Oh, only about 25 or 30." When I looked out at the sea of soft blue uniforms in front of me, she chuckled and reassured me: "Oh, no this is about 20 different classes; we have all the children from Levels 1 - 5 out today." I told her I was happy to hear that it wasn't just the four teachers I saw who were responsible for educating all these rambunctious children. "That would drive me absolutely crazy!"
She nodded and proceeded to prove she was, definitely, a school teacher. "Children," she turned to the three girls who were ignoring the other teacher's commands to hurry to the bus as they stood there giggling and covering their mouths. "Say hello to the lady." And this is when I knew she was showing off HER students. "In her language, please."
And much like an Easter program in a Black church, the girls straightened up and sang together: "Hello, Madam...how are you today?" I told them I was doing well and I hoped they were not being naughty because that would not be fair to their teacher. I think I loaded them with too many English words too quickly because they looked a little confused. One of them did recognize the word naughty, though. "Naughty," she looked concerned. Then, she turned and pointed to a boy who was no doubt a future victim of caning. Looking to be about 8 or 9, this young lad was several feet away from us, slapping a playmate on the back of his head and then pointing to any number of children in line when the aggravated playmate turned around. "Very naughty," the little girl snitched.
The principal had a very reasonable defense for his extreme disciplinary measure. "He broke the rules," Dude is quoted as saying. "Every student must be in the place he has been assigned at each moment of the day. There are no exceptions to this. He did not have permission to go to the room where the girl was; he broke the rules." And then, Mr. Principal says: "We must strictly enforce the rules because it is very difficult to keep track of 2,000 students with only 22 teachers."
What. The. Hell? Somewhere in Delhi, there's a school building housing 2,000 children with barely two dozen adults to keep them from declaring mutiny?
I don't know if this school is representative of the school system here, but I did think of that 90 to 1 student-teacher ratio this afternoon when my guide took me on a tour to the latest Hindu temple, just opened a few years ago. Apparently, several school groups decided to take a field trip to the temple today as well.
It rained off and on this afternoon so at a certain point in my tour, the guide and I were waiting out the rain in the corridors surrounding the temple. While we waited, one of the school groups was preparing to leave.
First of all: Elementary school children are so pure in their every way of being. They do not have the sophistication yet to morph into the person you need them to be or the person who it is more appropriate to be at the moment. Seeing this displayed today still puts a smile on my face.
The line the kiddies were forming to get on their bus was in front of me. As the kids passed, they ALL stared at me. A few stopped in their tracks and caused a little bottle neck in the line behind them. At first, many of them were too shy to say anything. How the scene transpired: The little 7 year olds walked nosily to the bus in their inattentive, uncoordinated manner and at a certain point, they just happened to look to the right AND... a tourist in the temple! The first 50 or so kids looked in disbelief and turned to their friends in line behind them, rapidly chattering and giving their peers a heads up on who to look out for as they neared the bus. By the 75th kid, I started waving at them and I think this gave them absolute relief! They gleefully waved and shouted eagerly: "Hello!" As the line progressed, more kids built up courage. After five or so minutes of waving like Princess Di and saying: "Hello," a few asked: "Where are you from?" My casual: "U.S.A." was often met with giggles and claps and a series of words that sounded a little bit like English and a little bit like Hindi and a little bit like the incomplete, choppy thoughts characteristic of children who are still trying to master ANY language.
It occured to me that I had been standing there waving forever and had only seen like 3 teachers (who looked a lot like I do when I take my students out; let's just say the temple was not a peaceful place for the adults that day!) I remembered the story from the Hindustan Times and thought: Now, see...this is exactly how kids end up getting caned! A hundred ELEMENTARY SCHOOL KIDS out in the open in the middle of the rain and three exhausted looking teachers. I see about five or six kids right now who might end up being caned before the bus even pulls off!
I asked the guide if these kids were from a public school and he quickly responded: "No, they are definitely private school children." From what my friend/guide in Kolkata had told me, parents such as himself who sent their kids to private schools paid anywhere from $50 - $100 dollars a month (which is quite a bit of money, actually). I found it difficult to believe that THESE children - the offpsring of the business class - would be in a school environment where the student to teacher ratio was so high.
When I finally spotted a fourth teacher, I walked over to her (much to the delight of the children who were surrounding her). After I said hello and told her where I was from, I asked her how many students she had in her classroom. "Oh, only about 25 or 30." When I looked out at the sea of soft blue uniforms in front of me, she chuckled and reassured me: "Oh, no this is about 20 different classes; we have all the children from Levels 1 - 5 out today." I told her I was happy to hear that it wasn't just the four teachers I saw who were responsible for educating all these rambunctious children. "That would drive me absolutely crazy!"
She nodded and proceeded to prove she was, definitely, a school teacher. "Children," she turned to the three girls who were ignoring the other teacher's commands to hurry to the bus as they stood there giggling and covering their mouths. "Say hello to the lady." And this is when I knew she was showing off HER students. "In her language, please."
And much like an Easter program in a Black church, the girls straightened up and sang together: "Hello, Madam...how are you today?" I told them I was doing well and I hoped they were not being naughty because that would not be fair to their teacher. I think I loaded them with too many English words too quickly because they looked a little confused. One of them did recognize the word naughty, though. "Naughty," she looked concerned. Then, she turned and pointed to a boy who was no doubt a future victim of caning. Looking to be about 8 or 9, this young lad was several feet away from us, slapping a playmate on the back of his head and then pointing to any number of children in line when the aggravated playmate turned around. "Very naughty," the little girl snitched.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Delhi: A Different Experience
I've been in Delhi for about two hours now. But, I can already tell my experience of India will greatly differ in this city. In Kolkata, I had little interest in "seeing the sites" and when I did venture out to barge in on worshippers in Kaliguat Temple and take numerous pictures at The Maidan, it was always colored with some level of frustration and stress. My taxi cab was hot. The driver often lost and neither of us very capable of solving this little problem. There seemed to be no real traffic laws in the city, which has to be the most congested metropolis I have seen yet in my travels. It became apparent from the first 15 minutes in the Kolkata airport that black women with gigantic red afros don't make it out to Kolkata often. People STARED at me as if I were some inexplicable creature from some bizarro world they had only assumed existed in fiction. No, I do not drift into the melodrama for which I am known and loved when I say this. I was a constant point of interest in Kolkata. Children stared at me in awe. Men asked me to get into their cars. (Well, in all fairness, that was just one ridiculously cocky fellow who seemed overly offended when I ignored his looking at me as if I were a lamb kebab and gesturing for me to: "Come. Come. Madam, you come.".) Women looked me up and down and sometimes talked about me to each other in Bengali or Hindi as I wondered why my presence created such a stir. I do not regret any of my time in Kolkata, mind you. I am just clear on the real benefit of being in the city. My fondest moments in Kolkata were spent dialoguing with the three women who would enlighten me on life for women in their culture. I valued the six nights I spent in Kolkata because it fulfilled (in a way I could have never imagined) my rather abstract goal of traveling across the world simply to see what women thought of their lives. A means to do more than have my girls read a book set in India and then write an essay about it.
Delhi "feels" different; only a two-hour plane ride away, but a different vibe already.
So far, in Delhi, I have deduced: THERE ARE TRAFFIC RULES. People follow them. I imagine there must be some sort of routintely inforced penalty for breaking traffic laws since in my taxi ride from the airport every car on the road drove in the same direction, as if this were the most logical way to conduct one's self on a highway. Drivers didn't use their horns every 2 seconds as a means of articulating what THEY planned on doing or what they needed the rest of the haphazardly moving vehicles to do so they could get to where they were going. There are plenty of paved roads. Modern buildings. Only a few curious looks from locals and hotel clerks alike. I imagine them thinking: Hmmmm....wonder where she's from cuz it damn sure ain't India.
The college student who I've been working with to organize this round of interviews has had some sort of complications from a recent surgery. A dutiful young lad, Santosh had his friend email me (as he was being transferred to anoter hospital!) to take over for him. The friend, Sahil, apologized profusely for the inconvenience his friend's illness would cause me and wanted to know what he was supposed to do in Santosh's place. I had planned on knocking out the four interviews here in Delhi within the first few days so I could get my actual work done before I used the car and tour guide I hired to "see the sites." Looks like that will be flip flopped. Already, a different experience from Kolkata. Sahil may not be able to get to my hotel today to work out the semantics of the interviewing/translating so I must press on and be a tourist until he can adjust his life enough to assist me.
It will be tough, but I will make the best of my situation. I have a camera and the uniform of "the tourist." Yoga/Gym pants, Old Navy t-shirt. Sneakers. Tomorrow, when I go out to be the person I routinely mock, I am debating if I will wrap up my 'fro like I did those last few days in Kolkata. I am truly curious if Delhi is simply more "modern" and cosmopolitan, therefore not as floored by the sight of nappy hair attahed to a woman who does not seem to understand just how nappy her hair is.
We shall see.
Delhi "feels" different; only a two-hour plane ride away, but a different vibe already.
So far, in Delhi, I have deduced: THERE ARE TRAFFIC RULES. People follow them. I imagine there must be some sort of routintely inforced penalty for breaking traffic laws since in my taxi ride from the airport every car on the road drove in the same direction, as if this were the most logical way to conduct one's self on a highway. Drivers didn't use their horns every 2 seconds as a means of articulating what THEY planned on doing or what they needed the rest of the haphazardly moving vehicles to do so they could get to where they were going. There are plenty of paved roads. Modern buildings. Only a few curious looks from locals and hotel clerks alike. I imagine them thinking: Hmmmm....wonder where she's from cuz it damn sure ain't India.
The college student who I've been working with to organize this round of interviews has had some sort of complications from a recent surgery. A dutiful young lad, Santosh had his friend email me (as he was being transferred to anoter hospital!) to take over for him. The friend, Sahil, apologized profusely for the inconvenience his friend's illness would cause me and wanted to know what he was supposed to do in Santosh's place. I had planned on knocking out the four interviews here in Delhi within the first few days so I could get my actual work done before I used the car and tour guide I hired to "see the sites." Looks like that will be flip flopped. Already, a different experience from Kolkata. Sahil may not be able to get to my hotel today to work out the semantics of the interviewing/translating so I must press on and be a tourist until he can adjust his life enough to assist me.
It will be tough, but I will make the best of my situation. I have a camera and the uniform of "the tourist." Yoga/Gym pants, Old Navy t-shirt. Sneakers. Tomorrow, when I go out to be the person I routinely mock, I am debating if I will wrap up my 'fro like I did those last few days in Kolkata. I am truly curious if Delhi is simply more "modern" and cosmopolitan, therefore not as floored by the sight of nappy hair attahed to a woman who does not seem to understand just how nappy her hair is.
We shall see.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
A Kolkata Maid and Her Disturbing Peace
My conversation with Sundari Sardar still leaves me stunned. Talking with her solidified something I have long suspected. The circumstances that come with being poor in any country weaken a woman's humanity. To be poor in India, however, is to accept the circumstances of your plight with such finality that it is THIS that actually seems to weaken a woman's humanity more so than just poverty itself.
Sundari Sardar was uncomfortable during the entire duration of our 20 minute conversation. At first, I thought it was because here I was, this strange lady from the west with strange hair and a note pad (on which I wrote non-stop) interviewing her for some strange reason in one of the homes she cleaned every day. I was soon to find out the discomfort had begun for a much more complex reason.
Sundari did not want to sit on Mausumi's dining room chair to talk to me (through Mausumi) because then she would be on the same "level" as her employer. She was Mausumi's maid; to sit in her chair, make eye contact with her guest, talk to the guest and the boss casually...it didn't seem right.
"She really wanted to sit on the floor," Mausumi explained to me.
Born in a rural village, Sundari was not sure of her age. Through her boss, I deduced she had married very young and currently had a 15 year old daughter. We estimated her age to be around 30.
This was the beginning of my conversation with Sundari. A woman whose name meant "Beautiful," but who didn't feel worthy enough to sit in a chair. A woman who had no birthday.
A woman who had no dreams.
The two middle class women I interviewed in Kolkata saw it as their duty to sacrifice and compromise for their families; Sundari saw her status in the lower class as "just the way it is." Her own version of duty. When I asked her the same questions as I asked her boss, Sundari didn't understand why I was asking them and sometimes she didn't understand what the questions even meant.
"I didn't have space in my life, in my head for dreaming," she responded to my question about what she wanted for her life when she was a younger woman.
When I asked, "What brings you joy," she looked even more uncomfortable, but eventually replied, "Whatever comes my way."
Women who make a living cleaning houses is not alarming to me. It is one of far too few ways that the uneducated can earn a modest, yet comfortable living. Women who marry young simply because there is not enough food in their parents' houses to feed them do not cause me a great deal of distress. Marrying a man who can afford to feed you is a very sensible way to avoid the other options offered to you in a city infamous for its "hidden" yet visible cluster of brothels.
I was (and still am) disturbed by Sundari's unquestioned acceptance of her status. She is beneath her employer. And not because her employer has told her so. Because customs have. Because her own sense of status has.
She actually said to me: "I was born for sacrifice. This is my lot in life." It was Mausumi who made certain I knew that her maid had planned out her adult life the best she could. She and her husband decided early on to have only ONE child. "That is very unusual for women in her class," Mausumi told me. "Normally, they don't really plan pregnancies; they just have children. Several." Mausumi also stressed that Sundari made a point to try to put her daughter in special art and creative classes in addition to sending her to regular school when she could.
Trying to latch on to any thing, I asked Sundari if she had wanted to take those types of classes when she was growing up in the village. She looked timidly at the floor before telling Mausumi in Bengali that such thoughts never entered her mind when she was a child. It was not something she even knew to think about.
I grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana in the 1980s, the height of the crack epidemic. I have friends who grew up in New York City at the very same time during the very same epidemic. To know a poor person who has grown up with insurmountable odds is to be a Black American during any point in the United States' evolution. Despite the inhumanity of not having the same opportunities as Americans with whiter skin and larger bank accounts, even the most hopeless, poverty-stricken girl I encountered in New Orleans wanted SOMETHING. Dreamed of SOMETHING. Even if it was simply to go to Biloxi with her friends for her 16th birthday. To be one of the booty shakers on a 2 Live Crew video. To be the dope dealer's girlfriend. Some. Thing.
Sundari never thought to want even an art class. She didn't know "wanting" was an emotion she could access.
Even though my conversation with Sundari was the shortest of the three, she left the most powerful impression on me. I found her acceptance of her plight and the status it brought difficult to understand. Even while I struggled to wrap my brain around a woman who never knew she could WANT, I acknowledged how her peace with such a dismal reality probably served her well.
In my brief time in Kolkata, I have seen children roaming the street in only filthy underwear, bombarding passengers in taxi cabs with pleas for rupees. I have seen mothers barrage these same taxi cabs holding naked babies on their bony hips. They stand at the window and repeat their pleas over and over and over until either the cab pulls off or the passenger pulls out cash. The sight of this makes me sad, nervous and with each beggar who approaches, afraid. I have wondered once or twice why the aggression of these mothers who simply want to feed their babies make me fearful beyond explanation. Deep down, I know my fear of them stems from thinking of myself in their position. Being certain that to be that hungry, to be that in need would fill me with such rage I would lash out at each and every person who had the nerve to know the silence of a full belly. Ripping the skin off of each tourist who had the audacity to ride in a private cab, claiming she did not have even 10 rupees to give me and my filthy, hungry baby.
The absence of such rage has to be what salvaged Sanduri's sanity. To not access want is to never have to confront the truth of your life: it was not built to fulfill wants. It is not large enough to house dreams. With enough careful maintenance, it will do a decent enough job catering to needs.
Sundari Sardar was uncomfortable during the entire duration of our 20 minute conversation. At first, I thought it was because here I was, this strange lady from the west with strange hair and a note pad (on which I wrote non-stop) interviewing her for some strange reason in one of the homes she cleaned every day. I was soon to find out the discomfort had begun for a much more complex reason.
Sundari did not want to sit on Mausumi's dining room chair to talk to me (through Mausumi) because then she would be on the same "level" as her employer. She was Mausumi's maid; to sit in her chair, make eye contact with her guest, talk to the guest and the boss casually...it didn't seem right.
"She really wanted to sit on the floor," Mausumi explained to me.
Born in a rural village, Sundari was not sure of her age. Through her boss, I deduced she had married very young and currently had a 15 year old daughter. We estimated her age to be around 30.
This was the beginning of my conversation with Sundari. A woman whose name meant "Beautiful," but who didn't feel worthy enough to sit in a chair. A woman who had no birthday.
A woman who had no dreams.
The two middle class women I interviewed in Kolkata saw it as their duty to sacrifice and compromise for their families; Sundari saw her status in the lower class as "just the way it is." Her own version of duty. When I asked her the same questions as I asked her boss, Sundari didn't understand why I was asking them and sometimes she didn't understand what the questions even meant.
"I didn't have space in my life, in my head for dreaming," she responded to my question about what she wanted for her life when she was a younger woman.
When I asked, "What brings you joy," she looked even more uncomfortable, but eventually replied, "Whatever comes my way."
Women who make a living cleaning houses is not alarming to me. It is one of far too few ways that the uneducated can earn a modest, yet comfortable living. Women who marry young simply because there is not enough food in their parents' houses to feed them do not cause me a great deal of distress. Marrying a man who can afford to feed you is a very sensible way to avoid the other options offered to you in a city infamous for its "hidden" yet visible cluster of brothels.
I was (and still am) disturbed by Sundari's unquestioned acceptance of her status. She is beneath her employer. And not because her employer has told her so. Because customs have. Because her own sense of status has.
She actually said to me: "I was born for sacrifice. This is my lot in life." It was Mausumi who made certain I knew that her maid had planned out her adult life the best she could. She and her husband decided early on to have only ONE child. "That is very unusual for women in her class," Mausumi told me. "Normally, they don't really plan pregnancies; they just have children. Several." Mausumi also stressed that Sundari made a point to try to put her daughter in special art and creative classes in addition to sending her to regular school when she could.
Trying to latch on to any thing, I asked Sundari if she had wanted to take those types of classes when she was growing up in the village. She looked timidly at the floor before telling Mausumi in Bengali that such thoughts never entered her mind when she was a child. It was not something she even knew to think about.
I grew up in New Orleans, Louisiana in the 1980s, the height of the crack epidemic. I have friends who grew up in New York City at the very same time during the very same epidemic. To know a poor person who has grown up with insurmountable odds is to be a Black American during any point in the United States' evolution. Despite the inhumanity of not having the same opportunities as Americans with whiter skin and larger bank accounts, even the most hopeless, poverty-stricken girl I encountered in New Orleans wanted SOMETHING. Dreamed of SOMETHING. Even if it was simply to go to Biloxi with her friends for her 16th birthday. To be one of the booty shakers on a 2 Live Crew video. To be the dope dealer's girlfriend. Some. Thing.
Sundari never thought to want even an art class. She didn't know "wanting" was an emotion she could access.
Even though my conversation with Sundari was the shortest of the three, she left the most powerful impression on me. I found her acceptance of her plight and the status it brought difficult to understand. Even while I struggled to wrap my brain around a woman who never knew she could WANT, I acknowledged how her peace with such a dismal reality probably served her well.
In my brief time in Kolkata, I have seen children roaming the street in only filthy underwear, bombarding passengers in taxi cabs with pleas for rupees. I have seen mothers barrage these same taxi cabs holding naked babies on their bony hips. They stand at the window and repeat their pleas over and over and over until either the cab pulls off or the passenger pulls out cash. The sight of this makes me sad, nervous and with each beggar who approaches, afraid. I have wondered once or twice why the aggression of these mothers who simply want to feed their babies make me fearful beyond explanation. Deep down, I know my fear of them stems from thinking of myself in their position. Being certain that to be that hungry, to be that in need would fill me with such rage I would lash out at each and every person who had the nerve to know the silence of a full belly. Ripping the skin off of each tourist who had the audacity to ride in a private cab, claiming she did not have even 10 rupees to give me and my filthy, hungry baby.
The absence of such rage has to be what salvaged Sanduri's sanity. To not access want is to never have to confront the truth of your life: it was not built to fulfill wants. It is not large enough to house dreams. With enough careful maintenance, it will do a decent enough job catering to needs.
Two Kolkata Wives Teach Me About Responsibility
In Kolkata, I met and dialogued with Subhra Sarkar and Mausumi Chatterjee, two university-educated women in their late 30s/early 40s who lived middle class lives with their husbands and children. Although Subhra did have a job as a teacher while a college student, she stopped working immediately upon marrying and having children. Mausumi, on the other hand, continues to work as a teacher even after 12 years of marriage and an 11 year old son. When I think about what I found most interesting about my chat with both of them, I keep coming back to an ideal that I, as a single and childless American woman, find both restricting and very freeing.
I learned about my duty by simply watching my mother when I was a little girl.
Both women used this word, “duty,” several times throughout our conversation. Subhra and Mausumi were clear from young girls that they were to be mothers, first and foremost. To be wives was obviously a prerequisite for motherhood, but Subhra, specifically, articulated her most cherished duty when she mentioned, “Had I not had children, my life would have been meaningless.” She was happy enough about being a new bride, but it was when she conceived her first child that the real bliss began. As a matter of fact, she made no qualms about quitting her job as soon as she married because she had too many responsibilities at home to take on more at a job outside her home.
Mausumi chuckled and looked bewildered when I asked her to pretend she had not had Ritwick, her adorable, funny 11 year old son. “A childless marriage?” She shook her head and made an expression I make when a group of friends with whom I have had dinner ask me to figure out the tip. I have had this “how would your life differ if you didn’t have children” talk with American women on more than one occasion. They all pretty much have the same response. They usually say something to the effect of: I really can’t imagine my life without my baby. I was happy before her birth, but yeah…I don’t know what my life would be like if she never came along.” What struck me about this same conversation with Mausumi, though, was there was no way to have it. My American friends can’t imagine their lives without their children, but they at least can entertain the thought of the possibility of not having had them. Mausumi seemed not to even grasp that such a thought could exist. “I guess if I couldn’t have children,” she pondered, “I’d just have to make a compromise with God, sort of.” Even this was said with hesitation and a sense of uncertainty.
Indian women are not alone in their desire to give birth. Wanting to procreate is one of those commonalities among humans that reminds us how boringly similar we are; we all want at least THAT. What I find interesting about Subhra and Mausumi, though, is the pressure (if it can be called that) to be a mother does not seem to come from an external source. I did not get the sense that when their mothers modeled “duty,” they harassed them about having children as soon as they got married and then found every opportunity to remind them of this duty. The impression I got was that the pressure for motherhood was mostly internal. It was so internal, that unlike many American women I know, Subhra and Mausumi were not conscious of it. They did not question when and under what circumstances they were going to be mothers.
They were women. They would have children. It was what women did. Their duty.
Women also never competed with or compared themselves to their husbands. A woman’s duty was to make sure her husband was happy. She, of course, should speak up when she was unhappy about something, but as Mausumi explained: “He is a man; my husband. I am not above him.” It was a truth of her world which she spoke of with the same ease as she did the delicious meal she was preparing for me. “Women have to compromise more than men,” she says casually. And just like a woman’s unquestionable duty is to be a mother, there is no displeasure, no questioning of this other duty as well. For the sake of her family, she accepts that it will be she who will ultimately compromise in many of the lifestyle negotiations that marriage brings.
It floored me to listen to Mausumi speak about this very patriarchal expectation without a hint of anger or even irritation. Mausumi is a smart lady; she picked up on my disbelief pretty quickly. “Uh, it is not like this in the United States?” When I explained to her that although I have never been married, I was pretty sure my married counterparts wouldn’t quite see their duty as a wife in that way, it was Mausumi’s turn to look floored. “I think many American women would be very irate (even, DEEPLY offended) if they were told to simply accept it is always them who have to make the sacrifices,” I explained.
“But, how else do we maintain a family?” This was a rhetorical question. Mausumi was not looking for ways to Americanize her family. She sincerely didn’t see how a family could be maintained in the long term without women fulfilling this duty. “The men have to do some compromising, too,” she wanted me to understand. As a way to highlight what she meant by compromise, she shared what sometimes happens in her house when she and her husband argue.
“I am outspoken,” she smiles a devilish grin. “So, whenever me and my husband are going on and on about something, my mother in law will let it go on for a while.” She points to her husband’s mother sitting near us, watching television. Mausumi looks at her mother in law affectionately as she continues, “Eventually, she will remind me of my place. ‘You need to remember you are a woman,’ she’ll say. That is very helpful to me because sometimes I do forget.”
It has been days since I’ve had these conversations, but I am still struck by the comfort and peace of mind both Subhra and Mausumi find in following this system. I am surprised by how much sense it makes, as well. As I get older, a part of me is beginning to believe that ALL women end up making more sacrifices in their long term relationships, anyway. We western women just want to believe that we don’t or more specifically, we resent the expectation even as we willingly adhere to it. When I look at many marriages - the high profile ones and the simple ones involving regular people - I see countless wives who have given up more than their husbands for the sake of maintaining the family. Wives who end up saying: “I’ll let this go,” more often than their husbands. It was bizarrely refreshing to hear these Indian women not bother pretending that the expectation to compromise more often was anything other than a requirement of them in marriage. To hear them assert that their men were above them did not revolt me as much as I thought it would. It made me remember a time in our country when we explicitly required women to subscribe to this belief. I am not so sure that the requirement has disappeared as much as our country would like us women to believe. I think our country has decided that to actually speak these words. To say: “You are the woman; you must defer to your man” would make us feel less progressive. Remind us that, in the most crucial ways, in the deepest parts of us, we really hold the same values as parts of the world to whom we feel superior.
I must admit that I admire Subhra and Mausumi. Not so much for accepting that it is their duty to have children and to compromise in their marriages. I admire them because they actually have a sense of duty at all and they take that duty seriously. They understand that marriage goes beyond simply partnering with a man you love. It involves DUTY. It means you have a responsibility to each and every person living in your house. A responsibility that is paramount to your own individual happiness. If there is a tangible difference that I have noted in our two cultures, it is this. The belief that personal happiness should override your duty seems to be as foreign to these two women as the concept of a woman who never becomes a mother. Although I am indifferent to marriage and childless by choice, I do believe that this deep sense of responsibility is a very wise way to enter marriage and motherhood.
I learned about my duty by simply watching my mother when I was a little girl.
Both women used this word, “duty,” several times throughout our conversation. Subhra and Mausumi were clear from young girls that they were to be mothers, first and foremost. To be wives was obviously a prerequisite for motherhood, but Subhra, specifically, articulated her most cherished duty when she mentioned, “Had I not had children, my life would have been meaningless.” She was happy enough about being a new bride, but it was when she conceived her first child that the real bliss began. As a matter of fact, she made no qualms about quitting her job as soon as she married because she had too many responsibilities at home to take on more at a job outside her home.
Mausumi chuckled and looked bewildered when I asked her to pretend she had not had Ritwick, her adorable, funny 11 year old son. “A childless marriage?” She shook her head and made an expression I make when a group of friends with whom I have had dinner ask me to figure out the tip. I have had this “how would your life differ if you didn’t have children” talk with American women on more than one occasion. They all pretty much have the same response. They usually say something to the effect of: I really can’t imagine my life without my baby. I was happy before her birth, but yeah…I don’t know what my life would be like if she never came along.” What struck me about this same conversation with Mausumi, though, was there was no way to have it. My American friends can’t imagine their lives without their children, but they at least can entertain the thought of the possibility of not having had them. Mausumi seemed not to even grasp that such a thought could exist. “I guess if I couldn’t have children,” she pondered, “I’d just have to make a compromise with God, sort of.” Even this was said with hesitation and a sense of uncertainty.
Indian women are not alone in their desire to give birth. Wanting to procreate is one of those commonalities among humans that reminds us how boringly similar we are; we all want at least THAT. What I find interesting about Subhra and Mausumi, though, is the pressure (if it can be called that) to be a mother does not seem to come from an external source. I did not get the sense that when their mothers modeled “duty,” they harassed them about having children as soon as they got married and then found every opportunity to remind them of this duty. The impression I got was that the pressure for motherhood was mostly internal. It was so internal, that unlike many American women I know, Subhra and Mausumi were not conscious of it. They did not question when and under what circumstances they were going to be mothers.
They were women. They would have children. It was what women did. Their duty.
Women also never competed with or compared themselves to their husbands. A woman’s duty was to make sure her husband was happy. She, of course, should speak up when she was unhappy about something, but as Mausumi explained: “He is a man; my husband. I am not above him.” It was a truth of her world which she spoke of with the same ease as she did the delicious meal she was preparing for me. “Women have to compromise more than men,” she says casually. And just like a woman’s unquestionable duty is to be a mother, there is no displeasure, no questioning of this other duty as well. For the sake of her family, she accepts that it will be she who will ultimately compromise in many of the lifestyle negotiations that marriage brings.
It floored me to listen to Mausumi speak about this very patriarchal expectation without a hint of anger or even irritation. Mausumi is a smart lady; she picked up on my disbelief pretty quickly. “Uh, it is not like this in the United States?” When I explained to her that although I have never been married, I was pretty sure my married counterparts wouldn’t quite see their duty as a wife in that way, it was Mausumi’s turn to look floored. “I think many American women would be very irate (even, DEEPLY offended) if they were told to simply accept it is always them who have to make the sacrifices,” I explained.
“But, how else do we maintain a family?” This was a rhetorical question. Mausumi was not looking for ways to Americanize her family. She sincerely didn’t see how a family could be maintained in the long term without women fulfilling this duty. “The men have to do some compromising, too,” she wanted me to understand. As a way to highlight what she meant by compromise, she shared what sometimes happens in her house when she and her husband argue.
“I am outspoken,” she smiles a devilish grin. “So, whenever me and my husband are going on and on about something, my mother in law will let it go on for a while.” She points to her husband’s mother sitting near us, watching television. Mausumi looks at her mother in law affectionately as she continues, “Eventually, she will remind me of my place. ‘You need to remember you are a woman,’ she’ll say. That is very helpful to me because sometimes I do forget.”
It has been days since I’ve had these conversations, but I am still struck by the comfort and peace of mind both Subhra and Mausumi find in following this system. I am surprised by how much sense it makes, as well. As I get older, a part of me is beginning to believe that ALL women end up making more sacrifices in their long term relationships, anyway. We western women just want to believe that we don’t or more specifically, we resent the expectation even as we willingly adhere to it. When I look at many marriages - the high profile ones and the simple ones involving regular people - I see countless wives who have given up more than their husbands for the sake of maintaining the family. Wives who end up saying: “I’ll let this go,” more often than their husbands. It was bizarrely refreshing to hear these Indian women not bother pretending that the expectation to compromise more often was anything other than a requirement of them in marriage. To hear them assert that their men were above them did not revolt me as much as I thought it would. It made me remember a time in our country when we explicitly required women to subscribe to this belief. I am not so sure that the requirement has disappeared as much as our country would like us women to believe. I think our country has decided that to actually speak these words. To say: “You are the woman; you must defer to your man” would make us feel less progressive. Remind us that, in the most crucial ways, in the deepest parts of us, we really hold the same values as parts of the world to whom we feel superior.
I must admit that I admire Subhra and Mausumi. Not so much for accepting that it is their duty to have children and to compromise in their marriages. I admire them because they actually have a sense of duty at all and they take that duty seriously. They understand that marriage goes beyond simply partnering with a man you love. It involves DUTY. It means you have a responsibility to each and every person living in your house. A responsibility that is paramount to your own individual happiness. If there is a tangible difference that I have noted in our two cultures, it is this. The belief that personal happiness should override your duty seems to be as foreign to these two women as the concept of a woman who never becomes a mother. Although I am indifferent to marriage and childless by choice, I do believe that this deep sense of responsibility is a very wise way to enter marriage and motherhood.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Mausumi Chatterjee's Duty
"In this culture, family always comes first."my mother performed her duty well
making certain I understood mine
self-dependence is a worthy goal
only if it does not sacrifice the family
At university I learned how to be an adult
At my mother's feet I learned how to be a woman
we must learn to compromise
because we will need to do it more often
why compare ourselves to men?
we are women
I have learned to be contented
speaking out when I am not
I know I can take care of myself
choosing instead to care for my family
God has given me many gifts
among them
the husband for whom I compromise
the son for whom I live
Sundari Sardar: The Only Answers I Have
“I was born for sacrifice; dreams are a luxury.”I can not tell you what I want
There is only what I have
I can not share my dreams
there is here
there is now
my reality
To be me is to sacrifice
To have joy is to remember it is only God’s to give
I will accept this and all other gifts offered to me
You want to know so many things
Things I can not tell you
Mysteries I never thought to solve
I do not know my age
I know
My daughter is 15
To have joy is to remember it is only God’s to give
I will accept this and all other gifts offered to me
You want to know so many things
Things I can not tell you
Mysteries I never thought to solve
I do not know my age
I know
My daughter is 15
After I have cleaned
my eighth house
I will go and pay
her school fees
my eighth house
I will go and pay
her school fees
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Kolkata Observation: Stop Fussin' Over Me!
I am a low maintenance girl. After only one day in Kolkata, I have been reminded of this key personality trait several times.
Folks fussin’ over me makes me…well, it’s not like I deplore such treatment. Just that it makes me a little uncomfortable. And suspicious. (Which I think has become more of my personality since living in New York City). Service people in India make a big fuss. Even when a fuss is not necessary.
Keturah’s Slightly Uncomfortable Moment #1
This morning, I casually ask the hotel clerk if the bank across the street is open. When he says, “Well, yes, Madam, indeed it is a 24 hour bank service,” I thank him and walk out. He runs out after me – causing me to wonder if the bank had armed assassins waiting in the wings to unburden rich westerners of their newly-acquired rupees - and gives me DETAILED instructions on how to get to the bank. The bank is directly across the street from the hotel. I kid you not, my walk to the subway each morning is longer and more confusing than the 35 second route to this bank. When I walk out the gate, other employees who were milling about suddenly jump up and want to know what I need, where I’m going, and if I’ll need anything once I am there. To be the cause of people’s work anxiety makes me just as anxious as them.
Keturah’s Slightly Uncomfortable Moment #2
After the how-will-we-help-the-American-lady-get-to-the-bank anxiety, I caused the wait staff even more anxiety in the restaurant. I only wanted to eat my complimentary omelette, drink my complimentary juice, read my book and be on my way. But, the complimentary breakfast apparently had been designed to be much more of a grand affair. There were two waiters (I was the only diner) and one was not performing to the obviously more senior waiter’s standards. When he thought I wasn’t paying attention, the senior waiter quietly chided the more junior server for a number of atrocities, one of which was placing the plate of toast on the wrong side of the table. The senior waiter never yelled at his little trainee, but he did roll his eyes A LOT and when he thought I was deeply engrossed in my book, made several gestures that comically highlighted how much of a jackass the senior waiter obviously took the junior waiter to be.
All of this happened “when I wasn’t watching,” which leads me to believe the servers didn’t want to make me uncomfortable. Funny that their careful interactions did exactly that. How can a low maintenance girl feel comfortable when a timid, anxious waiter comes up to her and humbly confesses: “I am very sorry, Madam…we do not have orange juice. Only pineapple. And it is not fresh squeezed.”
Perhaps the customer service of New York City – a bizarre mixture of indifference and hostility with a dollop of poorly repressed rage – feels more right to me. Does that make me a masochist?
Folks fussin’ over me makes me…well, it’s not like I deplore such treatment. Just that it makes me a little uncomfortable. And suspicious. (Which I think has become more of my personality since living in New York City). Service people in India make a big fuss. Even when a fuss is not necessary.
Keturah’s Slightly Uncomfortable Moment #1
This morning, I casually ask the hotel clerk if the bank across the street is open. When he says, “Well, yes, Madam, indeed it is a 24 hour bank service,” I thank him and walk out. He runs out after me – causing me to wonder if the bank had armed assassins waiting in the wings to unburden rich westerners of their newly-acquired rupees - and gives me DETAILED instructions on how to get to the bank. The bank is directly across the street from the hotel. I kid you not, my walk to the subway each morning is longer and more confusing than the 35 second route to this bank. When I walk out the gate, other employees who were milling about suddenly jump up and want to know what I need, where I’m going, and if I’ll need anything once I am there. To be the cause of people’s work anxiety makes me just as anxious as them.
Keturah’s Slightly Uncomfortable Moment #2
After the how-will-we-help-the-American-lady-get-to-the-bank anxiety, I caused the wait staff even more anxiety in the restaurant. I only wanted to eat my complimentary omelette, drink my complimentary juice, read my book and be on my way. But, the complimentary breakfast apparently had been designed to be much more of a grand affair. There were two waiters (I was the only diner) and one was not performing to the obviously more senior waiter’s standards. When he thought I wasn’t paying attention, the senior waiter quietly chided the more junior server for a number of atrocities, one of which was placing the plate of toast on the wrong side of the table. The senior waiter never yelled at his little trainee, but he did roll his eyes A LOT and when he thought I was deeply engrossed in my book, made several gestures that comically highlighted how much of a jackass the senior waiter obviously took the junior waiter to be.
All of this happened “when I wasn’t watching,” which leads me to believe the servers didn’t want to make me uncomfortable. Funny that their careful interactions did exactly that. How can a low maintenance girl feel comfortable when a timid, anxious waiter comes up to her and humbly confesses: “I am very sorry, Madam…we do not have orange juice. Only pineapple. And it is not fresh squeezed.”
Perhaps the customer service of New York City – a bizarre mixture of indifference and hostility with a dollop of poorly repressed rage – feels more right to me. Does that make me a masochist?
Subhra Sarkar's Meaningful Life
"Had I not had children, my life would have been meaningless."
To be a woman
is to be a mother
joy is not simply happiness
joy is life
creating it
caring for it
I am wife
I am daughter
I am woman
Above all
I am mother
A good life is one filled with meaning
meaning means
more
than maintenance of self
Meaning means
Three freshly fixed meals a day
Preparing for the next day’s school lessons
washing and worrying
praying and working
Meaning
means
Making my little boys
Men
turning them into the grown ups
all mothers want their children to be
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Journey to Kolkata: And So it Begins...
My introuction to this city took place at midnight. Not sure what I make of that. Kolkata, India known for its Red Light District, where young women earn as many rupees as they can selling a commodity of which consumers never tire: the female body.
It is this trade that brought me to Kolkata. The trafficking of girls to brothels in cities like Kolkata is the backdrop of the young adult novel, Sold, my
8th graders read each year. It is the depiction of life for women and girls like Lakshmi, the protaganist of Sold, that has brought me well across the world to simply chat with women here.
Not prositutes. But, women of India, a country that has enchanted me for many years. Aside from the brutal treatment that Lakshmi and her colleagues endure in the most inhumane of whore houses, the women who live more acceptable lives have not garnered lives of ease as a result. It is a fictional tale whose power can only exist because it is based on truth.
According to Sold, women in this town have lives chalk full of work.
What is that work, exactly? Does it differ that greatly from my own? The work of my friends who have taken on husbands and children?
At midnight, here is what Kolkata said when the cab driver introduced us: Yes, my dear, this is a whole different kind of poverty. You ready?
An ENTIRE family slept under a bridge. A mother. What looked to be a father. And about half a dozen kids bunked down on mats as my cab swung pass them. In the rush, I noted several pockets of other groups of people, consisting of big shadows and what seemed to be the tiny outlines of babies as well.
One city bus was packed to the brim as if it were 12 o'clock in the day. Two teenagers hung onto a strap on the inside of the bus and the upper portion of their bodies spilled over outside of the bus. I wondered if anyone actually ever lost his grip in that precarious situation and ended up rolling out onto the street.
My first chit chat with an Indian woman about her work will begin some time around this afternoon. The journalist who arranged the interview will be calling momentarily to coordinate our trip to this woman's home.
I plan on being open to whatever she says. Remembering what the city has already said to me.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)